Rox and Roll

Dash 1, Mama 0

The Scene: Naptime.  Mama's Big, Soft Bed. 

After two books, half an hour, and several songs:
Mama: "Dash, it's time to sleep."
Dash: "No, Mama, it's time to count.  1,2,3,4,3,4!"

After some counting lessons, a "little Mama" story, another half an hour, and several more songs:
Mama: "Dash, if you don't sleep, you can't go with me to pick up Petunia from school.  You must sleep now.  Close your eyes."
A helicopter conveniently flies overhead.
Dash: "Mama, it's too loud for sleeping.  Copter, shhhh!"

After another copter and at least three planes, a last half hour, several more songs, and a lot of humming:
Mama: "Dash, why, oh why, won't you sleep?"
Dash: "I'm tired of sleeping, and I'm tired of school."

A victory for "lactivists"

Harvard must give a breastfeeding mother enough break time to express milk and/or breastfeed her daughter during her nine-hour medical licensing exam.  See the story here:

Breastfeeding mom wins appellate case

Note that Harvard, which one would think has had enough trouble with sexism, plans to appeal the ruling.  Harvard won in the lower court, so who knows what the highest court will do?  Imagine the precedent that this could set:  companies may need to accommodate breastfeeding mothers with time and space to pump milk, for example.  Maybe American women (finally) would breastfeed for the recommended minimum of one year...

Shame on you, Harvard, for appealing the ruling.  Shame on you, Harvard, for making the same mistake twice.

So much for a happy ending

On Petunia's first birthday, we hosted an open house in our new townhouse in NJ, and over a hundred people attended showering her with enough clothes and gifts, even a Halloween costume, that we didn't need to buy her a stitch or a toy for a full year later.  She pretty much slept through the whole event.  On her second birthday, we hosted a smaller open house, and that night, she threw up.  We decided it was the excitement of the occasion, with her being two and old enough to notice it... And then she threw up on her third birthday, and on her fourth, and on a couple of Christmases somewhere in there, too.  On her fifth birthday, we spent the day in the ER using a nebulizer for newly-discovered asthma.  Last year, blissfully, finally, she remained well. 

This year, she did not throw up, but she went to bed with a 101 fever.  Of course, her two year old brother decided to kiss her sloppily right on the lips multiple times today, declaring "I love you, princess!" as many times as she could bear. 

Regardless, today was a great day.  After an impromptu after-school visit to Daddy's office in far-away Pennsylvania -- specifically to distribute the remaining number-7 shaped Dunkin Donuts -- we enjoyed some Macaroni Grill dinner complete with a chocolate cake and an Italian-singing waitress's version of "happy birthday."  She's quite proud that she now has seven (!) Webkinz, a fourth American Girl doll, and a fantastic new dress from great-grandma.  At least when she's home tomorrow, she'll be well-dressed and have plenty of things with which to play... and company from a well-meaning little brother who's bound to suffer alongside her.

P.S. Next year, for Petunia's 8th birthday, we'll be inviting all of our doctor and nurse friends to a sleepover.  Or is it possible to rent a room at a hospital...?

Lucky Seven

At 12:17 this morning, Petunia turned seven years old. 

Last night, while I was tucking her into bed, she wanted to hear the story of her looonnnng birth just one more time.  I love how she can't get enough of hearing about it and wonder when Dash will be old enough to want to hear his story.

Here's Petunia's: The Guv and I had been together for ten years (married for three) when Petunia came on the scene.  She was to be born at the start of his second year of graduate school, due on September 11.  Due to mild PIH (high blood pressure during pregnancy), I went on bedrest Labor Day weekend.  Unfortunately, September 11 came and went without me having my own Labor Day.  Shortly thereafter, my Very Nervous Mother arrived.  My 27th birthday, September 20, came and went as well.  On September 22, a routine doctor's visit showed that I was actually having contractions, but they were so far apart that she sent me home.  One of our friends was hosting a birthday party a block away.  I gave myself permission to walk over there.   I told him that his present was that I might just have this overdue baby in his apartment.  He started boiling water.

On the morning of September 23, I woke up still unaware that I was having contractions.  The doc suggested that I come into the hospital so that she could speed things up with induction drugs, which she slipped into my arm around 9 am.  The Guv and I walked laps around the hospital for hours.  Around noon, my knees buckled when I felt my first contraction, finally.  Petunia was posterior (facing the wrong way), which adds a lot of pain to the delivery process, so, after five more hours of unsuccessful and incredibly painful contractions, I opted for an epidural at 5 pm.  No matter how the anesthesiologist adjusted it, it still only numbed my left side.  When I started throwing up from the pain, the doc suggested a C-section.  I told her no, this baby's coming out the long way, and that she did: I started pushing around 10 pm, and, after almost two and a half hours, Petunia grudgingly came into the world at 8 pounds, 7 ounces, 21 3/4 inches long.  She smiled at her dad before being whisked away to the NICU to be deep-suctioned (NOT by the med student that the Guv had ordered from the room after noticing that they had the same student ID!).  An hour later, she was in my arms, all big eyes and rosy cheeks just like she is today. 

After I told Petunia that story last night, I watched her fall asleep, and it is not so hard to remember her as a small baby.  Dash is special too, of course, but there's something about a first baby that can't be replaced by others.  As she thanked me sweetly this morning for ironing her special birthday dress, I couldn't help but get down on my knees, look her straight into the eyes, and thank her for teaching me how to be a mom.   It's been a real pleasure navigating parenthood with such a sweet little girl by my side.

The Dinosaur Extravaganza

Dino cake

My Petunia turns seven this Monday.  In celebration, she knocked out her seventh tooth today.  Seriously.  She did the deed by repeatedly face-planting on a beanbag chair, making me realize that having a brother almost five years younger is teaching her some tricks that she missed the first time around.

In honor of Petunia's seventh year, we hosted an after-school dinosaur extravaganza on Friday, and I grudgingly admit that it was her best party ever.  I strongly prefer to go elsewhere -- to a gym, craft place, wherever -- so that all I am responsible for is bringing the cake and goody bags.  But Petunia wanted nothing more than a dinosaur party at home, complete with a homemade dinosaur cake (see left, dedicated by our talented Austrian au pair Maria), a triceratops pinata, and a "real" dinosaur dig in which the kids excavated dinosaurs out of hardened sand eggs.  We threw in a nine-foot high inflatable T-Rex that the kids all wrestled, a dinosaur egg hunt, and pin the horn on the triceratops.  Despite my over-attention to planning enough activities to keep the kids entertained, I think the kids most enjoyed playing dinosaur freeze-tag, a game that Petunia made up.

Since the party came the day after my own birthday, I decided it'd be nice to invite the parents of the kids over for a light, finger-food dinner and beer at the party's end.  After a snafu in which the huge bouquet of fruit arrived five hours early, requiring me to store most of my fridge's content in my neighbor's coolers temporarily (thanks to June Cleaver for the bail-out on that one!), everything went swimmingly.  Sometimes I am very frustrated that our town is Mayberry-small, but, many other times, I am glad for the neighborliness.  We have some great friends here, and it was a nice little birthday treat of my own to spend some time with them.  My house wasn't perfectly clean, the weeds on my patio threatened to trip people, and I almost had a heart-attack the morning after when I saw a spiderweb in the bathroom that had obviously been there a while... but if our friends saw that, they didn't mention it, which, in my book, makes them Very Wonderful People.  Thanks for the memories, all!

Today, I am not 40.

Today, I jogged into my tennis lesson about five minutes late.  It's one of those days when I'm five minutes behind on everything, have to be a zillion places at once and feel like I'll never catch up and am pretty sure I'm coming down with a head cold.  Anyway, there are two of us in this tennis class together, and, as I hopped in, my partner yelled "You're late!" and lobbed a ball.  I said "I have a good excuse!  It's my birthday!" 

The instructor said, "Hey, happy birthday, let's hit some backhands (my only shot that's consistently fierce)."  That was a nice present.

The partner said, "Wait, let me guess... the big one?  The big 4-0?"

I went through a lot of expletives in my head before I realized that I'm probably stuck with this woman all year, and, as tennis partners go, she's not so bad.  So I pasted a smile on my face and said, sweetly, "Not quite yet.  I'm 34."

I think the instructor was trying hard not to laugh. 

We rallied well for the remaining hour and twenty-five minutes.  I am very much looking forward to showing the Guv how finally, after playing tennis off and on for more than half my life, I can hit topspin. 

As far as birthdays go, it is nice to say that I am quite happy today.  I'm not quite sure how I figured out that playing tennis regularly would make me a happier person, but it does.  I hope I still enjoy it this much when I'm actually 40.

And then the music teacher happened

I have such a headache.

This morning started out very nicely.  I received an e-mail telling me that I'm "room parent" for Petunia's second grade class, which was really important to her (and thus to me) this year.  (The importance is overstated because, for some mysterious reason, last year's class room mother was in the classroom every single day.  Petunia noticed.  I've explained to Petunia that this does not happen in the second grade.)  The Guv then escorted me out of the house to take Dash to school.  I was fairly sure that Dash would have a total meltdown at Daddy leaving him at school -- the Guv's been out of town for over a week -- but, as is becoming usual, Dash kissed us both good-bye, hung his stuff in the cubby, and went to play with friends. 

I picked up my favorite soy latte, a rare treat these days as I'm trying to slim down a bit, in celebration of this great day.  Target beckoned, and I stocked up for Petunia's party on Friday.

And then, at pick-up, Dash's teacher asked me to wait for a few minutes.  When the other parents had left, she talked with me about Dash's total meltdown at the very notion of music class.  She remembered that I had mentioned that we were Music Together drop-outs and was wondering if Dash might associate some trauma with music.  Being born, perhaps?  Is this what I get for listening to "Southern Cross" as he entered the world?

The truth is, Dash is surrounded by music every day.  I try to play piano daily to combat the arthritis that is creeping into my knuckles.  We listen to music in the car, I sing him to nap and to sleep, and his very favorite thing to do right now is to watch Gwen Stefani videos on i-Tunes.  Trauma?  Perhaps the music teacher isn't a svelte blonde in a skimpy marching band uniform (if you're curious about that one, download the clean "Hollaback Girl" video -- currently Dash's favorite!). 

I just plain don't get it.  I will sit through the next music session with him -- and perhaps all subsequent ones -- to try to figure it out.  Today, the assistant teacher took him for a walk while the other kids had their 20-minute jam session.  I don't want him to distract the other children with his crying, but I don't want him to have the option to opt out, either. 

Today, we'll both nap... after a little "Hollaback Girl" and "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

Mommy wars, ongoing

I'm a big fan of the Silicon Valley Moms Blog... Lots of different voices, lots of food for thought.  Today's post from an SV expat prompted a long reply post from me regarding the mommy wars.  Here's the link... Now tell me, what do you think?

Silicon Valley Moms Blog

Ahhhhhhhhh

That's a sigh of relief.  Dash's teacher was grateful for the heads-up that he may be a choker, but she also exclaimed "Of course we cut the grapes!  I'd never give whole grapes to two year olds!  They might choke!"  She was extremely nice about my careful question, so I think we're all set/good.  Furthermore, Dash again gave me a sweet kiss good-bye, walked into the room, hung his things in his cubby, and went off to begin playing with nary a backward glance at me even as I talked to his teacher.  He's a big man, my little guy.

The "ahhhhhhhh" is also the sound of a mom with almost three hours of time to herself... to clean in preparation for a birthday party, but alone and with I-tunes blaring.  I can hear both my mom and the Guv laughing from here... never thought I'd be happy about cleaning, did you?!  Now, back to it...

Snack attack

Since Dash's second hour of preschool last week, I have been stressed out about how to approach the teacher with regard to the items they're serving for snack.  Specifically, when I read the "board" that annonces what the kids did and ate that day, the teacher had listed wheat crackers and grapes.  GRAPES!  For two year olds.  Anyone who's ever read a baby book knows that it is against medical advice to give any child under age five whole grapes, popcorn, hot dogs, or raw nuts.  These are major choking hazards.  These are things that I didn't think would be fed to my child at preschool. 

I have plenty of friends who chose to offer these items to their children before they turned five.  Just like I don't proselytize about my religion, I don't proselytize about parenting, either -- to each his own, I say.  Since I've had to give Dash the Heimlich maneuver twice to prevent him from choking to death (once on chicken, once on pizza), I am pretty obsessive about making sure that known choking hazards are out of his reach.  So, how do I proceed with this request?

Friends have offered some suggestions for handling this dilemma.  One suggested that perhaps the teachers cut the grapes, so I'm worrying over nothing (doubtful, in my opinion).  One suggested that I print out pediatric recommendations about what not to feed children and give the printouts to the head of the school and to the teacher (a bit too aggressive, perhaps).  One, a former preschool teacher, said to write a nice note to the teacher, and, as long as I keep it nice, it'll be well received (maybe the best of the suggestions). 

Me, I'm pretty sure that Dash won't eat any of these things if offered anyway (he didn't touch the grapes), but I'm not comfortable doing nothing.  Right now I'm thinking that I'll just talk with the teacher and share with her my discomfort at the situation -- I don't want to be THAT mom who always makes trouble -- and ask her if she'd like for me to write a note to formalize the request.  Or I can just keep Dash home eating mashed potatoes until he's past five, or ten...

Sounding my barbaric yawn

(with apologies to Walt Whitman)

It is Friday night, the kids are in bed, and the Guv is in Omaha.  In fact, Dash told the father of one of Petunia's friends that "Daddy is living in Omaha."  The dad chuckled and replied, "Watch it, kid, that's how rumors get started." 

The truth is, the Guv is attending Michael Jackson's wedding.  No, not THAT Michael Jackson, another one, a former college roommate -- one that has sexual proclivities that do not involve children.  Thank God.

I'm bracing myself for a long weekend following a long week, as Dash has been eating poorly and sleeping worse all week.  Tonight, I broke down and put him to sleep in my bed (I can see the Guv cringing in Omaha) so that I don't have to get up and run back and forth to his race car bed -- sleeping in it for several uncomfortable intervals -- all night.  When you have a kid who doesn't eat then wakes up asking for his sippy cup of soy milk (a.k.a. FiFi) all night because he's hungry, you tend to get very tired and to do things like this to make the matter worse.  It's a chicken and egg thing.  If I take FiFi away at night, will he eat better during the day?  We tried it.  The answer is no, he doesn't eat better during the day, but he actually does seem to sleep better without FiFi breaks.  Will taking FiFi away at night involve at least several sleepless nights on my part?  Yes, and this is the part that I can't do when I'm already this tired -- another egg and chicken thing. 

So, when the Guv decides that life in Omaha isn't for him, also known as next Tuesday, he and I can try to implement yet another action plan to strap the kid to his bed interest Dash in sleeping through the night in his race car bed.  Alone.  Without FiFi. 

Or, I can always call in Grammy and join the Guv in Omaha.  I have always wanted to see Nebraska, after all.

September 12

September 12 marks the second and final day of my 9-11 recollections.  That morning in 2001, the Guv and I had bickered, because his jerk boss had informed him that they would be leaving that day for their planned business trip to Seattle if the airspace opened.  Like many, I was still in shock and very afraid.  He was pretty new to his job and insisted on following orders.  He left for work after we patched things up as best as we could, and I made sure that both Petunia and I gave him big hugs and told him we loved him. 

The morning was even worse than the day before.  I sat at our kitchen counter, from which I could see Petunia in her playroom, and talked with a dear friend with whom I'd attended boarding school and college.  On 9-11, she should've been at work on the 85th floor of one of the towers, and her brother should've been on the 86th -- but they were absent from work that day to sit at their mother's hospital bedside as she faced surgery for breast cancer.  We cried together for a long time.

Mid-sob, I put my friend on hold, as I silently watched my sweet 11-month old Petunia let go of the couch on one side of her playroom and walk to the piano bench on the other side of the room.  She looked at me and smiled and laughed, then clapped for herself and fell on her bottom.  She had taken one or two steps before, but the girl up and decided to become a walker that day, and she couldn't have picked a better day for it.  It's a gift she gave me -- and my friend, who shared my joy on the phone -- at a time when I needed it the most.  When daddy came home that night, his trip cancelled for good, we celebrated, and we took a long walk together.  One of Petunia's most special and endearing characteristics to this day is empathy, and I think that's the day it began.

I choose to remember

In June of 1990, a month after we began dating, the Guv took me to the top of the World Trade Center, and, for the first of many times, he asked me to marry him.  Seventeen years later, my life is complete because I said yes.   Each day I have with him is a gift, something that was true even before the horrific events of 9-11.  

Usually on this day, I avoid all news media.   It’s not that I want to avoid remembering the tragedy that befell our nation that day; I just choose to remember it in my own way instead of in the way CNN wants me to remember it.  Naively, I thought it’d be safe to check the blogs I read; and then, there it was, a discussion on a moms’ blog of whether we should continue to pay tribute to 9-11 or leave it in our past.

Me, I choose to remember.  On that dreadful day, even after the planes had hit and no one knew what the heck was happening, the Guv was under strict orders to proceed as normal from his a?#hole boss and was en route to Newark airport to board a nonstop flight to Seattle.  Meanwhile, our phone didn’t stop ringing.  Friends who knew I stayed home with baby Petunia appointed me as home base for check-ins.  Friends who escaped their WTC offices reported witnessing awful things.  We did not speculate; we knew that some friends could not have escaped.

When I couldn’t take talking with one more person, and when I learned that the airport had closed and the Guv would return to work, I loaded Petunia into the car and drove to the beach.  I had never been to the New Jersey shore, but I knew that if I drove East, I’d probably run into it.  Reaching the ocean, Petunia was asleep, so I faced my car toward the deserted beach, stared at the ocean, and had a long talk with God.  I have always been a woman of faith.  I don’t proselytize, and I respect whatever beliefs or lack thereof others have… but I Believe.  That day, more than any other, my faith held me together.  I prayed for the many people who had died and for the families destroyed.  I gave thanks for those who escaped.  I prayed for the rescue workers missing and in action.  I asked for strength for the leaders who needed to restore order.   And I found myself riddled with survivor’s guilt when I gave prolific thanks for the life of my husband, who should’ve been on a plane that morning.  For a long time after that day, I got physically sick when he traveled.  But then, we can live in fear, or we can live.  I live, and I remember, and I always will.

Day 1: Play by play

When we arrived at Dash's preschool this morning, I was carrying his backpack.  He stopped just inside and said, "Mama, put my backpack on me."  He walked down the hall to his classroom door, clasped his hands in front, and stood and waited, staring at the door, willing it to open.  I stood several feet away.  Two of the five kids-in-arms were crying.  Three moms and one dad were wiping tears.  Dash, he stood there, away from me, watching, waiting.  When the teacher opened the door for the kids to enter, I bent down and kissed his little head, reminding him that I'll return.  He honored me with a quick wave and "bye-bye," and I watched as he stuffed his backpack into the right cubby, greeted the teacher with a hearty "Good morning!" followed by a "Can I play here?" while pointing to the pegboards on the table... and that was that.

I raced off to Dunkin' Donuts for an iced coffee, something that I actually don't like at all... but it was almost 90 degrees with 100% humidity at 9:00 this morning, and I needed caffeine, sugar, and a taste of freedom.  (I'm wheat-free, so I washed down a Luna bar with it... just not the same as a jelly stick.  Sigh.)  At home, I finally unpacked my own stuff from Vermont.

At pick-up, the teacher indicated that he was fine, never tearful but almost tearful when told that the toys needed to sleep for storytime and he needed to sit and listen.  That was the only time he asked for me.  When the teacher told him I'll be there to pick him up later, he informed her that I'd be back after I'd gone to the market to buy ham and cheese for his dinner.  Considering that he eats neither ham nor cheese (nor dinner, usually!), I find this particularly funny. 

En route to the car, he reported, "The toys sleep during story time.  I don't like sleeping toys."  He went on to add, "I don't like apples, too.  I ate Cheerios."  Seriously, that's a more detailed school report than I get from my second grader!

The rest of the day belonged to little Dash, who rallied on despite obvious exhaustion from the whole seventy-five minute ordeal.  We went to the playground.  We went shopping (his request) and to McDonald's (where he ate all of three fries dipped in caramel sauce).  Then, on the way home, he asked "Can we go to Rita's Water Ice?   Please, please, please?"  He ate 3/4 of a cherry/vanilla gelati.  Watching him scarf it down, the owner came out and handed him a stuffed water ice guy, noting "I've never seen a 2 year old who loves Rita's so much."  So we'll be there for dinner tomorrow night, too.

This kid, he often tries my patience to its outer limits.  He does not believe in sleep.  He worries me to death with his lack of eating habits.  He is kinetic, and I am always very, very tired.  But then, there are days like today when I could just burst with happiness because his performance exceeds expectations.  I'm looking forward to Day 2 on Wednesday, and I think that little Dash is, too.

Ready, set, GO!

And, we're off... a crazy weekend leading into a crazy week.  Today is Dash's first day of school.  He attends with half his class for half the time this week, so with 4 other children from 9-10:15.  I've loaded the backpack with diapers, wipes and a change of clothes, and we've conversed regularly about how this is going to unfold.  This morning's dialogue: 

"So, Mama's going to drop you off at school, and you'll have fun playing with the other kids, and then Mama will come back and pick you up."

"Just like Petunia?" he asked.

"Yes, just like Petunia," I answered. 

"And I'll play with Bob the Builder tools?  And the kids won't cry?" [He's very worried about one "crier" in the class.]

"Nobody will cry [except maybe Mama in the hall], and you'll have lots of fun playing Bob the Builder.  And then you might have snack!"

"Oh, wow... Mama, Big Men go to school," he announced.

Not so fast, little guy, not so fast.

Making some changes

I started this blog on a whim, mostly because I'm frustrated by how long it's taking me to set up my primary web site and blog at ecotackle.com.  As such, I didn't give a whole lot of thought initially to the title of my blog or to its characters.  That's the beauty of free blogs like Vox: you can dive right in quickly and easily.  (Compared to my "professional" blog, it's a welcome relief!)

Since I'm having such fun writing this that I've decided to keep it going as my personal blog, I've made a couple of changes that will stick.  Not wanting to be stuck with "ToddlerMama" for the rest of my blogging life, I've changed the title of the blog to "RoxAndRoll" -- which will last a lot longer than toddlerhood.  Sadly.

Secondly, the Guv and I had a long discussion about kids' names and pics on the blog.  We're the skittish type and, as such, have decided to post only far-view or otherwise obscured pics of the kids.  To some, this decision might be strange; but you should know that one of our favorite high school teachers went to jail for pedophilia the year we were married, and we haven't quite gotten over that.  As well, I decided to stick with Petunia and Dash for the kids' names.  I was calling Dash either Mac or Trouble; the former doesn't fit, and Trouble was tongue-in-cheek but perhaps not quite appropriate anyway.  He'd prefer to be called Tow Truck, but I'm thinking he'll outgrow that.  I hope.

So... please pardon my own growing pains.  This is lots of fun, and I hope you'll keep reading and commenting on roxandroll.vox.com. 

Preschool Open House

Dash, dashing

Today, Dash entered his preschool classroom for the first time.  The school held a 45-minute long open house for the kids to acclimate to the classroom and for the parents and kids to meet each other.  Truth be told, I was nervous going into it.  Dash hasn't been in enough playgroup situations for me to know how he'd act in a group of kids his own age, though he's around his sister's friends after school on the playground a lot and seems to do fine.  That said, our Music Together experience ended dramatically a year ago; after he spent two full class periods screaming bloody murder, I felt that he was disrupting the other children's experiences enough that we should stop attending.  Will preschool be the same?

Fortunately, I don't think so.  Dash was a model preschooler today.  He joined in the play right away and pretty much forgot we were there.  Even when a classmate who is clearly going to be a discipline problem gave him a shove for no apparent reason, Dash took a walk around the room and then resumed play right next to the boy.  I've never seen Dash push, shove, hit, kick, or bite another kid, even when another kid has done so to him, so I was very happy that he didn't shove the kid back, instead walking it off then standing his ground.  When he was finished playing, Dash picked up his toys and a lot of other kids' toys and put them away, waved goodbye to the teachers, and said "see you next week."  My baby, he's going to school.  Wow.

The first day of school

Second Grade Walk

School has begun!  My sweet Petunia is now a second grader.  She has a terrific class of only 17 kids.  The first day exceeded expectations, and she came home happy, tired, and eager to take off her new shoes.

One of the unexpected highlights of my day came from a pair of new first graders.  After the big kick-off mini-assembly in the school yard, the classes all filed inside, and parents dispersed to parts unknown if not to the back-to-school PTO coffee in the cafeteria.  Straggler that I am, I started toward the building when only a couple dozen other people remained on the playground.  Smack in the middle of the wide, empty, asphalt court stood two little boys, backpacks on.  I slowed down, eyeing them carefully, looking around for parents that weren't there.  When I heard one say to the other, "Maybe we should just go in and find our classroom ourselves," my heart sunk.  The parade of students into the school, the throng of departing parents, the teachers, the aides had all left these little guys behind.  And what brave little guys they were to not panic but to try to solve the problem.  I approached them with an offer of help, which they accepted gratefully.  I caught a copy room employee (also a second grade mom and friend) entering the building and asked if she could lead them to their classrooms.  She took their little hands and steered them straight. 

It's a rare day that I feel like SuperMom, but today is one of those days: My second grader is off to a great start, I helped two lost boys, my preschooler met his own teacher without incident, I played two hours of solid tennis, and everyone is well fed and in bed on time (well, except me).  Now, that deserves a Good Night.

Birthday party freak-out

Soon after I dropped Petunia's party invitations in the mail today, I received the mountain of mail that's been held for us at the local post office.  Atop the pile was an invitation for another birthday party on the same date and at the same time, for a girl who's also invited to Petunia's party.  This girl's party is at a local gymnastics place, whereas Petunia is having a party at our home for the first time.  We're hosting a dinosaur dig for seven guests, a nice-sized party that we can accommodate at home.  Since our party doesn't involve a reservation or deposit elsewhere, I figured that the right response to the conflict is to move the time of our party.  Two parties on one day isn't any parent's idea of a great weekend day, but it's better than a conflict resulting in multiple children having to choose between friends and a lot of hurt feelings. Petunia agreed with my action plan and skipped off to wreck some tennis balls.

But the problem was far from resolved: I called the girl's mother who was hosting the conflicting party, leaving her a voice mail regarding the conflict and our plan of action.  A couple of hours later, she voice mailed me back to warn me that ANOTHER girl's party, a bowling one, was also occurring that day, in the morning.  Two parties in one day stinks, but three parties in one day?  No way.  I wouldn't allow Petunia to attend three in a day, and she wouldn't want to, either.

So, I did what I do in these situations and called my friend and neighbor, June Cleaver, to freak out.  She talked me through several scenarios, and we decided that the best course of action is to move Petunia's party to Friday after school.  It'll be a little tricky to sneak seven kids away from the school without other, not-invited kids wondering what we're doing; but, at this point, I can't worry about that.  I'll call the other moms tomorrow, make sure that the new date/time works for everyone, then send out reminder/change-of-date postcards, because I'm organized like that [insert laugh track here]. 

If all of this planning doesn't work out, we're implementing plan D: Our family dragging the Cleavers into NYC for the day for Build-A-Dino, Natural History Museum fun.  In response to that offer, Petunia said that she might just hope that her party doesn't work out.  But then again, there's always next year.

My little clothes horse

Today, Petunia and I prepared to start the second grade.  We sharpened the new pencils collected from a myriad of New England colleges, packed them in the reused purple pencil box, tucked it all away in her still-going-strong pink backpack... and then headed up the stairs to her room and closet.

Hours later -- and I do mean hours -- we had packed away the clothes from Vermont and tried on every questionable thing in her wardrobe.  We have one small pile of things to save for little brother and one shopping bag full of things to give away... and mounds and mounds of clothes to keep in sizes ranging from 7-12.  To say she has too many clothes would be to say Imelda Marcos had too many shoes.  It's that bad, and, with her 7th birthday approaching, it's about to get worse.

I used to blame this overstock problem on Petunia's role as the first grandchild, great-grandchild, niece, cousin, friend's kid, etc., and, until sometime after her third birthday, that was probably true.  But today, the blame falls on my shoulders, and it makes me very sad.  Primarily, I know that I'm overcompensating for not having enough choice in my own clothing growing up (what child did in the 70s and 80s?)  -- and still feeling like I'm not quite dressed right, ever.  Petunia loves shopping for clothes in stores or in catalogues, loves changing her clothes multiple times each day, loves having fifteen pink skirts (I exaggerate not).  I want her to be happy, but I don't want her to wrap her identity up in her wardrobe either.  Since she announced to me today, "When I'm in college, I'm going to die my hair blond," I think I'm right to be concerned. 

She is still the kid who loves dinosaurs, science experiments and writing stories.  She has an amazing mind, a smart mind, a strong mind.  I owe her some self-control.  I can make sure that she will not have another pink skirt until she has grown out of at least ten of the ones she has.  I can also call the hairdresser tomorrow and ask her to change my appointment for blond highlights to one for dyeing my hair back to its natural brown.   I want to set a good example for my daughter, one that emulates Jane Goodall more than Paris Hilton.  Maybe not dressing like everyone else (or, in Petunia's case, better than everyone else!) can be a good thing.

A toast to the Cleavers

We left Vermont at 9:30 and arrived in Jersey at 4:30.  What should be a five hour trip is always a seven hour one with Dash in the car.  Petunia could ride along forever, entertaining herself with nothing more than a gaze out of the window and some existential discusssion of what life might be like here if we encountered a Pompeii-type volcano disaster.  Dash, on the other hand, doesn't remember life without a DVD player in the car.  He wants Wonder Pets!  Not that one, the sea lion episode!  Wait, do we have the Cars movie?  Curious George, please!  (Yes, he is, for the most part, at least polite about his schizo requests.)   How about some McDonald's to go with that?  The thing is, when he's dissatisfied, he shrieks at the top of his lungs -- and it's worse than fingernails on a blackboard.  Of course, he decided to commence said shrieking as soon as we hit Cross Bronx traffic and until we hit the GW Bridge when he could see the "big river water" -- the sight of which somehow, blessedly, lulled him to sleep.

My mother claims that I'm the best driver that she knows, making the extent to which I despise driving all the more ironic.  I wouldn't trade our house in Vermont for anything, but I wish Floo Powder really existed (Harry Potter reference for those not in the know) so that I could get there in a blink instead of in a seven-hour long, loud (Wonder Pets, shrieking, it's all noise) drive.  Somehow the Guv has figured this all out and has managed to set up convenient meetings along the way that excuse him from driving with the family.  Next time the Guv does that, I'm going to explain the concept of leeches to Dash and offer him Tonka cars, lollipops and maybe even his first Playboy mag if he attaches himself to Daddy just like a little leech UNTIL WE ALL DRIVE HOME TOGETHER.  (Because, of course, Dash is much better behaved for the parent who neither carried him for nine months and bore him into the world nor nursed him for nineteen months after.  Because.)

Okay, now that that's off of my chest, I can share the wonderful experience I had upon arriving home.  My neighbors, who I'll call the Cleavers (because they are that perfect), were holding a back-to-school happy hour.  Petunia and I headed down the block before the car was even unpacked.  Ward Cleaver handed me a double-strength mojito, June Cleaver kept stocking the taquitos, and Wally and Beaver kept Petunia out of my hair.   A drink later, the shrieking faded away, I stopped singing the Wonder Pets theme song, and the unpacking just didn't matter.  Instead, I got to bask in the glow of a handful of friends who looked healthy and happy after what seemed like an interminable summer.   I expected readjustment to this sometimes too-small town, not to mention my overstuffed house, to be depressing and annoying, but, instead, I'm going to bed with a smile on my face.  Vermont is nice, but there is, indeed, no place like home.  So here's to the Cleavers for unknowingly forcing a positive readjustment.  Though when I wake up tomorrow, I may hit you up for another mojito, or two, unless somebody Floo Powders these boxes elsewhere overnight!

Breaking down camp

The end of our first summer in Vermont is nigh.  Our stay here has impacted me deeply and profoundly, as I've had ample time to reflect on our family life, my own goals, my hopes for the kids...  We were all nervous about leaving everything we knew for this long but found that being away from the minutiae that seems to make up so much of our regular home life bought us all time for some personal growth and adventure.

I'm not going to pretend that being away for the summer solved all of my problems.  Far from it!  I still don't know what form my desired re-entry into the workforce is going to take, and the Guv and I still haven't balanced that desire with his sometimes oppressive work schedule.  However, I did set some more readily attainable goals, such as preparing to finally launch my primary blog, www.ecotackle.com, which will debut within the month.  EcoTackle will feature environmental products and tips on how to become more green.  Green activisim has become my passion, and I look forward to sharing it in the blogosphere.  Second, on a personal level, I rededicated myself to fitness.  It's amazing how my love of baking shows up around my middle!  I never want to obsess about my weight or appearance, but I need to balance my love of cookies with my desire to set a good example for my daughter.  (Make note that, to me, that means fitness, not necessarily rail-thinness.)  So, I decided to take up tennis again, since I wasn't bad at it and can transition back to the game through some adult group lessons.  I'm hoping to find some more friends with some common interests through tennis and regular gym trips, too.  And that's the third attainable goal I set: getting out with friends more, and making more new friends.  There are some people who I'd like to get to know better, and I look forward to asking those people to lunch, coffee or tennis.  Our little town in NJ has so many people who've lived there forever that I've found it hard to make many friends, but I also haven't tried very hard.  I hope that my kids learn better from the Guv in that regard, as his charisma is infectious, and he has more friends than I can name or count.

In the end, perhaps the most important thing I learned this summer is that my kids can live with A LOT fewer toys.  In fact, we can all live with less "stuff."  The best times we've had this summer are teaching Petunia how to ride her two-wheeled bike, or watching Dash imitate a seal at the beach.  We spent some great days at local farms so that the kids could learn about maple sugaring, cheesemaking and other things and found that they enjoyed those trips immensely.  As they age, I look forward to spending our time and money on experiences instead of on plastic toys recalled to China.  But more than anything, I look forward to coming back to these Green Mountains over winter breaks for ski school (yikes!).  I came from these mountains, and it brings me joy beyond my own understanding to be calling them home again.