And They Hired Me Again...

Current Giveaways:

Two Aquaphor Wonder Sets here
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E is for Ethics children's book here
Precious Moments here

***

I loved babysitting when I grew up. Heather Hermalink was my favorite babysitter ever, and I emulated everything I could about her. When she sold her broken down, ratty ten-speed bike at a garage sale, guess who bought it? She painted her finger nails? So did I. She wore a headband daily, well obviously I had to find a matching one, right? And she babysat. A lot.

She wasn't much older than me, maybe four or five years, and eventually she moved away, and I took over much of her babysitting - including that of the boy and girl who moved into her house. When I went to college, I discovered that there were parents living nearby who loved having responsible college students babysitting for them, and by my junior year, I had a family that I nannied for regularly - three days a week for several hours each day.

That family had the sweetest little baby boy. He was about three months old when I first met him, and he was one of those happy guys who was never bothered by anything. I got along well with his mom - who was new to the area and had a husband who traveled all week long - and she often stayed around just to chat with me.

I loved watching him. While his mom sometimes had the tv on in the background to keep her occupied, I never wanted anything to distract me from his cuteness (this may also be partially due to the fact that I was with him fewer than twenty hours a week rather than 24/7 with a traveling spouse). I watched him learn to eat from a spoon and delighted in finding new favorite foods for him. I remember his mom telling me that she was amazed by how much better he'd eat with me than he would for her. We went for long walks through the neighborhood whenever the weather was nice - even though it required me lugging his large stroller down two flights of stairs (welcome to apartment living in Chicago).

It wasn't all sweetness and light though.

I also had to change his diapers. And I swear that boy had the worst diapers of any child I'd ever met. Or maybe I was just a naive college kid who had yet to be initiated into the real stinky diaper society. Regardless, it still holds some unpleasant memories for me.

One day, his mom was in the kitchen, having not quite left the house yet - one wall away from the boy's bedroom. I was in his bedroom changing a particularly nasty diaper. He was on his gorgeous high honey oak changing station when I began the task of gingerly dismantling his explosion. As I lifted his Polo onesie (his auntie worked for Ralph Lauren - you can only imagine the wardrobe this boy had!), I saw that he had succeeded in blowing out the back of the diaper.

I sighed and turned to the wardrobe to get a change of clothes for him while my adorable, immobile charge lay admiring his pinky toes. I rifled through the wardrobe to find one of my favorite outfits, and I finally found it buried deep among other - probably equally adorable - outfits. I turned back to the boy just in time to see him roll over for the first time. He was rolling off the changing table that I'd neglected to strap him into because ... well, he didn't move and he was filthy and I didn't want to get the mess further smeared on him and his clothing. Neither of those is a good reason, but it is what it is.

I was across the room, a good six to seven feet away, as I saw his body tilt downward and towards the hardwood floor a good four feet below - remember, this was a very high changing table. I don't think I've ever moved so fast, before or since. Somehow - someone was looking out for him that day - I managed to lunge across the room and get my arms out before he landed on his beautiful, perfect head and split it open or worse. I caught that little boy inches from the ground as my knee thunked solidly into the floor. That hurt. It really hurt, but I was focused on ensuring the boy was ok.

Needless to say, he began crying. He didn't scream, as I don't think I ever heard him truly panic cry, but he was not a happy camper. He didn't like his adventure of plummeting off the changing table, and he probably picked up on some of my panic, not to mention the abrupt catching and halting of his fall. I quickly righted him into my arms and began soothing him to the best of my ability, hoping that his mom would have left before this incident.

I'm not that lucky, in case you're wondering. Within seconds, I heard her thundering into the bedroom to see if everything is ok - she'd heard a thunk (my knee) and her baby was crying. Note that her son was still filthy and partially exposed, as I'd already lifted his onesie up before discovering the need for a new outfit. I explained it away as me having gotten a new outfit that had fallen and my knee having hit the floor (true) as I bent down to pick it up with him still in my arms (not so true) and that he was just a little startled (mostly true).

She believed me and went on her way, shortly leaving the house to go about her day. As for me, I stood there for a full ten minutes, holding her precious baby and thanking whoever it was that kept him from brain damage. I didn't notice the stains on my shirt until after I'd gotten home, but I figured it was a small sacrifice for a worthy baby.

Nonetheless, I've never again left an infant unstrapped or in a position where he could roll or fall from a high place. I've never stepped away from a child placed on an elevated surface. And I don't think the mom ever learned the truth of what almost happened to her precious boy.

Yep, They're Teaching Your Kids, Too...

Current Giveaways:

Precious Moments here
9Lives Prize Pack here
Eucerin Gift Bags here

***

When I was growing up, I looked up to my teachers. I felt they could do no wrong. Long after I realized that my parents were only human, I still adored my teachers. I lapped up what they served without question. It wawsn't until later that I realized they, too, were imperfect.

I wrote yesterday about how I have a thing with grammar and discovered a book where someone went through and did the editing after printing - yep, a library book. It cracked me up.

It doesn't crack me up so much when it's a teacher making the same mistakes. I hold teachers to a higher standard since they're the ones who are imparting the rules to impressionable children who may forever make mistakes if they don't know a subject backwards and forwards themselves.

And I do see it on a disappointingly regular basis. The wee ones' teachers send home weekly newsletters to the parents notifying us of what has transpired in the past week and what homework the kids should focus on in the coming week.

They aren't that complicated, nor are they terribly complex. That doesn't stop the teachers from making basic mistakes that cause me to cringe over what the wee ones are and will be learning from them.

Some recent examples:

Its the first Friday of the month... - Ummm, no, "It's the first Friday" actually. It is. It's. It's is a contraction of the two words it is. Its is a possessive pronoun meaning belonging to it. It does not own the first Friday, nor can it.

Between the three classrooms, we have... - Seriously? You can only be between two things. You have to be "among" three or more things. Or amongst if you lived in Europe and still tend to use some of their words.

Try to do this each day and make sure... - Run-on sentence alert. Those are two separate commands, each standing on its own as an individual sentence if needed. Please add a comma after "day" to show where the two sentences split.

Their is a field trip... - Really? Their, there, and they're sound the same, but they are definitely not the most complex of the homynyms. They're is a contraction. Their means belonging to them. The field trip belongs to them?

We hope your enjoying... - Another one? Your and you're are just like its and it's. Go back to the rule my third grade teacher taught: "When using a word like you're, it's, and the like, say it without the contraction 'it is Sunday' or 'you are a girl' to see if you should use the contraction or not."

Sometimes I think it's a shame that I don't have the patience for homeschooling. It's appalling to me that teachers who are focusing on grammar for young students don't know the rules themselves. I remind myself that I'm not perfect either, and instead I'll be going over the wee ones' homework daily to ensure that they learn to use grammar properly. It's probably not a bad refresher for me anyway!

I'm Such A Rebel!

Current Giveaways:

Strawberry Shortcake DVDs here
9Lives Prize Pack here
Scotch-Brite Greener Clean Products here
Eucerin Gift Bags here

***

Both the wee ones' schools - as I'm sure the majority of yours - have a rule. If you child is sick, the child must stay home. If there is a fever over 99.5 degrees, diarrhea, vomting, etc - stay home. And that includes for 24 hours after symptoms subside.

I understand the rule completely. There have been plenty of times when I thought the wee ones were fine, only to have symptoms recur four or five hours later. I'd much rather ensure the wee ones are totally healthy before sending them back to school than push them and have them be sicker longer.

The parents who send their kids back to school because they gave their kids Tylenol and the fever went away? Oh they drive me nuts. Tylenol is a fever rdeucer not an illness remover, and those children are most likely still contagious and getting others sick when they're at school when they shouldn't be.

On a side note, I firmly believe that this rule should hold for teachers, too. I get that you have only so many sick days (although being married to a teacher, you have way more sick days than I ever did, and he'll likely retire with the maximum days banked) and don't want to miss out on teaching if at all possible, but I don't want you getting my wee ones sick either! Stay home if you're sick.

I write this as my husband - a teacher - is upstairs sleeping at 1:30pm. It's the second time in the last two or so weeks that he's been sick (shouldn't he be immune by now?), and he's miserable. He called a sub last night and didn't even go to the school to set up the classroom for the sub, which he usually does even when sick. When he had his cold two weeks ago though? He went into school just dosed up on DayQuil, much to my chagrin.

I haven't always followed this requirement though.

In fact, I can think of a specific instance when I sent Little Miss back to school about eight hours after her last incident of diarrhea. I had a good reason, though. I promise.

Little Miss has had a huge issue with dairy, and we've kept her clean for almost two years. Or ... nearly clean. Her teachers in preschool a year and a half ago gave her cheddar Goldfish, not realizing that there would be dairy in them. I'm not sure if the word "cheddar" or "cheese" was more confusing, or if they simply neglected to look at the box with the big milk in bold letters just under the ingredient list showing allergens.

Needless to say, I got a call from the nurse shortly thereafter saying that I needed to come pick up Little Miss, as she'd had two nasty bouts of diarrhea already. I found out about the Goldfish the next day.

That was on a Monday. On Wednesday, she was still suffering, my poor girl. She'd missed three days of school because her teachers had given her a food she was not allowed to have - though her allergy was well-known and documented in the classroom. I was not a happy camper.

Once she made it through Wednesday overnight unscathed and it had been almost three full days, I knew she was fine. She'd managed to get to the bathroom in time the entire previous day, and her classroom had a bathroom in it. There was no way she was contagious (much as I wished at that time that she could pass her dairy allergy along to the teacher who gave her the Goldfish), as she hadn't been "sick" before that anyway.

So.... Thursday morning, I sent her off to school. Luckily, she had no issues, and I received an apology from the teacher. But technically, she shouldn't have returned to school probably until the following Monday, as she was still a little ummmmmm off on Thursday. Shhhhh, don't tell that I broke the rule there (and no, if it was an actual contagious illness, I wouldn't have done it).

My only hope right now is that we contain the current illness to the "sick room" (read: guest bedroom) where my husband is currently quarrantined. I'm already tired of being the nurses on call! (And I mean that in the nicest possible way....)

Wish us luck. I'm off to go down some more Vitamin D!

Now *This* Is A Picture

Have a prereader? Enter to win the My First Bob Books Alphabet set here.

Giveaway for e.l.f. cosmetics here.

***

As a mom, I try to document some of the more memorable experiences that the wee ones have had - from Mister Man's first lost tooth to the mosquito bite that swelled shut Little Miss's eye to fun at local festivals and more.

I don't capture all the moments I wish I had - the first steps, pictures at every month in the same place for the first year or two - but I've got plenty of fun ones and ones that I hope they'll treasure as they get older.

No, it's not taking the pictures that's my problem. It's doing anything with them (posting on the blog aside) that is the problem. I eventuallly download them from my camera to the computer, but actually printing them. I haven't printed a photo since a 2001 trip my husband and I took to Seattle.

Ummmm yes, that's two plus years before Mister Man was born.

At this point, I've taken some really neat photos of the wee ones that should be proudly displayed throughout the house. I should be buying stock in framing companies - or learning to make my own frames - after I've lovingly placed the remaining photos into year by year photo albums, each noted with the date and the subjects of the pictures.

Oh, I can't even type this with a straight face.

I'm so intimidated by the sheer number of unprinted pictures I have at this point, I am paralyzed into intertia. It's one of my goals for this school year to get caught up. Nearly ten years is a lot of photos, so my goal is to take it month by month - September to do up to 2002, October to Mister Man's birth, etc.

In the meantime, pretend like this picture is in a beautiful frame in our family room. Humor me.

Isn't he cute?

And man, do I feel like a bad mom now.

That's The Best Excuse Yet

Are you a fan of sweet? Like kettle corn perhaps? Go enter here!

***

Growing up, my mom wanted my sister and I to play an instrument. She had played the piano to the point of also playing the organ in her local church (that's really good; an organ requires something like six hands and four feet to play).

Fortunately, she didn't start on this kick until I was in elementary school and could sort of show an opinion. Sort of.

So when fourth grade rolled around, which was our first opportunity to play in the band, I decided I was ready to go for it. My mom encouraged me to sign up for the band and to choose an instrument. I debated the trumpet and other instruments. Finally, I decided on the drums.

After all - with the drums, you don't actually have to read music, just bang on them. All was well with the world. Until I actually got my drum set. I think it weighed more than I did. And remember, I was in the fourth grade at the time. I also realized shortly thereafter that while I didn't have to read the notes, I still had to hit the drum in a certain fashion at the exact right time. And that certain fashion got more and more complex.

Fine motor skills? Apparently not always my strong suit. You don't want to see me dance, either.

Fortunately, the band was only a six month commitment, and my mom happily let me return the drums at that point.

But she still wasn't satisfied. She wanted me to learn to play music, just like she did. And having given up on my choice of instrument, I now started taking piano lessons.

Go fig. Reading music isn't actually all that hard. I enjoyed it and breezed through the first couple piano books. Then it got harder, and I had to buckle down and practice. After two plus years, I played ok but I was never going to be great at it. In my mind, I'd sort of learned all I wanted to.


Fortunately, my piano teacher was multi-talented. While my sister continued her piano lessons, I got to start taking flute lessons. Ahh the beautiful flute.

Ummm ewwww. The spit filled flute. Have I mentioned that I don't exactly do puke? Well, spit is also kind of right up there for me. It's giving me the shivers just thinking about cleaning out the inside of a used flute. With the same little rag over and over again.

Needless to say, I realized fairly early on that the flute was just not meant for me. But not liking the spit wasn't something my mom was willing to accept as a reason to quit.

*sigh*

Again, the more I played, the more complex the music got, and the more fingers I had to use on the keys - at the same time. And there, there came the problem.

Yep, freaky-deaky me is double jointed. In both hands. In all fingers. Especially my pinkies. In fact, after having just taken that picture, my pinky - having remembered now what it's like to be in that double jointed position - keeps wanting to go back there and get stuck.

Picture playing the flue. Picture holding your fingers out nearly straight but bent at the tip in anticipation of playing a note. Now picture being double jointed and being unable to complete the bend of a finger to play said note because said finger is locked into a double jointed position.

Yeah... I lasted at the flute for less than six months. My mom relented when she saw that I was unable to play some fairly important notes after the first few minutes of practice. Fortunately, I was a generally good kid, so my mom trusted me when I said I wasn't faking it (I truly wasn't).

Bet you never heard that excuse before, huh?

This Suddenly Became A Busy Summer!

Psssst! I'm still giving away a $25 Wal-Mart gift card here.

***

Mister Man came home from school the other day with a scrapbook from his kindergarten year. It's precious (and I have proof that he grew! Three inches taller from August until May recorded by his teachers. Ha!), and there were so many neat things that he wrote.

Of course, he also wanted to make changes to it. His favorite color is no longer pink. He now prefers purple (that's my boy!). And his favorite tv show is no longer "Beyond Time In Space" (one he invented himself).

But the coolest thing I thought was a wish list for the summer. He wrote down the three things he most wants to do this summer, and lucky him - he's going to get to do them all.

It got me thinking, however. What do *I* want to do this summer?

And since I can't stop myself with three, here are thirty. Shall I check back on my progress later?

30. Get my pile of magazines to read down from their current seven plus inch pile. If that means throwing some out, I'll find the fortitude.
29. Have a date night with my husband.
28. Get an "exclusive" invite to just one party at BlogHer for a brand I'm passionate about (what, you don't think I'm cool enough? Thanks a lot!)
27. Sign myself up for the summer reading club at the library - and read the minimum 12 books.
26. Update all the binders for the nine (yes, NINE) jobs I had on the PTO this year.
25. Pass off said binders to the new PTO members who will be henceforth responsible.
24. Head out to Old West Town and do some gold panning with the wee ones (and friends).
23. Clean up all my old horse tack and bring it to the second hand horse shop (unless one of you is horsey and wants some really nice stuff cheap - Crosby 15 1/2" saddle, show bridles, bits galore, show boots, a tack trunk, etc).
22. *sniff* Get rid of the last of the baby gear - double strollers, wagon, tricycles, etc.
21. Get 100% caught up on my email - defined as fewer than 50 unread emails in my inbox.
20. Fix the basement from our ejector pump fail last weekend - new carpet, drywall, bifold doors, and all.
19. Move the playroom toys into the newly fixed basement - and sort out those that are no longer played with first.
18. Purchase desks and whiteboard paint to create a homework room in the former playroom.
17. Get caught up on all my paperwork filing.
16. Dejunk the office to the point where I can donate the "I can hold anything" entertainment center that does not belong there.
15. Fully weed the landscaping and get new mulch down (this counts as completed even if I hire someone to do it).
14. Rearrange the storage facilities in the garage such that my husband's car will fit.
13. Sign Little Miss up for gymnastics (which technically starts on Monday, I believe. Oops).
12. Complete the C25K training (Week 4 Day 3 tomorrow!) - even if it's after the 5K that I'm signed up for at BlogHer.
11. Create a more regular bedtime that results in a less tired me.
10. Find time to use the massage gift card my husband gave me for Mother's Day.
9. Have at least five organized playdates for each of the wee ones.
8. Find an outlet for my need for a creative and mental challenge now that I've quit work and the wee ones will both be in school full time this fall. (Suggestions?)
7. Sell or donate all the outgrown clothes of the wee ones. (anyone need girl sizes 2-4T or boys' 3-6T?)
6. Buy a new laptop to replace the one I have to turn in for work - and be happy with my choice. (ummm, again - suggestions?)
5. Get my car detailed.
4. Have a physical.
3. Have an island in the kitchen (and an end table in the family room and a desk in the office and a nightstand in my room and a nook in my car) that is not home to clutter.
2. Set realistic deadlines for projects - and ensure I make each of them.

And the number 1 goal I have for this summer?

1. Enjoy my time with the wee ones - and ensuring they're enjoying their summer, as well!

Yikes. I feel like I need to print out this list now and keep it handy. Did I miss anything?

And what about you - what are you up to this summer?

Well That Didn't Work As Planned

Another giveaway reminder:
A week of summer day camp for ages 5-12 here
A fun Shrek-tacular prize pack here
A $25 Wal-Mart gift card here.

***

Little Miss is my challenge child. She's headstrong and spirited, and I don't have to worry about her ever being bullied. I just pray that she uses her powers for the side of good - she's cute and she knows it, and she knows how to take advantage of it (and has for years).

As Mommmy, I get to be the bad guy.

Little Miss, you need to drink your milk.

Little Miss, you must take all your vitamin.

Little Miss, you have to take a nap, which means no getting out of your room and no peeps.

Little Miss, you may not play with that right now.

And the list goes on. And on.

This morning, we were having a discussion about drinking her milk (which also contains her liquid vitamins, per her request). She didn't feel like drinking it, and I explained that she had no option before her bus came.

After doing some cajoling, I explained what would happen if she didn't drink her milk. She'd lose her light saber (yes, I have the only four year old girl who knows more than the average Star Wars geek about the movie - and no she hasn't seen it).

Go ahead, Mommy, just take the light saber now. It's ok.

Ummm yeah.

So we tried the no toys in the room trick.

You can take all my stuffed animals, Mommy. I don't need them.

Uhhhhhhhhhh.

As I was cleaning up while she ate breakfast, I picked up the artwork she'd brought home the day before and accidentally mixed it in with the recycling.

Mommy, MOMMY! What are you doing? she shrieked.

Ah-ha.

Mommy, I need my ducky and my pony back. Mommy, don't throw them away!

And thus her milk was drunk this morning. And I retrieved her treasures. For whatever reason, no inducement to drink interested her this morning.

Then I realized it was just a crabby and temperamental day for her.

On our way home from picking up Mister Man at school, all the carpool kids shared a snack of Triscuits and grapes. Little Miss had asked only for a few Triscuits and eaten them (somewhat) happily. After we dropped off the carpool buddies, Little Miss discovered that the grapes were all gone. The grapes that she'd shown zero interest in for the previous twenty-five minutes.

And the screaming began. And the giant crocodile tears flew down her face. Mister Man is trying to explain that he didn't know she wanted any and apologize for eaten them all, but she wanted none of it. I tried to explain to her that she was being unreasonable and needed to stop screaming since it was still raining hard enough that it was difficult to see.

No dice.

Little Miss, I need you to stop screaming in the car. Mister Man didn't know you wanted any grapes, and there's nothing we can do about it now. If you can't stop screaming, I'm going to ask you to get out and walk home once we get into the neighborhood. I can't drive with this screaming.

She paused for a moment and looked at me. I heaved a sigh of relief.

So are you going to stop crying then, Peanut?

Shrieks again filled my car, and I cringed. Mister Man placed his hands over his ears and tried to drown out her noise.

As we got closer to our neighborhood, she got quieter and quieter. I turned into our neighborhood with blessed silence in my car. I thanked her for ceasing her screaming so that we could get home all together.

I could almost see the wheels turning in her brain. She took a deep breath.

And screamed.

So I did what any mom with a massive headache (and amazingly cleared up skies with no more rain) would do. I pulled over and asked her if she really wanted to run home.

That's about the point where I learned she can now unbuckle her own carseat. I shrugged, and she climbed out.

She ran the next three blocks to our house, while Mister Man and I crawled along the street in my car keeping pace with her (and no, we didn't have to worry about crossing streets).

Little Miss arrived home breathless but giggling madly. My happy little girl was back, and she loved her adventure of running home. Go fig. Actually, as much as she enjoyed her exercise and independence, I might have accidentally created a new monster.

I need to find yet another new form of timeout, I think.

But I Didn't *MEAN* To

With Mister Man, it's always an adventure at the end of the school day. We hope and pray that he's had a green day (no trouble - or only a single warning) and not a yellow or red day where he's had more difficulty following the rules and doing what he's supposed to do.

Unfortunately the autism diagnosis only makes his impulsivity and other behavioral problems more understandable. We've yet to find the solution to actually stop them. The good news is that the sticker chart has helped provide incentives to him to follow the rules, and we've started to see patterns (specials like music and gym are more of a challenge).

We still have many days where he comes home having been put at a separate table for group work in Language Arts because he was drawing on someone else's paper or running in the halls or laying on his chair instead of sitting.

When we have those days, we always talk about them - trying to create the social stories that will help him understand how to better handle the situation in the future. Some of them work, and sometimes the behavior repeats itself.

Yesterday, Mister Man came home with a yellow day. He was having difficulty listening in one class, and then he put his hands on a classmate's neck. Obviously, the hands around someone's neck is alarming. Behavior like that - especially for someone who doesn't always know where the line is and when to stop a game (another function of his autism).

I showed him the sheet of paper and asked him to tell me about the situation. I've found that having him walk me through exactly what happened and what he was thinking is far more effective in trying to work through the issue than me lecturing or getting upset at him.

He was upset about having gotten in trouble. But, Mom! I was just trying to give H a hug. I wasn't hurting him at all. Mrs. C saw it and gave me a yellow.

When trying to get further clarification from him, apparently he likes this little boy and wants to be an even better friend. And so in line to go inside after recess he tried to give him a hug. The teacher assistant saw only the arms up around the other child's neck. Mister Man is not one to question authority (very rules focused - another autism trait, ironically) and so didn't try to explain his thought process.

*sigh*

Should he have gotten a yellow for that? Probably not.

Should he have been doing that to begin with? Probably not.

I explained to him why Mrs. C thought he was doing something he shouldn't have been. We discussed how school isn't probably the place to hug people, anyway. BUT if he really wanted to hug someone, he needed to first let the adult in charge know his intentions so that she could alert him if there were to be a problem. Second he needed to ask his friend if it was ok if he got a hug.

He seemed to understand - or at least he claimed he did. It's amazing to me that Mister Man always has a thought process and logic behind what he's doing. Whether it's the logic that most people would use and whether he went to what would be considered a logic conclusion may be up for debate, but at least I'm starting to figure out how his head is working.

Fingers crossed that tomorrow is another green. After all, he has another Bakugun to earn from good behavior just waiting in the closet!

What Ever Happened To Leslie?

Friends are such important people in your lives. They come and they go - sometimes - but they all have a purpose in our lives and teach us various things about ourselves or others.

When I moved to Minnesota before fourth grade began, my family didn't have a house, so we stayed in a hotel until we found one (ha - good luck finding that relo package now). Being that Minnesota isn't exactly a tourist destination, living in a hotel after awhile becomes ... boring.

Finally a girl arrived at the hotel pool one day who appeared to be around my age - a first, I believe. We stayed and played together for a few days and became fast friends. She had also just moved to Minnesota, and her parents were just waiting for their house to be ready to move in. She was only there a week or so, but I really missed her when she left.

Fast forward to me moving into a house - a week before school - and getting signed up for that new school. It was a small Catholic school, and I knew no one. The first day of school was tough, as the cliques had already formed by fourth grade, and it was not easy to break in.

On the fifth day of school, I rounded the corner after getting a drink of water and spotted Leslie (my friend from the pool) coming around the corner the other direction. Imagine my shock - and joy - at seeing her again. Apparently she had been on the wait list for my fourth grade classroom (speculation is that my second grade sister got me in ahead of her) but had finally made it, so she'd just registered that morning.

You have no idea how wonderful it felt to have a rock like that. My life in school was instantly so much easier. We were best friends, and we spent so much time at each others' houses. She was an only child, so she had her own bedroom plus a playroom for her cool things like her dollhouse and unfolding chair into a bed. She had a Scottie, which I thought was the coolest thing ever. Plus, she had a really great singing voice, and her parents talked my parents into letting me join the children's choir. While I was never a soloist - she sang the Tin Man verse of "If I Only Had A Heart" - I enjoyed my experience, and it's probably a big reason why I enjoy singing today.

We were pretty much inseparable through fourth, fifth and sixth grades. In the seventh grade, there were finally two sections of classes, so I didn't see her as much, although we rehearsed The Sound of Music together frequently - she was Maria, of course, but I was Liesl (hey, it's a small school, apparently you didn't need that much talent).

But come the summer after seventh grade, I decided that I wanted to go to a public school for the increased opportunities - from larger classes to more electives. It was decided just before the start of school, and with my typical preteen selfishness, I threw myself into my new world. Finally, I was in a school with the other kids from my neighborhood. I wasn't the odd kid out, and I loved it.

I never saw Leslie after that. By the time I was a little older and realized how much I missed her friendship, I found out that her family had moved back to Washington state (she had come from Spokane). I did find out that she went to St. Mary's College by Notre Dame for college somehow, but I've never been able to track her down to apologize for disappearing and to try to renew our friendship.

I have no idea where she is today, but I wish I did. She made my fourth school in five years (due to moving) a pleasant experience for me, and I would have been lost without her. Although I made other friends at that school - including many I now keep in touch with via Facebook - hers is one of the two friendships from that period in my life that I most regret letting slip away.

So hey - if anyone knows where I can find Leslie Smith Field, have her shoot me an email, would ya? Ditto with Katie McCall while you're at it.

What friends do you most regret losing touch with?

My Mama Didn't Teach Me

As a parent now, I recognize that my mom worked hard to teach me the things she felt were important for me to know about life. I do the same with the wee ones, and I can only hope that my lessons will allow them to develop into happy and confident people.

However, some of the things I learned along the way - unintentionally or not - I've since learned aren't the secret to a happy life. I've redefined a few things, and it seems to be working for me.

Without further ado - the top 10 rules I've unlearned:

10) Sitting too close to the tv won't harm my vision. Granted, I'm not one to sit three feet away anyway, but this is no longer something that gives me heart palpitations for fear that I'm causing irrepable damage.

9) It's never too late to say you're sorry. Growing up, we avoided conflict. It was much easier to pretend something didn't happen rather than deal with it and move on. I'm finding it far more effective to deal with the issues and have a clean slate.

7) Planning doesn't solve everything. My mom is the most organized person ever. She is the reason I had my calendar color coded based on activity in college to keep everything straight. But now? Well, when I have plans with eleven women to go to dinner tomorrow night, I expect that several will drop out. The fact that I'm down to six now and may not be able to reduce the reservation by that much? Eh. I'll survive. There's only so much I can control after all.

6) The phrase you can never be too rich or too thin is bunk. I can't tell you how often my mom repeated that to me, and wow, looking at it now is that unhealthy. But hey, I'm not thin and I'm not rich, but I'm pretty darn happy with my life thankyouverymuch.

5) Sometimes, it's ok to sit down. My mom was in perpetual motion. She had bridge or was driving us to or from an activity or was taking a neighbor somewhere and the like. While I do sometimes follow the same route of overcommitting myself, I'm learning to say no and to take some time to relax just for me. And I think that is making me a happier mom and person.

4) You don't have to be the nicest. Back to the theme of saying no, my mom volunteered for everything. She sought out situations to help people - people she knew, friends of friends, and more. She currently drives her 97 year old bridge partner to bridge each week. She got suckered into watching her neighbor's dog almost every weekend for three yearrs although they rarely even said thank you. Me? I'm ok if not everyone likes me. Having the most friends doesn't win you the race in the end. That isn't to say that I'm (purposefully) rude or mean to people, but I set limits. And if people don't like them, deal.

3) Falling down is ok. My mom still freaks when one of the wee ones falls or otherwise gets hurt. She hovers, and it freaks them out. I'm busy trying to foster independence and a sense of competence. My rule right now is "no blood, no foul" and it's working. I think.

2) Sometimes, you need to take a step back ignore the stereotypes. If I did, I wouldn't have sent the wee ones to the excellent preschool I did. I wouldn't have some of the wonderful friends I do now. My mom is way different from her parents, but there are still prejudices she holds that worry me. Just this afternoon she wanted to know if they did background checks on bus drivers - the first time she's asked this in four years of wee ones riding the bus - because I told her that Little Miss had a new bus driver, a younger somewhat heavy-set Hispanic man. Apparently this is grounds for concern. Well, for her anyway. (And yes, everyone who comes into contact with children in district goes through a thorough background check.)

And the number one thing I unlearned from my mom?

Perfect is not the goal. Sometimes good enough really is. Striving for perfection leads to a fear of failure and paralysis. And since you can never accomplish it, there's never the true joy of satisfaction. It isn't that I do thing halfway, but I set a point where I'm satified and can quit.

I can only imagine the things the wee ones will be unlearning from me!

Hopefully it won't have anything to do with giveaways - Biogaia was extended until tomorrow, e.l.f. cosmetics runs until Saturday, and Energizer Smart Charger is open until May 4.

She Was Special From The Beginning

While at my lovely pretending we don't have children and enjoying some time by ourselves while we chat and drink wine once a month babysitting co-op meeting (ironic, no?) meeting last night, the topic of baby books came up. I was relieved to hear that I wasn't the only one who didn't have a completely up to date baby book, including a calendar marking every major milestone.

Me?

I've got a book.

I think I have a few things written in Mister Man's. Little Miss's is a blank book.

I've saved the strands of hair from the first haircut and the hospital bracelets. I've taken the pictures - although I've yet to print anything since 2001 (two years before Mister Man made his appearance), but yay to Costco for having unlimited $0.09 prints right now. Ambition. It's a scary thing.

I don't have the dates of any milestones written down, nor do I have their specifics recorded. That doesn't mean that I don't remember the important ones very vividly.

I know Mister Man's first words were a screamed, "nonononononononono" when he was in the hospital for rotovirus and was finally feeling well enough to recognize that he didn't want the nurse messing with him anymore.

I know that Little Miss was crawling at six months and running at nine months. I may not know the exact dates, but really - who's going to know if I fudge them a little bit.

Some memories we have on video, which makes pinning them down even easier. We recorded Mister Man's first (disastrous) haircut. It was the only one that we ever did at home, and my husband and clippers are forever banned from being in the same room.

But the one that most sticks out in my memory is Little Miss's first words. She never babbled, as she couldn't hear due to her constant ear infections as an infant. We finally had tubes put in October of 2006 when she was 14 months old. From there, she was finally able to hear, and she quickly began speaking.

I remember her looking up at my while I was changing her diaper. She was laying on the lilac changing table cover, and her skinny little chicken legs were waving in the air, finally free of her sleep sack.

She looked up at me with her eyes far wiser than her years, and her legs suddenly stopped moving. She stilled, which is something that she never did - nor does she now. She slowly reached up towards my face, an intent look upon her face.

Eye-bow, she said, as she gently stroked my right eyebrow. Eye-bow.

As proud as I was, I couldn't help but giggle a little. Eyebrow? Really, eyebrow was my daughter's first word? I mean, I get the "no" from Mister Man. I totally do, and I'm ok with it not being mama or dada, but eyebrow? Apparently we reviewed our body parts a little too frequently with her.

Ahhh, my little contrarian. Some things never change.

Simplifying English

Quick reminder of three giveaways here, here, and here.

***

Little Miss is in the process of learning to read. Sort of. She really really wants to read, mostly because she sees everyone around her reading. This is the girl who insists she can do everything anyone else can - and do it better.

Reading? Not so much her forte right now.

And I can understand why. Fortunately, I don't remember the painful process I went through in learning to read, but watching Little Miss struggle and try to figure it out, I'm really realizing how difficult the English language is to read.

I am grateful that we don't speak Mandarin or Japanese or another language where the characters add a whole different level of complexity to reading and writing, but English doesn't exactly make it easy. French, on the other hand, is pretty straightforward. If you see an "e" with an accent aigu, you know exactly how to say it each and every time. It just doesn't change.

English? Pronounce "lead" for me - nope, I mean the other one, "lead." How about "project" - or is it "project?" Maybe it's for, four, or fore? To, too, or two? Flower or flour? Where or wear? You get my point.

When I read historical fiction, there are some authors that go with more "genuine" spelling for the era in correspondance, and you can see how words were more often spelled exactly as they sound. Letters were more consistent in how they were pronounced.

But we have lost our way somehow. We've made English into a complex and confusing langauge (I won't even get into grammar - just sticking with reading, since that's our issue right now; I'll revisit grammar when Mister Man is struggling in Language Arts in second grade).

I propose that we make some changes.

First of all, there will be a new letter for the "oo" sound. And by "oo" sound, I mean the one for "boo" and not for "brook." Brook may continue to use the "oo" combination.

G will only be pronounced like the "g" in grandma. There is no more "j" sound allowed with G - all those move to be spelled with a J.

And for those who need to spell Hebrew words, there will be a new letter for the "ch" sound in Challah and Chanukah. I haven't decided yet what it looks like, but there is definitely a need for a new letter, potentially a c with a fun accent.

Then we have the "ght" sound. That will be replaced on a go-forward basis with simply a T. Right, might, thought, bought, and so forth become easier to read and to write. Ta-da!

Little Miss is also struggling with the "th" sound. Is it "the" or "with?" We will bring in a new form for the hard sounding "th" - an accent over the h perhaps? The standard soft sounding "th" can remain as is.

Oh, and the "sh" sound in sure and other words? Yep, it goes back to being spelled shure, just like I (and about four other people) spelled in in the fifth grade spelling bee. In case you're wondering, I'm a visual not an auditory learner.

The letter S will be corrected in many words to have only the ssss sound like snake. Z will replace the Ss currently in words like busy.

Oddly, I'm ok with double letters and silent Es. I'm not quite sure why I have this double standard, but it's there.

In thee end, are language will look like this. If wee are to bizy riting, or thout we were, to consentrate on how to brake apart the correct spellingz, we will still bee able to rite and not fite our teecherz.

Or maybe not. Just writing that paragraph hurt my brain. Apparently Little Miss is just going to have to figure it out, slowly but surely. Perhaps it's a good life lesson in dealing with frustration and failure, learning to persevere and finally succeed.

I Should Have Been More Clear...

Becoming a parent isn't always what we signed up for or what we expected. There's something new nearly every day, and so much of it is unexpected - some unwanted and some neat surprises.

No one ever asked me if it was ok to wake up at 6am. However, the wee ones periodically decide that they've slept enough and it's time to have romper room in one bedroom or the other - that is very audible in my bedroom where I have a deep and desperate need for sleep at that hour. I always heard about how life with newborns was hard because they didn't sleep through the night. I was prepared for that. I wasn't prepared to still not get full nights of sleep when they were this far out of diapers.

No one ever asked me if I wanted to ingest chemicals day in and day out. However, Mister Man went shopping with me today to buy a few simple things: crackers, applesauce, bread, and yogurt among them. Mister Man was excited to spot the bread first, but I told him we couldn't buy it at this store and had to go elsewhere because it all contained high fructose corn syrup (have you seen the studies showing that it contains mercury, among other health issues?). He didn't believe me, but sadly he looked at ingredient list after ingredient list and replaced the brands. We did find wheat crackers with four ingredients that we could buy. And we found some plain yogurt to which we'll add our own flavorings that avoided nasty chemicals we don't eat, but we bought no applesauce today because it all contained HFCS.

No one ever asked me if I wanted grey hair. And I don't. I really don't. Grey hair on women just makes them look older. It's not fair that we don't get to look distinguished. And my mom makes fun of me. And that nice little coloring job I did to make the bright red hair (that has since faded, thankfully) the other week? Yeah, those four silver hairs in the crown of my head decided that they liked their color and didn't absorb the dye. Give me another couple years, and you can probably just call me Granny.

No one ever asked me how much garbage I throw away on a given week. Our garbage company provides me with a 96 gallon garbage tote, however. The recycling bin is a mere 64 gallons. In general, we have a single garbage bag (and occasionally two) that goes into that massive bin each week. Our recycling bin overflows on a semi-regular basis - partly due to the large cardboard boxes from Costco that we use as grocery bags. I have to wonder how many people really throw away 96 gallons of trash each week, and then my head hurts when I start to picture the full landfills.

No one ever asked me if I wanted a kid who was different from all the others. But yet here I have Mister Man who is the sweetest little guy you could ever ask for. He still doesn't have a diagnosis, but this is likely short term, as tomorrow is day two of our nine hours of testing and evaluation by a developmental pediatrician. From the two hour meeting with me this afternoon, it sounds like they suspect at least some level of autism, which is no great shock for me. My heart breaks when I see him struggle with things that should be so easy for him - socially and behaviorally. But then I see how protective he is of those he cares about, and I know that I wouldn't trade being a special needs mom for anything.

No one ever asked me if I wanted to share in their lottery winnings. And I'm still trying to figure out why that is....

What question have people neglected to ask you?



PS If you know a little girl, you need to come enter this contest. Even I'm having fun playing with the doll we got. So don't forget about the Hot Locks giveaway!

I'm Becoming Me Again

Today: ran, read, wrote.

Frequently doing my choice,

at home, loving it.

The wee ones are fed.

We play and have fun and work,

getting used to Mom.

Commitments are met;

my inbox unread are down.

Piles are decreasing.

I went out to eat.

I feel like I have friends again.

Next: Mani pedi?

I'm into Week Two of my leave of absence, and I can't believe how quickly the time is flying by. While I'm not getting nearly done what I thought I would (outgrown clothes are still unsorted, I haven't packed the eggs for the Easter Egg Hunt, and my filing hasn't been touched), I've been cooking dinner each night and playing with the wee ones, getting to the gym, feeling mostly caught up with the PTO, and I think I'm less crabby.

May 24 is coming up really quickly. Here's hoping I'm ready for it!

Take A Step Back

Mom, what's in your bag there? I sighed as I could see into my mom's purse. No wallet or lipstick there.

What? I could see her pulling her innocent face.

What is in the bag that you're opening up right now? By now I could see that the only thing in her purse was food.

Just a couple of pretzels and some grapes, why? She started to reach inside to offer them to the wee ones, who had just eaten lunch not twenty minutes before.

Put them away, Mom, I cringed some, knowing that this was going to not be fun.

What? They're just some healthy snacks. Wee ones, don't you want some yummy grapes?

Mom, please put them away. They just ate. The smile was falling from my face.

What? Grapes are healthy. Wee ones, your mommy doesn't want you to eat these nice healthy grapes. Don't you want some yummy juicy grapes? My mom dangled the aforementioned grapes in front of Little Miss's face.

Mom. Put. Them. Away. I could feel myself starting to growl.

We'd had this conversation over and over again, but it was always the same. My mom has an odd compunction to feed people, constantly. She is always giving the wee ones snacks of all kinds, albeit relatively healthy snacks. It didn't matter if the wee ones were hungry or not, my mom would offer them food. It got to the point that they entered my parents car and started to reach for food like Pavlov's overstuffed dog.

The odd part of this is the my mom doesn't even like food. She doesn't eat much, and she's always been thin as a rail. However, she's also always pushed food on me and the wee ones. It took a long time for me to recognize what hunger actually meant and to be able to listen to my body.

I remember being a kid and ordering three cheeseburgers from McDonalds, plus fries and a strawberry shake. The thought of eating that much food now makes me sick to my stomach, but somehow my parents never thought that they should possibly reign this in. I'm lucky that I was never heavier as a child than what I was, although I was never a string bean.

I refuse to have my children fall prey to the same challenge. When they're hungry, they can ask for food, and I am happy to give it to them. When I sense that Mister Man's blood sugar is getting low and his moods are getting wonky, I'll have him sit down and eat an orange or something along those lines. A snack every time we take a break in the day? Not so much.

What's wrong with a little snack?

Mom, they just ate lunch. If they're hungry, they can ask for a snack, but trust me, they're fine. Put away the food. They don't need it.

Why are you being this way?

Mom, you seem to have forgotten whose children they are. They're my children, not yours. Uh-oh, I'm on a roll now, and I was just hoping that no more came out than I intended and that I wouldn't regret this. I've been pushing this conversation off for a long time, silencing the irritation I felt every time my mom did something that ran counter to how I was raising my children, counter to the requests that I'd made of my parents. They don't need food, they don't need you to shove food in their face every time they see you. It isn't healthy for them. They need to learn to listen to when their tummies are telling them they're hungry. Until you hear it from them, close the bag, and put the food away.

There was stunned silence in the car. My dad took me to task for the tone I used, but at that point, I was done. I'd requested nicely time after time, and no one was listening. With the amount of time my parents spend with the wee ones, it was an issue and not the typical different rules when Grandma and Grandpa see their grandchildren.

See, I'm not always a very nice person, am I? And here you thought I was just full of sweetness and light!

I Don't Even Really Need One, But Now I Have Two

There are definitely some things that put me on the fringe.

I took forever to get a cell phone. I remember working on consulting in the late 90s and going out to lunch with the guys on my team. All five of them would put their (identical) cell phones on the table when we got to lunch. There was a blank spot near me. And I was totally cool with it. I finally got one in maybe 2001 or 2002.

And now we have no landline and haven't for the last seven years. I'm funny that way. And umm no, I don't know how to text, and I have a phone that pretty much lets me call people. I will admit to beginning to lust after some of the cool phones with cool applications, but ... not yet.

When I graduated college and moved on my own, I purchased the usual staples of a new housekeeper. I had a vacuum, a kitchen table, a sofa, a bed, and the other usual odds and ends. But I had no microwave.

I cook. I like to cook. And at the time I had a tiny galley kitchen that had no spare counter space. Even after moving to places with larger kitchens - and yes, that became a criteria), I just didn't see the need for one. I don't like the texture of most reheated food, so I tend to eat leftovers cold. I don't eat microwave popcorn or microwaved ummm meals. Why bother?

Several years ago, a friend of mine offered to teach me how to make soap. I'd seen some of what she'd done with the cool colors and shapes and scents and such, and I was thrilled to learn. Can you tell that this was back when I was single and childless and had this thing I think is called free time?

As she was on her way (she fortunately lived very far away), she called to confirm that I had everything she needed to teach me to make soap. I did, and began to get out the measuring spoons, the liquid measuring cup, spatulae, and molds. I placed the newspaper on the kitchen table and set up drying racks.

Once she arrived, she unpacked the supplies she'd brought, broke apart the soap into the liquid measuring cup and walked into my kitchen. She walked around and around again. I watched her in silence.

"Ummm, where's your microwave, Michelle?" she asked.

"Uhhh, microwave?"

"Yeah, I need a microwave to melt the soap."

Apparently no, we couldn't just do it over the stove because she had no idea how to do that without ruining the soap. Soooo we packed up everything and headed to Target where I bought a microwave (the cheapest one I could find - this hobby was quickly becoming more expensive than I'd anticipated).

Once unpacked and plugged in, the microwave did its job melting the soap, and we got down to work. I learned how to know when the soap was melted, how and when to add dyes and scents, as well as the fun glitters and other powders available. We made soap to keep us clean for a year.

It was really easy, and we had a blast.

I debated returning my microwave after that, knowing that I could easily figure out how to do the soap on the stove, but I couldn't bring myself to return something that had been used, however briefly.

I haven't made soap since shortly after Mister Man was born, but I do still have most of the supplies needed, and someday I'll teach the wee ones. I see this as a great birthday party one day for Little Miss.

And that microwave? Well, it's down in the basement in the room that I will someday make my craft room waiting to melt some more soap. I can't quite bring myself to get rid of it.

That doesn't mean that we're completely without a microwave though. When we moved into our house, although the previous owners stripped all the cable and stereo wires from inside the walls (sadly, I'm not joking) they left behind a microwave that nicely matches the kitchen. It keeps great time on my kitchen counter now. Plus, it's a great shelf for those things that I just can't quite find a home for. With cabinets only a few inches above it, it hides the mess nicely.

Everything Pudding

Ok, so how many of you read the Betsy, Tacy and Tibb books growing up? (And how many of you plan to find the books for your daughters to read?) They were some of my favorite books in late elementary school. And yes, the inspired me.

How, you might ask?

Wellll if you haven't noticed, I sorta like to cook. And I may or may not have mentioned that my mom's idea of cooking meant boiling to death an entire box of pasta then putting it in the fridge in a Ziploc for us to pick at as we were hungry. (No, I'm not joking).

I certainly didn't get my enjoyment of food from her (cottage cheese with canned peaches is her standard breakfast because it's easy but ewwww!), nor my love of cooking. She still dosn't get it, but she will at least eat some of the food, generally whateve is left that no one else wants to eat.

So back to Betsy, Tacy, and Tibb. In one of the books, Betsy comes up with a great idea to cook. They decided to learn how to cook by making "everything pudding" which essentially consisted of everything but the kitchen sink.

I thought that was a pretty cool idea, but my mom pretty quickly laid down the law that if I made it, I ate it. Or maybe it was my friend's mom, and my mom simply copied.

Regardless, we made everything... cookies and cakes and muffins and bread and pancakes. And using no recipes, putting in some sometimes odd ingredients, we occasionally came up with some pretty good stuff.

We also quickly learned to make very small batches of things to avoid having to eat a whole lot of something nasty.

I look back on that now, and oh the fun we had! It was a great way to spend a sleepover, and generally a pretty inexpensive proposition. We were always safe, and it was a great way to exert some independence safely. I only wish that we'd taken photos of our work and written down some of our better recipes.

In fact, I think I might have to try this with the wee ones one of these day wen we have some free time. I have a feeling they might enjoy continuing this little tradition.

So what did you love to do as a child that was - maybe - a little more unique?

What Has Being A Mom Taught You?

Go check out my giveaway here and then come on back orrrr read this, then go enter! Mmmm, soup!

***

I'm far from an expert, after all, I've only had this gig for six years, but there are so many things that I've learned. They have to be only the tip of the iceberg, though. Being a mom teaches you so many things. So many. I'll start the list with ten, but I really want to know what being a mom has taught you (ok, or dad or aunt or uncle or just a person who hangs around kids.

So.

My Top Ten Things I've Learned As A Mom

10. Kids have a reason for everything they do. We may not understand that reason. The reason may leave us rolling our eyes or groaning or sighing in frustration, but they always have a reason. It's part of our job to figure out what that reason is and help them understand if it's a good reason or not and figure out how to best reason their way through the situations they come upon in life.

9. There will always be something I regret. Who didn't think they were going to be a perfect parent - or at least "better" than our parents? Nonetheless, there will always be moments where I wish I could hit the rewind button and do it over again. And yet, we do the majority of things to the benefit of them. They'll turn out well in the end, even though we'll have days that we wish we could forget.

8. Sleep is for the weak. I remember (vaguely) the days when I wouldn't wake up until the afternoon. I remember lazy days when I may not have actually fallen asleep for a nap, but I came awfully close. I remember being exhausted from a long week and going to bed when I got home from work. Now? I laugh. Those first few months as a mom - especially as a second time mom - I still look back on those days and wonder how I survived on so little sleep. I functioned - not just managed, but actually functioned - with almost no sleep. While sleep is nice, we can do without. And we do. Regularly.

7. Things really aren't that disgusting. Vomit? Ok, so I still don't do vomit. Fortunately the wee ones aren't pukers, and Mister Man is good at making it to the toilet on the rare occasion when he throws up. But drool on my hand or shirt? Please. I don't even notice it now. Wiping someone else's bottom? Ha! Blood? Well, I'll be honest and admit that this never bothered me before children. But really, some of the things I do? I just step back and shake my head sometimes. Before I was a parent, no way could I do half this stuff.

6. Simple decisions, aren't. How hard is it to choose an outfit for the first day of school? How hard to choose a doctor? What sports do they play? How many? Should we encourage this friendship? Is this the right school? Are we putting them on a path to be happy in life? The things we have to decide, day after day, are sometimes heart-wrenching and sometimes silly. But oh how I wish I had a crystal ball to know that the decisions I'm making are the "right" ones - even knowing now that there is no one right answer.

5. I'm far more patient than I ever thought. I have yet another talent I never thought I did. I never saw myself as a patient person. I had my fair share of instances where I grew frustrated over something insignificant, where I just couldn't deal with any more. But since kids? My well of patience grew. Maybe it's something in the hormones that finally lets this part of your brain develop, but oh the things that I let roll off my back now that before children would have had me spinning in circles....

4. I want better. As a childless person, I thought I had my life pretty well under control. I did the right things with regards to recycling and eating well and balancing my life. Now that children arrived, I realized how shallow so much of that was. There is so much more that I can do and that I should do. I've realized what's really important in life, and I strive to get there. I don't always succeed, but that view of what is better and what I want is right in front of me every day. And I'm never going to stop reaching for it until I get there.

3. I can have more fun for free than I can for $500. Oh how my priorities have changed. While I was never a spendthrift, I had my time in life where I loved doing "big" things. I loved going on ski vacations with my friends where we ate out at fancy restaurants at night and skiied all day. I loved going to benefits for my favorite charities where I dressed up in my formal duds, bought my expensive tickets, and won my silent auction items. I can't tell you the last time I did any of those, although I know it was before children. Now my fun consists more of squatting on the floor trying to make the perfect Lego creation or chasing the wee ones around at a park or working together to make our favorite granola.

2. There's never a happy medium. Before children, my husband and I saw both sets of our parents about the same amount of time, in fact we probably saw his more due to visiting for football games. But since the wee ones were born, my in-laws have visited three times. When they visit, they sit on our couches all day or visit the casinos. They don't have or push for a strong relationship with their grandchildren. My parents? Oh, I've written about them before. They love the wee ones. They moved ten minutes away from us. They are my childcare, and the wee ones frequently prefer their (spoiling) company to ours. Too much or nothing at all. We make it work, of course, but somehow I wish for the right balance.

And the Number One Thing I've Learned Since Becoming A Parent?

I love more than I thought I could. Watching the wee ones run up to me with a smile on their faces? It warms my heart. Seeing their joy brings me joy. Watching them in pain destroys me. And it isn't just them. Watching the world around me, they color it - and me - with joy. Strangers touch my heart far more than they did before. And really, that's one gift I wouldn't trade for all the sleep in the world.

So what have you learned?

Nope, We're Stayin'

Before I forget -- anyone in the Chicago area with kids, I'm giving away a family four pack to Disney on Ice for Februay 2!

***

It's a long story, but last night my husband finally asked me (in exasperation, I believe) if I wanted to sell our house and move to a different part of our school district.

Really, I just looked at him like he was nuts. I am so not selling our house anytime soon. I hate moving. Detest it. Actually, I would be totally cool with it if someone came and packed and unpacked for me, but I'm not spending that kind of money to move, so I'm sticking with the idea that I hate moving. That and I really like our house and our neighbors and our sidewalks and all those important things.

I stated when we bought this house that we were here until we downsized with the wee one out of the nest. Given the job market, this may not happen for another twenty years now, and I'm ok with that. All because I hate packing and unpacking to move.

And I'm pretty good at doing it, too.

I was born not too far from where I live now, and I've even had my dad drive me past that house. Oddly, it doesn't look anything like the few memories I have of it. We moved from there when I was three, which probably explains a lot of that.

We headed to Connecticut then, and I have all sorts of fun memories of that house. The three (no idea, don't ask why we had three) swingsets, the huge forest behind our house, the hills, the gravel driveway, the neighbors, the beach, the Christmas parties at the fire house. But I haven't been there since I was six...

because that's when we moved to Belgium. This is where I first started to get bitter about moving. I had a red plastic Mickey Mouse wallet when we lived in Connecticut. And it had money in it. If my memory isn't playing tricks on me, it had $8 in it. When we left the States, anyway. By the time I saw my wallet in Belgium, it was emptied. *sigh*

When we left Belgium, we came back to Illinois, but only for eight months or so. We were in a condo one floor up from my grandparents, which was pretty cool, but at eight years old, I started to see the problem with moving more clearly. Every time we moved, my mom made me throw out things. Sometimes I had a choice, but more often than not, I didn't.

And when we left Illinois after eight months and moved to Minnesota (still eight here), we had the interesting experience of living in a hotel for a couple months until my parents bought our house. While it was sort of cool to live in a hotel for awhile and have our own pool, it got old quickly. Most kids were in and out of the hotel, so we didn't have many lasting friendships (the exception was Leslie Smith Field who moved into the hotel while we were there and then showed up in my fourth grade classroom three days into the school year and was my best friend until she moved to Washington -- Leslie, if you ever find and read this, send me an email!). And of course, we didn't have most of our stuff.

When we finally moved into our house, I discovered another joy (not) of moving. There are times you have to redecorate. A lot. The bedroom I had in that house had belonged to a boy a few years older than me. The carpet was a chocolate brown (and not a pretty chocolate brown) with a weird dark animal "striped" wallpaper. I actually probably would have been ok with it, but my mom decided that wasn't good for a girl. And so we went looking for new wallpaper and carpeting. And ohhh I hate doing that. By the time my mom and I were able to find a wallpaper that matched a carpet sample that neither of us immediately vetoed, I ended up with light green carpeting and matching wallpaper with delicate white flowers woven into it. Raise your hand if you think this sounds anything like me. *crickets* That bedroom stayed decorated that way with the white wicker furniture until we moved, though.

We stayed in that house until after I graduated high school though. I next moved into a dorm room. And really, that's the way to move. You have one small carload of stuff that you have to unpack in a day. You live there for a year and then repack it all. That kind of moving I could deal with. Unfortunately, I now have no rooms that could fit into a single car, which is a minor problem.

After my junior year, I got an apartment in Evanston that was a tiny litle studio south of campus. And here was my next nasty surprise about moving. Not everyone is as neat and clean as you would hope. We got the keys, prepared to move in, and then spent the next six hours scrubbing every surface. It was N-A-S-T-Y. My poor mom and gram!

Fortunately, I found an apartment after college that wasn't so dirty. Then again, I also paid more for it. And again, I realized that in moving, you have to figure out what's important to you. I had thought that having somewhere to park my car (check) and being near the loop (check) were important. I unfortunately neglected to factor in the noise of living there. And the fact that being two blocks from Rush meant that I got more than my share of 3am buzzers from friends who wanted to crash in my apartment.

My next apartment was much further north in the city, and I remember waking up my first morning in that apartment hearing birds chirping. I loved it. Absolutely loved it. But here's where I learned another key thing about moving: set ground rules with roommates before you move in with them. Let's just say that after a year and a half, my (male) roommate moved to California. And that I was happy to see him go, especially after he scared off on early relationship when he answered the door (while I was in my room getting ready -- completely oblivious) in his bright yellow very tight boxers. And when I called him on it, he didn't see the problem. Yeah... gotta love friends from college who you don't know quite as well as you thought you did. Until suddenly you know them allllll too well.

After that apartment, I bought my very first own place. And while I loved where I lived, I discovered something else I don't like about moving. I had, shall we say, not the most scrupulous real estate agents at the time. I was young and apparently they thought they could try to take advantage of me. I'm still convinced that I paid too much money for my townhouse, but probably not by a significant amount, and I still made them offer less than they'd wanted me to. I think they were most disappointed when I was approved for a $450,000 mortgage (ok, seriously -- why and how, I have no idea; I could never have come close to affording that much of a mortgage, nor is my mortgage anywhere near that amount now!) that I wasn't interested in looking at homes anywhere in that stratosphere. Bye-bye high commission!

My next move was the next connundrum. When we sold the townhouse when I was pregnant with Little Miss (a two bedroom townhouse and two kids under two do not mix), we hadn't yet found our house. So we put our stuff in storage and moved in with my parents for a few weeks. Who could imagine that it would take that long to find a place? Ten months later, we finally moved out. Oh did I learn my lesson there. Next time (ok, so there won't be a next time, but maybe one of you can learn from my mistake) I am renting an apartment.

And that brings me to my house today. The one that my husband suggested we sell. The one that has all sorts of weird quirks to it, like the wood on the side of my cabinets turning pink and the rose and black and white tiles in the maste bath and the lack of insulation in the front coat closet and the lack of lights in the family and living rooms, but it's my house. And I am so not moving.

Until I downsize. And who knows, maybe by then I will have forgotten all the reasons why I hate moving.

How about you? What are your moving horror stories?

Gunning For Mom Of The Year

I'm a good mom. Generally. Most of the time. In fact, I have people say nice things about my parenting skills sometimes.

But I have a secret.

Shhh.

Sometimes, Little Miss asks me to read a book, a certain book. A book that involves Thomas the Tank Engine, and I groan. Now, this isn't an ordinary Thomas book - that cheeky engine who loves to be a helper. No, this is a book that comes from the genre invented by someone who has no children.

This is one of those books that has sounds. Every third word, there is a picture, and a corresponding button that Little Miss is supposed to push that makes a "cute" sound.

*sigh*

Since Little Miss doesn't know how to read (yet!), nor has she memorized where the sounds go, she simply starts pushing them as soon as I turn the page. Then she can't hear what words I read. So she makes me repeat it. Except then she starts pressing the buttons again. And my headache begins.

Sometimes I tell her that Mommy has to work and so can't read to her (even when I've finished working for the day). Sometimes Mommy hides the book for a few days to get a respite. Sometimes I decide that naptime needs to be moved up by a half hour, and unfortunately that means the book can't be read right then. Now that Mister Man reads fluently, sometimes I ask him to read it to her -- and then I go hide elsewhere.

It isn't that I don't enjoy reading to her. We read regularly, and we read all sorts of books (except Barney that I banned from the house). We read together, and we tell stories about what we think the books could be about.

But ohhh those books that make sounds.

The good(?) news is that the batteries are starting to run low. I say this because when batteries in a sound activated toy start going, the sound quality deteriorates (further). That oh-so-adorable noise of Thomas's broken whistler now sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard. The cheerful peep of James is quite mournful. And the thrumming of Harold the Helicopter sounds ... more like paper ripping. And that might be generous.

I keep praying that the batteries will finally conk out. And I keep hiding that book, but somehow it keeps appearing on the bookshelf.

Do you think she'd notice if it was permanently "lost?"