Ooh, look. It's been so long since I blogged that blogger done up and changed their whole format. Took me 10 minutes to figure out how to write a new post.

In weekly news, I've been working many days in a row after spending 5 glorious days at home, including Mother's Day, in which wonderful husband cooked an amazing dish of Salmon with Provencal Sauce over parmesan rice with home made rosemary focaccia. Dessert was cake from Tous Les Jours and ambrosia. Did I mention he cooked for us, my parents AND my sister and her boyfriend. He's too good, but he's upped the ante for Father's Day. Dang.

So, G has done most if not all of the homeschooling for the past week or so. Since taking her out of school last October, S has learned double digit addition and subtraction, lots about the Egyptians and Mesopotamians, and now the Mayans and Aztecs, is independently reading and knows what cells do.

Happy Biodiversity Day! Or Happy Rainforest Day! We spent about 30 minutes this morning learning about the rainforest, which is how I found a great site called Brain Pop, which is not free, but not terribly expensive. For $85/year we can get Pop Jr, for $170 we can get Brain Pop, Pop Jr and Senor Pop(It's not called that, but you get the idea). Right now I'm doing a 5 day trial to see if we like it. So far, Pop Jr seems a little too basic for S but the regular Pop seems too hard, but more to her interests.

So, now, before I go back to work tomorrow I must: send Marilyn my George St. Coop article, exercise, clean the house, finish S's lessons and maybe make a delicious but low carb lunch. I need some more tea.

Having a great time at the pitty party, wish you were here

I hate being depressed. I hate, hate, hate, hate it. Please don't confuse its comfortableness nor my tolerance of it, with liking it.

And fuck optimists, while we're on the subject. You people are just fooling yourselves.

All right, it's true, I don't really trust happiness, nor do I perpetually happy people. But in the absence of feeling happy, I'd like to at least feel like I could kick ass and take names. If I don't feel that people like me, it would suffice if I felt that they were in awe of me. Instead, I feel like wet socks that are only slightly moldy. As if, when getting a whiff, a person would say, "Ugh, these socks are wet and moldy," instead of, "Good God! Get a load of these socks! They're absolutely putrid!" It's one thing to be depressed, I don't also want to feel ordinary.

So I will try, for the sake of the happy, scrappy ones, to at least fee

l, if not happy, then ok with some things. I will try to remember that everything does not suck. I have a roof over my head, food in my fridge, 2 girls who adore me and a fine husband. And an adorable pup. Oh, God he is cute, even if he did eat my favorite shoes.

I mean, look at him.....

Fuck. Why am I sad again?

Ode To Laziness

Do you know a perfect person? I do. She's pretty, keeps a trim figure. Her house is spare and chic and, despite the fact that she has 2 small boys, uncluttered. She has perfect manners, but not fussily so. Her boys are well behaved, pleasant and just mischievous enough to be normal. They stick to a schedule. A schedule-can you believe it? I just know she has never, once, used the TV as a babysitter. I hate her.

No I don't. Because above all else, she is friendly and cheerful and modest. She doesn't do one thing to make me feel inadequate, yet I often leave her company feeling so. You know, I remember birthdays. Sometimes. I remember my own, anyway. And my children's, of course, and that's the main thing. For all other dates: anniversaries, doctor's appointments, bill payments, (We have Christmas AGAIN this year?) I am at best vague with the details. And I would LOVE to stick to a schedule. Time and time again I have with best intentions declared that I am going to follow something: an exercise regime, a diary of my diet, getting up early and writing. I really mean it, too. It's just that something always happens: the kid is up all night sick, they're having 2 for 1 cupcakes at the bakery. It's always something, as Roseanne Roseannadanna said.

Robert Fulghum says, "I live in awe of people who get...jobs done." And goes to talk about how the rest of us should be given one task to redeem ourselves. His example is stick polishing.

"Here’s the way it works. You get selected for this deal because you are such a good person at heart, and it is time you were let off the hook. First, a week of your life is given to you free of all obligations. Your calendar is wiped clean. No committee meetings, no overdue anything---bills, correspondence, or unanswered telephone calls. You are taken to a nice place, where it is all quiet and serene and Zen. You are cared for. Fed well. And often affirmed. Your task is simply this: to spend a week polishing a stick. They give you some sandpaper and lemon oil and rags. And, of course, the stick---a nice but ordinary piece of wood. All you have to do is polish it. As well as you can. Whenever you feel like it. That’s it: polish the stick."

If only that were all it took to prove we aren't too shabby, even if we can't remember to return our library books with any frequency. Sigh.

I would like to insert here that I think I would get way more slack cut my way if I was guy.

Now, back to reality. A smart person told me long ago that you shouldn't compare your insides to somebody else's outsides. Meaning, you can't compare the voice in your head telling you you're a loser with the facade someone else presents to the world. Because I have my own facade. Not that I'm deceiving anyone, I just don't wear my every insecurity on my sleeve. Just as I don't know what goes on inside of Perfect Mom's head. For all I know she worries about things that I think are silly, like crows feet or being bad at math. Also, when I'm done bashing myself for my faults, real and imagined, I remind myself that she is a stay at home mom. So perhaps I oughta give myself 30 points for being able to bring home the bacon AND fry it up in the pan. Certainly she has never had to get not one, but TWO 18 gauge IV's in a guy who has almost no blood pressure and is minutes away from dying without breaking a sweat. I'm just sayin'. It's no stick-polisher, but it's what I got.

So three cheers to all you disorganized people out there. Celebrate whatever it is that you do well, even if it's warming up the couch. Meanwhile, I'm going to try and get my Christmas cards out before July.

Let 'em play

When I was a boy, I scared the pants off of my mom,
Climbed what I could climb upon
And I don't know how I survived,
I guess I knew the tricks that all boys knew.

Dar Williams, "When I Was a Boy"

At the most recent parents' conference, we were told that Youngest Daughter wanted to be called "Peter" by her teachers and classmates. Ah, we explained, well, see, she's been into Spider Man. So she's pretending to be Peter Parker. Naturally. The teacher said, with a little smile, well, she has a very good imagination. But it's a little distracting.

I see. It's not that I mind the idea of school, but do they have to be so, well, schoolish about it? In kindergarten, no less. Once I fought down the urge to smack her, I wanted to say to her, seriously? I mean, she's five. She still believes in the Easter Bunny. To her, imagining is as important as adding and subtracting(which she can do) and learning her sight words. I know she's young for kindergarten, the youngest in her class, in fact. It's an all day kindergarten too, I'd like to point out. I remember my kindergarten. I think it lasted long enough for my mother to make the beds and have coffee with the neighbor moms. We spent most of the time, if memory serves, a.playing b. using paste and c. learning a few things. We had a snack, laid our heads on the table for a few minutes rest, heard a story and went home. Somehow with this backward system we all managed to grow up and become reasonably responsible adults.

When I look around my daughter's classroom, I notice that most kids are indeed listening (mostly) and sitting criss-cross-applesauce still and listening (mostly). Because I think most of them have been in daycare and know the drill. And let me be clear:I have nothing against daycare, all-day kindergarten, organized sports, enrichment programs, after-school activities, Pop Warner, pottery classes, et al. It's just that there's so MUCH of it. I feel like our kids are falling into two groups: the docile and the non-docile. So we give the non-docile kids a diagnosis and some pills and there you go.

I'm not exaggerating. When Eldest Daughter was in second grade, in a school system I won't name (rhymes with "Pillsborough"), she was found to have a learning disability. Before they would evaluate her for extra help, they wanted me to put her on Ritalin. But, I said, I spoke with her doctor and she doesn't have ADHD. Well, said the school nurse, some doctors work with us.

Maybe I'm too sensitive about the whole thing. Teachers gotta teach, kids gotta behave. But it's the sinking feeling that if yours isn't the docile little lamb, well then, maybe there's something wrong with them. But I refuse to believe that my spunky, spirited, FIERCE child needs a label, let alone a diagnostic code. For inspiration I found Lenore Skenazy's website and book called Free Range Kids (freerangekids.wordpress.com). It celebrates a time when your mom would kick you out of the house for the day and call you back in when it was dinner time. And if you came home covered in dirt she might scream a bit, but then she'd just throw you in the tub and scrub you within an inch of your life. Nowadays they bring in the decontamination unit and a gallon of Purell.

Also, I have in my possession, a great book called Raising Your Spirited Child:a guide for parents whose child is more intense, sensitive, perceptive, persistent, energetic, by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka. Seriously, my little one is intense. And sweet, smart, funny, contrary, and exasperating. I wonder if I could handle a class full of kids like her. Sometimes I wonder why she can't be an "easy" child. I think back with fondness for all the "easy" things her sister did, forgetting that she had her exasperating moments, as well. Then I remind myself that Well Behaved
Women
Girls Rarely Make History.

Nobody said it was going to be easy.

Sleepless in Hub City

I hate bedtime.

As a kid, I hated going to bed. It was unfair, going to bed when all sorts of interesting stuff was still going on. As a teenager, I couldn't wait to stay up all night. When I was single, living alone, I hated falling asleep. My bed would be covered with all manners of things:books, tea cups, drawing pad and pencils and I'd fall asleep to the TV. Now I can't wait to sleep. Even a nap would be nice, but to actually put on some jammies and hit the sheets would be heaven. Clean sheets, even more so.

But now I've been blessed with a little one who, guess what? Hates to go to bed.

I think I probably spend 10-14 hours a week putting her to bed. At this point in a conversation I usually get a multitude of advice:get a bedtime routine(got it), have her take a nap, not take a nap, have quiet time before bed, punishments, rewards, etc. But the fact remains, it takes her a long time to fall asleep and she needs help with the process. And you know what? It's ok.

Sometimes I need to be reminded that not every problem needs fixing. And bedtime appears to be a big problem for parents. How do I know? Besides all the books, magazine articles and t.v. shows about the issue, it almost always works its way into conversations with other parents. "So, what time does Sally go to bed?" they ask innocently. Then they start telling me about their own trials getting little Timmy to sleep, or what their routine is. And you know what I notice? Whether there's tears and yelling, or threats, or bribes, or routines or just laying in bed and telling stories, everybody seems to tell me the same thing-it takes an hour or two. Granted, some nights she's asleep in 10 minutes and some nights I'm thinking we might as well order a pizza and watch the Late Show. But mostly it's an hour or two.

Sometimes, we need Dada's help. But mostly when it comes to bedtime, she wants Mama.

Some nights, I will confess, I think dark thoughts about keeping her in her room, locking the door and letting her scream herself to sleep. We are not "Cry It Out" people. Or I start to get angry, thinking of all the other things I could be doing, say laundry or writing an article for the co0p newsletter. Or, gasp, having some time to myself. None of that is conducive to helping my high-energy kid relax and fall asleep. Though I am a slow learner, I have come to realize that the best thing for her and I is to accept that this is going to take a while and appreciate what I have-some "girls only" time with my youngest daughter. Parenting takes time. So we brush our teeth, get into bed, get out of bed, have a snack, a drink of "icy cold water with ice cubes", back into bed and have a "real story" (printed) or a "pretend story"(made up out of my head). Sometimes both. Sometimes a song. Much as I pine for the day she puts herself to bed, I also want to delay the inevitable, to stretch out this time, when she stills needs me so much that it takes my slow breathing to slow down her own and she drapes her legs over mine and finally relaxes into sleep.

And so, we labored a bit...

Labor Day is here, officially Summer's End (I've been reading Louisa May Alcott's "Little Men" and find that my English is that much more proper afterward).

Sally and I went hiking through the Rutgers Gardens with friends and saw many fine specimens, including the woods, the vegetable gardens and a new water garden that's in the works. Also, but not least of all, several brides and their entourages, one of whom Sally stalked and continued to peep at from behind branches and garden sheds to get a good look at. She really did look like a princess, and when she kissed her prince, Sally cheered.

We went back to their house, the friends. They provided pizza, we brought wine and cupcakes. Actually, that'd make a fine blog name, Wine and Cupcakes, wouldn't it? Kids played, adults talked like adults, with only minor incursions from the children. It was a damn near perfect end to Summer. And we still have Sunday and Monday.

These Halcyon Days

Summer is coming to an end. School is starting soon, the weather will cool, we'll have football and leaves turning colors. But for now we're in the lazy days of summer, trying to wring out every last drop.

Sally has been playing 'most every day with the little girl next door. At 3 and 3/4's, she a wisp of a thing, a little sprite with flashing brown eyes and a mischievous grin, who likes to egg Sally on and then play innocent, little one who's been assailed by older, bigger Sal. Hubster is not fooled. Of course, our girl has been known to push or kick back when she's feeling put upon, even though she (should) know better. "I try to be good, mama," she says, with pleading eyes, "please don't punish me. I promise I won't do it again." Hmm.

She is now big enough to walk from our front door to the little-girl-next-door's door by herself, with me watching from the porch. It tears my heart a little to see her first efforts of independence. Maybe Hub is used to it, being home with her all day, but I'm still coming to terms with her going to the bathroom by herself, shouting "Privacy!" or pouring her own glass of milk.

This play has led to us being on more familiar terms with said neighbor. I don't think she's ever known what to make of us. I say "her", although actually they're a "they". It's just that her husband is ever at work and is almost a mystery to us, although he seems rather ok. In any event, she runs the roost. And run it she does. She always seems to be busy doing something-cleaning, planning the addition to their house, running her sideline business. I'm lucky if I can work my 8 hours and then not pass out before dinner. H spends a lot of time doing stuff with Sally and managing our lives, but he is minor league compared to what this chick does in a day. "Does she ever just play with her kids?" I ask one night. "Sure," he replies, but not convincingly, "but not often." And so Sprite has spent an awful lot of time our domicile and loves it. Especially because we a. don't freak out too much about messes and b. are just as happy to dole out goodies as actual, "healthy" food. Nothing too terrible, it's just that in our universe, really good, homemade cake is considered a health food. Now cake mix-that's a sin.

Today both imps came with me to the market via little red wagon. First we hit the thrift store, although by Saturday it's been pretty picked over. Each girl found a small "My Pretty Pony" and I found 2 lavender shirts to add to Sally's quilt material. I'm making her a "T-shirt" quilt out of squares of pink, fuchsia, purple and lavender for the winter. Hopefully, we'll have her radiator fixed by November, but still it'll come in handy. Then we stopped at the farmer's market for 2 tomatoes and a watermelon. I made Hubs' amazing vegetal soup with the golden broth for dinner. Yum. When we got home, girls put on their swim suits and we busted out the slip-n-slide. You can't get much more down home summery without moving to Iowa and making a Jello salad for the church social. With pineapple in it.

I feel like this August is going on forever even though it's officially September and school is just around the corner. But tonight it's 75 degrees at 11:30 pm and humidity that can only be described as "wringing wet." Somewhere out over the ocean is Hurricane Earl and I wish he'd bring a little rain this way and dispel some of the mugginess. Sally went to sleep after 2 cartoons, several handfuls of cheese crackers, 2 drinks of water, 1 trip to the bathroom and a small fight. She's a fierce little thing. When everyone had calmed down a little, she sidled up to me and said, 'Lets just talk a little 'bout our day first." So I asked her what her favorite part of today was and she said, "Spending time with you." And my heart melted a little bit more. At this rate, I won't have much left. And she asked me what my favorite part was and I said, "spending time with you." And she squealed and hugged me and we smooched and all was forgiven, even the kicking when I turned off Troll Girlz. Eventually her breathing evened out and she stopped squirming and slipped over into sleep. I love her to pieces.

Summer is almost over. We've had trips to ice cream store in the wagon full of girls, hikes in the woods, swimming in the pool and lots of playing with friends. Kindergarten starts in 10 days, whether I'm ready or not.

Hubs is playing poker, I'm alone with the cat and the computer. Somewhere, elder daughter is out there living her life. She may come over on Sunday, always a happy time. Life is enough at this moment, just enough.