But I'm Not On My Horse!

There's a new Sarah Jessica Parker movie coming out. I don't know when exactly, and I can't look it up because I don't remember what it's called. I also can't recall the name of the lead actor to save my life. In truth, I'm just proud of myself for going to a movie last night, and for making it in time to even see the previews - though sadly not to enjoy the tub of popcorn or giant box of Goobers. But despite my mommy-induced short-term memory loss, I think I want to see this movie... if for nothing else than the scene I saw last night. It's one of those comic distance shots that shows a horse galloping across the screen. Seconds later the camera catches SJP running behind it screaming, "But I'm not on my horse!"

Oh Sarah Jessica, I feel your pain. I don't know why you aren't on your horse; I'll have to pay $10.00 sometime this fall? (winter?) to find out why. But pre-school started a couple of weeks ago in our house, and these days I feel like shouting to anyone who will listen - especially the teachers at carpool - "Just give me a minute! Please! I'm not on my horse!"

Specifically, I'm not on the Young 5's horse. See, Ella - being a July baby and therefore a "young 5" - had the option of going to Kindergarten this year. Which seemed like a bad idea at the time and seems like a worse one now. Thankfully, the church pre-school she's attends offers a special program for kids like her, who are of age but aren't quite ready for the realities of public Kindergarten. (i.e. - listening to and obeying the teacher all day) It's kind of like boot camp for these kids, who are about to enter 18 years of military academic service. At least, that's what I thought the program was all about.

Until Curriculum Night...

"OK parents, we're getting these kids ready for Kindergarten next year, so school begins promptly at 8:30 every morning. We'll be marking tardies, so make sure your little ones aren't late. Also, please don't let them bring their breakfast to class. If they're eating their breakfast, everybody will want a breakfast. And as far as homework is concerned, we will be sending home an assignment every night. It shouldn't take long to complete, but please make sure that your child is the one completing the work."

Oh sweet Lord. This isn't Young 5's Boot Camp. This is Mommy Boot Camp!!! I mean, we're never on time to school. That's why I count on late drop-off! And how else am I going to feed my child breakfast if she's not allowed to bring her baggie of Honey Nut Cheerios to class? And HOMEWORK? What does she mean 'homework'???

Needless to say, I saw my horse galloping off without me. And for two weeks I've been chasing it across the movie screen of my life screaming, "Wait! I'm not on my horse!"

Ella was late to her first 3 days of school.

She hasn't taken her breakfast to class, but I suspect she was hungry more than one morning.

As for homework? Well, all I can tell you is that being a former high school teacher doesn't help when your student is a HARD-HEADED FIVE YEAR OLD. I may need an extra happy pill just to carry me through handwriting practice.

But God bless her, it turns out my daughter loves school. Who knew, after last year's tumult? My little girl actually loves school.

Last weekend, Ella brought home a book report assignment. Her job was to listen to a book, choose her favorite part, and draw a picture of it in her journal. True to the nature of my life, I remembered her book report at 8:00 on Sunday night.

"Oh my goodness Ella, we have to do your book report!"

"No Mommy, I already did it."

"You did? Really? Um, how about you show me."

Ella returned a moment later with her journal, and I flipped it open to the first page. Sure enough, there was a picture there.

"Ella, what book did you do?"

"Cinderella. I read it all by myself and then I drew this picture. See? There's Cinderella and there's the Fairy Godmother."

It was a pretty remarkable resemblance for my artistically-challenged tomboy.

"But what's this red squiggly line around them?" I asked.

"Oh Mommy," Ella replied. "That's the magic."

Oh. The magic. I LOVE the magic. It makes me tear up just thinking about it.

Except that it's Sunday night again, and Ella has another book report due. I don't think the magic is going to help me this time. Page 2 of her journal is blank.

Heaven help me, I've got to catch that horse...

There Once Was a Girl

There once was a girl who had a curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good, she was very, very good.

But when she was bad, she was horrid.

I don't know who wrote this four-line description of my eldest, but I certainly can't take credit for the author's brilliant insight. I suspect it's taken from a children's book though, since both my sister-in-law and my mother-in-law - who are teachers - quote it all the time. Usually while watching Ella doing something naughty.

Not that she's naughty all the time. She's not. Sometimes she's good; indeed "very, very good." And sometimes she just takes after her daddy, who's doesn't score real high on the compassion scale. No, compassion isn't really wired into Ella's personality.

I saw this particular side of her nature revealed last week when my parents came over to give me a hand in the yard. I don't usually mind yard work; it's the landscaping that gives me fits. Mom and Dad graciously offered several hours of manual labor and landscaping insight, and I was pleasantly surprised when they arrived and Darcy bounded out of the truck ahead of them.

Darcy is my sister's sweet-natured, fuzzy black mutt. Practically a daughter, granddaughter, niece, and cousin to our family. She also does phenomenal clean-up work in my car and on my kitchen floor - which were particularly gross that day - so I was very happy to see her.

Darcy was an angel all day long, despite spending much of her time "training" in the front yard. She was tested several times throughout the day by the various dogs who strolled by - and one particularly big dog who lives across the street. But she did great, and by the end of the day none of us were paying much attention to her as she laid resting in the grass.

Then a neighbor came over to say a quick hello, and when she left Darcy was gone. I mean gone. She was absolutely nowhere to be found. The yard work was suspended as three adults and four children embarked on a mission to find my sister's AWOL dog. Nearly an hour in, with Ella sitting in the front seat on her Mimi's lap, my daughter sighed sadly and said, "I sure hope we find Darcy soon."

"Oh honey," I replied, "we'll find her. She's going to be okay."

"That's good," said Ella. "Because I'm getting hungry!"

Oh. "Well, I know we'll find her soon."

But we didn't find her, and soon my mother was in tears. As I threw a quick batch of pancakes together - with Ella looking on - Mom cried on my shoulder: "I just love that dog so much! What if we don't find her? This is all my fault; I shouldn't have brought her over here."

"Mom, it's not your fault," I tried to comfort her. "I mean, really it's all our faults. We were all responsible for watching her."

"It's not my fault," Ella piped up. "I didn't bring her over here!"

Well, so much for comfort.

But as it turns out, we didn't need the comfort. While fixing "dinner," Mom and I started piecing a few clues together and realized that Darcy had probably followed my neighbor home and been accidentally shut into her garage. Sure enough, I went up to the garage door and put my ear near the crack at the bottom. The muffled bark I heard was perfect confirmation, since I know for certain my neighbor does not own a dog. An hour later - once my neighbor returned home - Darcy was safe and sound back at our house.

I don't think Ella noticed. She'd gotten tired of waiting and went to bed.

School Days???

I've been counting down the days until the first day of school since the last day of school last year. No kidding. If you're friends with me on Facebook, you've seen my desperation-tinged status updates: "Only 136 days until the first day of pre-school. Yipee!"

So how, pray tell, did I manage to blow the first day of school?

Well, obviously it didn't sneak up on me. I mean, two weeks ago I was the totally sane and organized mother of three soon-to-be-pre-school students. For two nights in a row I showed up to attend Curriculum Night for all three girls. I met the teachers. I took copious notes. I signed up to help with the Christmas and Easter parties, and volunteered away my entire month of January to help out at the school. I labeled and filed the class lists so I would know just where to find little Susie's mother's phone number when my girls requested a playdate. I took the girls to meet their teachers two days later, and when I did, I arrived laden with every school supply on the list, plus a few extras "just in case."

So what happened? Where did that sane and organized mother go? Apparently, she was replaced by the crazy lady who - at 10 o'clock the night before school started - realized her twins were supposed to turn in their "All About Me" projects in just a few short hours.

What is the "All About Me" project, you ask? Well back when Ella was in this class, I wrongfully assumed that it was a piece of paper she could color, decorate, and paste pictures on to help tell the class all about herself. But it turns out that the "All About Me" project is actually a piece of brightly-colored cardstock that scrapbooking-crazed pre-school mothers use to show off their mad artistic skills, and photographs of their expensive family vacations to Disney World and Hawaii. Needless to say, my husband walked into the bedroom at 11 o'clock, looked at the pile of discarded family photos, gluesticks, markers, and stickers, and asked, "Um, should I sleep on the couch?"

Being the loving wife that I am, I of course responded, "I'M TRYING TO FINISH MY HOMEWORK! JEEZ, I'LL BE DONE IN A MINUTE!"

"Shouldn't the girls be doing their own homework?"

"You would think so, wouldn't you? But I'll let them put some stickers on in the morning."

I really planned to let them do so, but they kept sticking them on crooked. Plus, it turns out that in my rush to finish the "All About Me" projects, I failed to note the lack of clean clothing in our drawers. The first morning of school, I pulled off the girls' wet Pull-Ups, threw on some pants, and hoped the T-shirts they'd slept in didn't look too wrinkled. They didn't.

I'd show you proof, but I forgot to take the obligatory first day of school picture. Since I slept through my alarm clock that morning, I didn't have time to snap that enduring photo. I was too busy with four kids - getting their clothes on, their shoes on, their hair fixed, their teeth brushed, their tummies fed and their seat belts buckled. And yes, we were tardy.

Over a hundred days of counting down... and I still managed to be late.

Watch For Falling Inanimate Objects

My kids love assigning human characteristics to all things inanimate. Ella started the trend a few years ago with a little game I like to think of as "What Lives Where." The rules are simple, really. Whatever Ella finds out of place in her room - stuffed animals, hair bows, carpet fuzz - she throws out in the hallway and shouts, "This does not live here, Mommy!" Likewise, library books "live" at the library, chicken nuggets "live" at McDonald's, and Miss Kathy "lives" at the pool. Granted, Miss Kathy is a swimming teacher, not an inanimate object, but you get the picture.

Of course, we're way beyond "What Lives Where" now. These days my kids think of inanimate objects as a cross between the Brave Little Toaster and the Velveteen Rabbit: everything in our house has feelings and perhaps, with enough love, the potential to be real. Emily is particularly obsessed with her cat and her dog - a pair of stuffed animals who are rather opinionated creatures. I find myself walking on eggshells around my first twin, who is liable to scream out of the seeming blue: "My cat says you have to be quiet, Mommy!" or "You're making my dog mad!" or "My cat and my dog say we have to have ice cream RIGHT NOW!" Frankly, I'd like to see her cat and dog take a hike - especially now that Emily has seen Cinderella. Anyone who asks what her cat's name is gives me a dirty look when she replies "Lucifer."

Trying to play into my kids' imaginations has backfired on me, too, though. Emily's not particularly impressed when I tell her that her cat and her dog want her to eat all her broccoli or clean her room. "NO THEY DON'T, MOMMY! MY CAT AND MY DOG DON'T LIKE BROCCOLI!" Evie's not particularly impressed by my little game either. At the doctor's office, I told her to leave her very special - and somewhat emotional - "Blankie" in the car.

"I don't want Blankie to get sick, honey," I said, thinking of all the germs we were about to encounter.

"Mommy," Evie replied. "My Blankie don't have a mouth. It can't get sick."

There's only one thing stronger than a three-year old's passion for inanimate objects: the promise of treats.

"Evie, if you leave Blankie in the car and you behave at the doctor's office, then I will get you a treat when we're done."

"OK, Mommy. Can Blankie have one, too?"

I guess Blankie doesn't require a mouth for treats. Or maybe Evie imagines Blankie grows a mouth - a la Brave Little Toaster - when we all leave the room. Or perhaps my kids are just smarter than I realize ... and I'm jumping through a whole lot of imaginary hoops.

Not Me! Monday... er, Tuesday

Hey, I'm not late posting my "Not Me! Monday" post. Nope, not me. I'm never late.

That certainly wasn't me at the grocery store last week, buying fresh donuts at the bakery counter. I'm watching my weight, so I don't need to buy donuts. I prefer carob-chip cookies and sugar free ice cream. So obviously, that wasn't me you saw in the produce section reach into the donut bag and wipe out two chocolate-frosted delights. First of all, that would be a disgusting lack of self-control. And secondly, it would be embarrassing for me to have to pay the lady at the checkout counter for an empty bakery bag. She'd probably give me an odd look and shake her head. So I'm glad I didn't do anything like that.

For sure, I would never take my children to a free summer kids show like "Bee Movie" and cry at the end when, you know, Barry the Bee unites the bees of Manhattan to re-pollinate all the flowers in the city. It would be ridiculous to need a Kleenex for something as cheesy and predictable as that. Of course, it would also be ridiculous for me to spoil the end of the show for everybody who hasn't seen "Bee Movie" yet.

So glad I didn't do that.

You know that wasn't me at the park on Saturday with my four kids, either. I don't lie around on a picnic blanket and block out my kids' screaming by staring blankly up at the clouds. I certainly didn't tell Emily to drop trow and go pee-pee behind a tree because I didn't want to have to pack up and go find a bathroom. That would irresponsible and unsanitary.

And thank heavens I would never, ever rip my shirt off and run around topless in my backyard. What an embarrassing situation that could be for my father-in-law if he was, say, working in the side yard and saw me. After all, I've seen "Bee Movie." I know that when a bee flies down my shirt, it doesn't mean any harm. Stinging a person - even when angry - shows the rest of the bee world an embarrassing lack of self-control. So it's a good thing that bee didn't sting me and I didn't have to streak my neighbors.

It's nice to know that bees and I have that it common: a sense of decency and self-control. It's not helpful for writing humorous blog posts, but it sure makes me feel good. I think I'll go reward myself with a nice big glass of rice milk...

The Perfect Parent

Ty knocked himself out last week.

Knocked. Himself. OUT.

And shaved a good two years off my life.

Of course I was only standing about 10 feet away when he did it, which proves that the concept of "keeping an eye on the kids" is totally overrated. Ty was pushing a truck on the hardwood floor with his foot when the truck rolled forward and he flipped back. And knocked himself out.

I have to give myself credit for not freaking out. He came around after only an eternity a few seconds and started crying, which I took as a good sign. 9-1-1 was already punched in, but I hung up and speed-dialed the Children's Hospital nurse hot line instead. I don't know why, but I like that they know me by name over there. Anyway, Nurse Janet sent me packing to the nearest emergency room, which received us in record time. One lengthy exam, one CT scan, and three packages of graham crackers later, Ty was discharged home under a clean bill of health. Praise God.

It seems His angels are putting in some overtime around our house these days. I have to tell you that the week before Ty's frightening fall, we had an even more terrifying incident occur. Before I share though, you have to know that I NEVER move a car without all of my children accounted for - either in the house or buckled into their seats. It's a good rule anyway, but the accident that killed Steven Curtis Chapman's daughter last year in her own driveway has given me a healthy sense of paranoia. So I NEVER move a car when my children are outside. And isn't that the way all accident stories begin?

A few weeks ago, it was pretty clear that something was going on with the transmission in the minivan. I was not in a good mood, since we don't exactly have the money to fix a car that should run just fine. Instead of pulling the van all the way into the garage like I usually do, I pulled in only part way so I could check the transmission fluid. By the time that job was done, our neighbors, their son, my husband, and our four kids were all out in the driveway talking and playing. Around here, three adults to five kids is a pretty good ratio. So I counted all the kids, made sure every child was accounted for, and walked back into the garage to pull the van forward the last three feet. And then muttered a few inappropriate words under my breath when I couldn't find the keys.

That figures. Nothing's ever just easy. Can't even pull my car in the garage without it being a production...

I got out of the car, slammed the door, and stormed towards the kitchen to find my keys.

Just as Ty toddled around the front bumper of my car.

I am not exaggerating this at all. If my keys had been in the ignition where I was sure I'd left them, I would have pulled that car forward three feet and crushed my son. Our garage is a very tight space, and the car would have either rolled over him or pinned him to the wall.

I snatched Ty up and about hugged the breath out of him, while getting on my knees and thanking God that He is a better parent to my children than I am. Not just in terms of their safety - because clearly I can't keep them safe even when I am watching them - but in terms of their complete and total well-being.

I regularly beat myself up for all the ways I've failed as a parent. And I am terrified that my kids are going to grow up, move out, and never speak to me again, because I consistently fail to meet all of their needs.

When did I start thinking I was God?

I can't meet all of my children's needs. I will never be able to meet all of my children's needs. I succeed in keeping them from physical harm well enough, but not perfectly - as the bumps and bruises on their elbows and knees will attest. I try to keep them happy, but not all that effectively - which is clear to the public at large every time I take them grocery shopping. I hug them and kiss them and love on them every day - but I still manage to yell at them several times a day, too. I am so not a perfect parent.

But thank God He is.

He loves my own children even more than I do. Infinitely more so, because He was willing to sacrifice His own Son for a relationship with them. He is capable of giving my children more joy in their lives than I can because of the relationship they can have with Him. And He is even more capable than me at keeping them from physical harm; clearly so, because Ty is safe and healthy and with us today.

And I am so grateful for that.

Dear Doctor

Thank you for sending home an informational pamphlet in preparation for Ella's tonsillectomy. It's always helpful to have a sheet of bright orange paper to reference when one's child undergoes surgery. Unfortunately, I find that it isn't as thorough as some parents might prefer. I'm writing to suggest some changes you may wish to make on future pamphlets.

First of all, I'd like to recommend you add a paragraph to your pamphlet that informs parents how their child is to dress the morning of surgery. In our case, I suggested that Ella wear her pajamas in order to feel comfortable during her post-op stay. She disagreed - as I'm sure you noticed, since she accessorized her jammies with a tiara, tutu, and ballet slippers. Did this distract you at all during surgery? If not I'm glad, since dancing down the hospital corridors provided such a nice diversion for our daughter prior to her procedure. If it was a problem however, I would encourage you to be more specific about hospital dress code in the future.

As far as post-operative concerns, I find your pamphlet only moderately informative. For example, the section labeled "Diet" suggests that tonsillectomy patients should drink 4oz. of liquid every hour and includes a handy little sticker chart to help motivate the patient to drink. Are you aware, sir, that some children do not like sticker charts? That some children will, in fact, refuse to do anything asked of them, regardless of bribery and rewards? To make matters worse, you advise patients to stay away from milk the first few days after surgery. How exactly are parents like us supposed to get our child to drink anything? Ella doesn't drink anything but white milk, even when she's healthy! It's not like we can take her to Sonic, which boasts hundreds of drink combinations, and expect her to find one single drink she might enjoy. She won't. Granted, you allow Popsicles to count towards liquid intake. Unfortunately, Ella does not particularly care for Popsicles, as she considers them "too cold." Frankly, we could have used a little more direction from you in this area.

In fact, the entire "Diet" section should be re-written, as what you suggest conflicts entirely with what my daughter requests. You seem to think that jello, pudding, and ice cream are well-tolerated and even enjoyed by 5-year tonsillectomy patients. I am sorry to inform you that this is indeed NOT the case. My child would prefer to eat M&M's and pretzels - foods you specifically deny her, according to your pamphlet. Perhaps you would like to come over and prepare Ella's meals and snacks for the next two weeks?

Which, incidentally, is the amount of time your pamphlet directs us to moderate Ella's play. NO "vigorous activity?" NO running or biking? NO SWIMMING? My daughter came home from the hospital and immediately requested we walk the 1/2 mile to our neighborhood playground. As I write, she's pumping herself on the swing so high she can "touch the sky." Yet your pamphlet offers no alternative suggestions for activities. Nor does it indicate if I can tie her to a chair or bed without being questioned by the Department of Child and Family Services. Again, this would be helpful information to have.

Finally, your pamphlet references a post-operative condition known as hypernasality. According to the information provided, "it is normal for your child to have a higher voice...immediately after surgery." What it does not tell me it this: Are my ears supposed to be bleeding? It seems possible - indeed, probable - that my daughter's voice has ruptured my ear drums. Therefore, I suggest that if you decide to respond in some way to this letter that you do NOT pick up the phone to call me. A letter of apology will be sufficient.

I hope that you are not offended by the tone of my letter. I simply want to help you do a better job in the future of preparing parents. Hopefully you will find my suggestions useful.

Sincerely,