Back-to-School Money

Being that I'm not contractually back at work until tomorrow, I've been working from home today. I knew today would be an easier one, so I promised to pick my kids up early and do something fun with them. Meanwhile, it occurred to me that we haven't done any real back-to-school shopping with them. This is for good reason; Zach is in preschool, so he doesn't really need a backpack or school supplies, and Natalie's school does a fundraiser where you just pay a sum and a box of needed materials is delivered right to you.

Still, going back-to-school shopping is like a right of passage and it does a great job of ushering children from the easy-breezy existence of loose scheduling, lengthened bedtimes, and unfettered play to the various constraints of the school year. But shopping with my kids is usually a headache, as they frequently demand more items than I want to buy ("But I want all of these dresses!"), or they ask for something I wasn't even intending to purchase ("Look, Mommy! Legos/Barbies/Scented candles/A cordless vacuum!").

In grappling with this dilemma, I was struck by divine providence. I had an idea: a glorious, fail-proof, fantastic idea.

What if my kids had a physical representation of exactly what they could buy. No more, no different. And since they're pre-readers, it would have to be delivered in images, as well as words.

The best part (besides avoiding the mid-shopping trip whining) is that it only took a little imagination and printer ink on my part. I think it worked out pretty well.

Why I don't (usually) cook

This evening, I left work feeling stress. The palpable kind where your heart is beating irregularly and much faster than usual, like it's struggling to keep up with your hectic, demanding schedule. I didn't leave the office at all today, other than to drive to the other office for a meeting, and I scarfed a rather pathetic lunch (trail mix) at my desk while completing what felt like seven tasks at once. So when I finished preparing for the next morning, I grabbed my things and went straight to the gym for some much needed stress relief.

Feeling more balanced and calm post-workout, I left to pick up kids from school, well aware that I had less time to make dinner before they exploded like hangry little Mount Vesuviuses (best. plural. ever.). I herded them into the car and rushed them home (at the speed limit, of course) so that I could get started. I had a plan.

"You play outside and I'll cook," I told them confidently, sure that this tactic would have them giggling on their bikes and launching stomp rockets into the air in no time. The best laid plans...

"Mommy, will you play a game with me?" Zach asked in that cloying three-year-old way.

"No, buddy. I have to make dinner. But your sister will probably play a game."

"I don't WANT to play a game! I want to color!"

Figures.

I finally got them (through bribery and begging) to play Chutes and Ladders while I went inside to make pasta. This simple meal has been a longtime favorite of both children and I'm very competent at preparing it. Unfortunately, after a comprehensive search of our kitchen, I realized we had no marinara sauce. But I did find tomato soup and the kids love that, too. I knew we had cheddar cheese, so I just had to find bread to make grilled cheese. (My kids balk at eating one without the other. What can I say? They have discerning taste.)

"MOOOO-OOOMMMMMM!" came the keening voice of a child who may know the difference between "tattling" and "telling," but who still relishes seeing her brother get "busted," all the same. I headed out to the garage to find Zach in his red motorized car with a devilish smile on his face.

"MOM! Zach was running into the table! And into your car OVER AND OVER again!" Zach gave me the requisite Who me? face.

After sussing out the situation, I (threatened and) redirected him and then peeked into the garage freezer. Victory! I headed back into the kitchen with the frozen loaf under one arm...to find my soup all over the burner.

This is what happens when I don't duct tape my kids to a chair while I cook.

I took two deep breaths, grabbed a potholder, pulled it off the heat, and went straight to defrosting the bread. Like Gloria Gaynor, I would survive. I got as far as taking the slices out of the microwave and delivering them onto a cutting board when I heard the garage door slam. This time, it was Natalie.

"Mom! I'm going upstairs to clean up my room, because I'm, like, gonna be a cleaning lady--for play of course! And I'll clean up my room and, like, arrange things, and..." Her voice drifted off as she ascended the stairs.

I gathered the other necessary ingredients as the garage door slammed again.

"MOOOO-OOOOOOMMMMMMY?" This time, it was the little guy.

"Yes, buddy?"

"Um...I'm..." He stutters when he's hungry and at this point, he was already rifling through the pantry. He held up a cereal box. "Can I have this?"

"You can have some. But dinner's almost ready, bud. I don't want you to spoil your appetite." I'm turning into my mom.

"Okay. Can I have some milk, too?" he asked, as he carted a bowl to the table.

"No, Zach. You cannot have a bowl of cereal before dinner. You can have a little bit of dry cereal." By now, I had cleaned up the soup mess and was shredding cheddar.

Zach launched into a long tirade--I'll spare you the details. Needless to say, he loves cereal. He repeatedly asked me for milk in a nauseatingly whiny voice that pushed every button I ever had. I threatened to send him upstairs until dinner. He finally stopped, but not before I grated my wrist along with the cheese.

 I pride myself on getting injured in new and exotic ways!

Zach remained quiet as I grilled. (Well, there were a few nearly inaudible, high-pitched noises. I'm sure he was asking for milk, but I didn't respond and he didn't push it.) I hurried the cheese and butter to the fridge while the skillet did its work...and then I smelled smoke. 

Did you know that newly-defrosted bread burns quickly over direct heat? You can bet I didn't.

Fortunately, I monitored the other side more vigilantly.

I called Natalie down and quickly served the food, before I could do any more damage. Even with all of the drama and mishaps, the kids scarfed the meal. They even humored me by sharing one thing about their day before I capitulated to their requests for Peppa Pig.

And then, as I opened the refrigerator door to pour milk for my cherubic diners, I saw this:

Isn't it ironic?

Relaxing with Z

While putting Z to bed, I did a relaxation exercise to help him with his fears. This is the transcript:

Me: "You're feeling very relaxed. Your feet feel relaxed. They feel heavy; even your toes feel heavy."

Zach: "I'm heavy?"

Me: "No, buddy. It's just a way to feel more relaxed. Like you're so relaxed you can't even move your body. Okay, your legs are relaxed and heavy...so heavy that they're sinking into the bed."

Zach: "Wait--my legs are sinking into the bed?!"

Me: "They're not really sinking, Zach. It's just a metaphor. You're relaxed, okay?"

He fell asleep before I got to his head, so I guess it worked for him, even with the quicksand metaphors. 

Take Back the Sofa

This post is about our sofa, but I really need to start with the two adorable kitties we adopted back in October. They are still kittens, and they also have all of their claws. This is a major departure from our two previous cats who were declawed (and lived to the ripe old age of 18). Other than the veterinary assistant job I had the summer between my sophomore and junior year of high school, I haven't really given claws much of a thought. 

Until now. 

Back in October, we were a bit concerned. Our two cats were born of a feral mother and we were worried that these two timid, jittery felines were not going to acclimate to our family or life. Fortunately, they have acclimated. Completely. So much so, that our sweet, cuddly fur-babies have "adopted" our expensive Pottery Barn sofa in the living room as their home base and scratching post. 

They could choose almost anything else in the house: old nubby carpet, cheap dining room chairs from Living Spaces...I would even be cool with them using a comforter that we could replace. But instead, they chose the one piece of furniture on which Keith and I dropped over $2000 of our hard-earned cash. So today, I decided to take it back. 

I had an idea. What if the little pill shaver I use on my sweaters worked for the couch? 

There's really nothing that would make it worse. So I figured, why not? We had a large crowd coming today--over 100 people for a luncheon for work--and this couch is an embarrassment that we keep covered up under throw blankets. It just ends up looking shabby and slovenly in a room that is very polished and sleek.

And much to my surprise and delight, it worked like a charm. Sure, it's not going to fix the corner that they have completely torn apart, but it did make the rest look really really nice. You saw the "before" picture; now take a look at the during and after shots:

I cut off the longer strings and loops that were hanging all over to make the job of shaving the fabric easier.

Voila! Here is the much better finished product. I really couldn't be happier. )And now I need to get to Petsmart to buy a product that makes the cats less likely to do this again.) 

Fear Zachtor

Zach is what you'd recognize as a typical youngest child. Vivacious, hyper, and a little mischievous, he throws more tantrums than his sister ever did, but cuddles more, too. And he doesn't have that 'careful gene' that seems to flow naturally out of the chute with the firstborn. Whereas Natalie is cautious, he takes life head-on. This is both a figurative and a literal statement, in fact.

You see, the other day, when he was running (much like a bull at Pamplona) out of his sister's room, he misjudged the doorjamb placement and charged himself right into the wall. Hysterics followed and it took every bit of willpower I had not to laugh because that would just be cruel. (Also, I worry that the parent police would rush in and put me in cuffs. What? You say there are no parent police? There should be, but that's a post for another day.)

But back to Z-man. This kid is frightening in his constant state of split-second poor decision-making. People are always shaking their heads in wonder/judgment/incredulity when they discover that he had broken two bones by the time he was four. And just yesterday, our little Evel Knievel was careening down our steep driveway on his plasma car using his sneakers as brakes.

Z is just shy of TWO years old, here. He threw himself out of the bounce house and landed wrong on the grass, fracturing his tibia.

At the tender age of three, he flew over his handlebars on his tricycle at school, breaking his arm in two places. When presented with a plethora of colors at the orthopedic surgeon's office, Z opted for the hot pink cast because he wanted to make his sister jealous. (Mission accomplished.)

So imagine my surprise when recently, Z began to approach bedtime with fear and trepidation. He kept protesting, "I'm scared to be in my room alone, Mama." But then, he'd fall asleep and I'd wonder if all of that pageantry was just a boy learning about the unappreciated, yet effective art of guilt-tripping.

Then tonight, his fear became intense enough that my mama-spidey-sense prickled at the back of my neck. He was balking at going into his (very well-lit) room to pick out a book. This task takes a mere one minute, but rather than go directly to his room upon my instruction (HA!), Z writhed morosely on my bedroom carpet, whining about being scared.

I looked at him shrewdly as I changed the sheets on my bed, trying to gauge the truth of this statement. "Z, I turned on every light in your room. I thought you were afraid of the dark."

"But Mama, I'm afraid of the light, too," he countered immediately. Well this was a new one.

"Okay, I'll go with you as soon as I'm done changing my sheets."

Short bird-walk: It's been a hard couple of weeks. Daddy, who is the principal at a large middle school, has been gone most nights and some mornings at school events and meetings. The kids are feeling his absence and it's making them act out in ways that are undesirable at best. So, in an effort to calm the stormy waters, I invited the kids to help me make air-popped popcorn with a generous helping of real butter and salt. (Don't worry--we had a healthy dinner first.)

Then--smart woman that I am--I had them change into pajamas, climb into my bed, and watch an episode of Peppa Pig. These two needed to wind down and nothing is as effective at this as Peppa. I was trying for an early bedtime with these two. My chances were looking pretty good, too, until I realized remembered that they are the world's messiest eaters. Even my cats--who have NO LIPS--keep food in their mouths with more regularity.

And maybe, just maybe, I could deal with popcorn kernels in my bed, but I draw the line at sleeping on sheets that have just been used as the world's largest (and softest) ad hoc cloth napkin.

Back to the story at hand...

From his post on the floor, Zach looks up at the wall across from us and whimpers, "Mama, I'm afraid of those girls, too."

Here, I repress a shiver that he's going to go all Sixth Sense/The Shining on me and carry on. "What girls?"

He explains, "Those girls in the picture on your jewelry cabinet over there."

He gestures to the double-hinged frame which contains two pictures. One photo is of me (ironically very pregnant with Zach), my sister, and two of our long-time friends at my sister's 40th birthday celebration. We are wearing sunglasses and posing identically to the little girls on the opposite frame. It is a greeting card, and the girls, who pose coquettishly while wearing fancy party dresses and donning sunglasses, reminded our dear friend of the four of us. I explain what the two photos are and how they really are not scary at all. Whimsical, maybe, but not scary.

"I see whimsical people."

He's not convinced. He starts to cry and whine again.

I'm still not done making our impossibly difficult bed, so I try to make him laugh. "What about chocolate? Are you afraid of chocolate?"

"No." His reply is immediate and quizzical. And then he realizes what game I'm playing. "Yes. Yes I am afraid of chocolate."

Now I'm just intrigued. Chocolate is his favorite thing in the world (aside from bodily function jokes). I begin to test him on everything he loves.

"Okay, are you afraid of the cats? You afraid of Romeo? Annabelle?"

"Yes."

"Really?" I ask dubiously. "Are you afraid of your Legos?" At this point, I can see his discomfort. He just got a Lego toy for good behavior and it doesn't leave his side for long.

"Yeah."

I hear the uncertainty in his voice and go for the jugular: his best friend, sister, and confidante, Natalie.

"Why don't you go get a book out of your sister's room to read before bed. She's in there, so you won't be alone. Or are you scared of her, too?"

"No, I'm not scared of Natalie...Oh wait. Yes I am. I am scared of her."

Just wait until she's a teenager, buddy.

It only took Z about three visits (eating disgusting fast food each time) to gain the courage to climb up the play structure. It took years with his sister. She's now much more adventurous. I guess they're trading places?

My face smells like *what*?

"Talk Time" was always a tradition for Keith, his brother, and his dad. If I remember correctly, his dad created the tradition, which prompted the boys to BEG to go to bed each night (no bedtime needed, thank you) because they knew they'd get this wonderful, uninterrupted time with their father. During this simple, yet sacred, time, Keith, Mark, and Howard would talk about any number of topics before bed.

And now this tradition continues.

But allow me to go back in time for a minute to tie this to the present.

For her first two years, I would sing to Natalie before bed each night after our reading time. It was special and beautiful. I love to sing, and though I don't do it very often anymore, she loved my voice and requested specific songs from the moment she could talk. I raised that girl on the hits of Norah Jones, the Eagles, Billy Joel, Elton John, and countless Disney favorites.

And then one evening, she broke a little piece of my heart. She was about two and a half, and she requested that I not sing to her.

Keith had been putting her to bed more frequently, now that Zach was in the picture. Because I was the one with the mammaries, I was putting him to bed each night and Keith was doing the important and often exhausting work of rearing our toddler. He saw his special time with her as an opportunity to bring back a long-standing tradition that was formed in his childhood, and my darling, loquacious girl took to it like a duck to water.

And while I did sing to my (then) baby Zach fairly frequently, I didn't do it with the passion I once had for my cherubic little lady. I was a working mom of two. I was tired. And I realized that it would be futile to get excited about a nightly routine that would soon be moot.

And so it was.

Zach turned two, moved to a big boy bed, and all of a sudden wanted nothing to do with my stirring cover of "Let it Go" from Frozen. Now that he was bigger, he wanted in on this Talk Time business. Singing went the way of the dodo.

And then, something magical happened tonight.

We were doing lots of fun activities to take our minds off of the fact that Keith was away in San Diego for his Gold Ribbon School honor. (So proud, btw!) We had dinner and made and decorated sugar cookies. Before bed, Natalie found a (fake) microphone from a costume I recently wore to an 80s party. (I had dressed as Jem and the costume I bought came with a sparkly mic.)

True Confession: I used the kids' face paint to do my rad eye makeup...which didn't show up in any other picture because the pink is apparently too close to my skin tone to appear in far-away photos. Hence an awkward selfie in the bathroom.

And this is when the magic happened.

I picked up the microphone and began to sing my orders to the kids. "Climb up the staaaaaaiiiiirs...get some pajamaaaaaaas!" 

And when it seems like NOTHING ELSE ON THIS GREEN EARTH WORKS TO MOTIVATE THEM...this did. They smiled at me with stars in their eyes. Not the cliche stars, either. Like--real stars. I swear. I saw them.

And up they went, looking at me as if to say, "Keep singing, Mom! We love this!" And so I did.

My kids are full of attitude. Just look at them. They're throwing major shade. (That's what the kids are saying these days, isn't it?)

To make a long story epic, we continued at this throughout the bathing, tooth brushing, dressing, book picking, and potty-ing portions of our evening, much to my children's (and my) delight. 

But then we read the books and when it was time to sleep, the kids wanted Talk Time. 

Don't fret--I love it. I love talking to my kids. I love that there's no expectation of what I'll say or what they'll say (except on the thousandth occurrence of Zach asking to talk about Disneyland). I love hearing them ask me their burning--and sometimes inane--questions ("Does a pegasus always have a horn, too?"). And they frequently warm my heart with their observations as they view the world through kid-colored glasses. 

Which brings me to what happened tonight...

Romeo (our grey, gorgeous, adorable, sweet, tolerant boy cat) popped up on Zach's bed, as usual, and began to walk up Zach's body, looking for love. I used this as a prompt to start our brief Talk Time--it was late, and I knew the kids needed to sleep.

"Romeo will start us off," I began. "Romeo, what topic would you like to talk about?"

To our chagrin, he just purred. But Natalie understood him.

"ZACH! Romeo wants to talk about all the things he likes about Zach!" she squealed. "I'll start. I love that Zach is precious and adorable."

"I love how cuddly Zach is, how much he loves us and the cats, and how intelligent he is. You're such a smart boy, buddy." I caressed his cheek softly, as he beamed at us, basking in this onslaught of adoration. 

"Now it's Natalie's turn!" Zach shrilled excitedly.

"Okay, bud, what are your two favorite things about Natalie?" I inquired.

"Um...I love how she farts and poops!" At this, he dissolved into little boy giggles.

"Hmm...I think there are so many other things to love," I hedged. "Natalie," I looked into her soulfully-large and beautiful eyes, "I love your passion for life--how much you enjoy it--and I just love your brain. You're so smart. I love to hear the things you say." She grins with her whole being.

"Now it's Mama's turn!" she responds enthusiastically (totally proving my assertion about how much I love her passion for life and every little moment within it). "I love you, Mama. I love that you're my mama. And my best friend. And my sister!"

"Awww...thanks, baby! Hey Zach, what do you love about me?"

And without hesitation, Zach counters:

"I love that your face smells like...like...blueberry diarrhea!"

To which Natalie retorts, after significant inspection: "Yeah, and your nose holes are the right size and shape and have no boogers in them!"

And there you have it. Talk Time with Natalie and Zach. (And also my daily affirmation from here on out.)