Insomnia

I've got it all planned out.  Sting will pull me up on stage having randomly picked me from all the other front-center female concert goers to sing me a ballad.  Would Sting be this cheesy?  Probably not. And I'd be way to mortified to utter a word should that ever happen.  Anyway, that's not the point.  The point is I would say to him "We share the same last name."
Sting:  Blinks at me
Me:  Well, it's not really mine, actually.  My husband lent it to me.
Sting: Were you in need of one?
Me: Are you condemning changing one's name...Sting?
Sting: (smiles at my razor-sharp wit) Is your husband's family from England? Perhaps we're long lost cousins.
Me:  Not recently, but yes. In the 18th century.
Sting:  How fascinating.  Will you both come be my guests at my huge and lovely private residence?  You can stay as long as you'd like.  Please???  You're such an interesting person.  You simply must come.
Me:  Well, if you insist.
Sting: I do....I'll even pay for your plane tickets.
The music starts, his mic turns back on, and the crowd roars.

You'd think with an imagination that dull, I'd be asleep in no time....maybe if I read it aloud to myself a couple of times.

The Economics of Road Rage

Econ 110 was a dreaded class among my fellow college freshmen.  I don't know exactly what cause it to be so feared, because I didn't take it.  I wish I had.  Even so, I understand some basic economic principles and appreciate how they apply to my every day, but not necessarily cash related, decision making.  For example, I see the benefit in running a basic cost analysis in deciding between taking the kids to the park during nap time and staying home to fight for sleep.  

More people should take economics.  Maybe then they would behave more logically.  (Ha.)

I'd especially like to sentence the guy who cut me off in traffic today to a mandatory Econ 110 crash course (no pun intended).  This maniac in a Lexus SUV gunned it big to blow past me while his lane ended.  In doing so, he came inches from sideswiping me - and my kids - made me hit my brakes hard, and gave me a near heart-attack.  By the way,why is it always the Mercedes and Lexus drivers that always seem the most dangerous people on the road?  Does anyone else notice that?   I don't see nearly the same rate of crazy-driver syndrome in BMWs and  Acuras.  

The Lexus continued in front of me going at least 20 over the speed limit (I'm not exaggerating: he was leaving me far behind and I was going 7-10 over).   The guy was obviously in a hurry.  The funny thing was, for all his reckless driving, he wasn't getting anywhere faster than I was.  For three miles he sped ahead of me - hitting every single light I hit.  In fact, I was never more than a car behind him.  

If this guy had taken his Econ, he'd realize his risk/benefit balance was way off kilter. I took the opportunity to loudly point out this disparity to my children (and quietly hope there was a speed camera on our route).  They concurred with my assessment.  So, if a 3yr and 5 yr old can grasp that concept why can't someone who is making enough dough to buy a Lexus get it?  I know - it must be because I'm just raising economic geniuses!  .......Well, maybe not, but maybe they will at least be able to pass Econ 110 when the time comes....

The power of CAT

Poor kid number 2.  I pity you.

First of all, you, as kid Numero Dos gets squat alone time with Mom.  Numero Uno not only experienced complete domination of Mommy's attention for a couple years, but having become accustomed to such treatment still requires significant one-on-one time.  I think Goose had more books read to her in her first year than I've read to you in all your years combined.

Secondly, Mom is less enthusiastic about every new kid #2 does.  "Walking?  Great.  Now I have to bolt all the cabinets and get out the gates before you kill yourself."  "Do you really HAVE to feed yourself with the spoon?  You know I'm really much neater."  (These are never vocalized of course.  Really! What kind of mother do you think I am?!!?)

Thirdly, you get used everything.  Even if you are the first boy.  Why do you need tons of superhero action figures when we already have a bajillion barbies?  Use your imagination. Sheesh.

Fourthly, but probably not lastly, Mom sometime just forgets she has to teach you how to do stuff.  (and may be just a little less patient with you when she does remember)  Like how to write your name.  "What?!  You don't know how to write an R? huh.  I guess I haven't ever helped you do that one, have I?  oops."

But, the advantage of being the second child is that occasionally - if you bide your time, keeping a low profile and watching your words carefully - you can blow Mom's socks off by suddenly and casually revealing how much you've absorbed despite her benign neglect.

For instance asking nonchalantly while driving by a construction site "Hey Mom, why is that a "cat" truck?"

Bwaa?  You can read?!?

Ok, yes, it was just C-A-T.  And you were practically born watching LeapFrog videos.  But you really got my attention with that one.  So, I decided to test you.

"Little E, which word says 'ball'?"

However, you, my little cunning one, refused to be so obviously evaluated.  I know that you know you are pointing to the wrong word.  You thought you could fool me, but that smirk betrays you.  You know 'ball' and you know you aren't pointing at it.  Clown.   I've got you figured out.

And I withdraw my pity.  You don't need it, you're doing just fine.  Don't you see now, this was all part of my plan to teach you self-sufficiency?

Star Struck

            

When I was a senior in high school, I asked a local random stylist at my local SuperCuts for "The Rachel". Instead, I got "The Carol Brady".

I was stubborn and fought the hair for several months until one night when I was lifeguarding an almost empty pool. I complained about my hair to my friend Laura who solved the problem by bobbing my hair with a pair of blunt pool-office scissors.  The resulting bob was pretty cute, but I always wished I'd left my long hair alone in the first place.





I didn't learn my lesson, though...Here are some of the other celeb styles I've taken to my hair stylist:

 Looks great on my sister, but not me.

Did I realize curls in straight hair requires DRYING and CURLING it EVERY DAY?  Even still, the cut I got bore no resemblance.

I asked for Posh's hair, and I got a bob, but my hair ended just below my cheekbone. Stacking in the back?  None.

I tried for this hair, but the stylist did not tell me that my thick hair would poof up and prompt my best friend's mom to say (and I quote): "I never realized how much you looked like your brother before."  Siiiiiiigh.  As an aside, this cut did induce me to start wearing more make-up, feminine clothes and even pierce my ears (at least until my dad found out), so it did do good things for my feminine appearance in the long run.




I realized the big problem here is that I don't have a celebrity face to go with the hair.  So, this last weekend, I went to the stylist and using my old grad school ID, I asked for a repeat of one of the best haircuts I've had.  A slightly longer than shoulder length cut with just a few layers and a bit a face framing.  What did I get?  The Rachel.

Refined

European gardens always seem to have these little fountains. My neighbor has one in their front yard. It's the neighbor with the biggest recent addition and the little boy statue sits next to a large tiered fountain. The whole things is totally out of place for our neighborhood. But, I think they see the peeing boy statue as refined.

Little E must have realized our yard wasn't keeping up; but not to worry, Little E is an independent problem-solver. Rather than gauchely coming inside to take care of business, he generously made an effort to add a little refinement to our household too.

Thanks, Little E.

For Liz

The sun is shining,
The grass is green,
It's Spring!
Give it a ring!

Are you shocked I still remember the lyrics (and melody) to our old song?

The Wolf Ate the Brew

A short story by Little E

Once upon a time there lived a beg bad wolf that ate people. And then he shivered them and put them in his nose.

A crayon walked inside the house. He said "You don't have eyes!"

The crayon cut off the wolf's head.

The policeman saw that the crayon save the kids and grown-ups. He said, "You saved them!"

The policeman got a paper and it said, "You got them out of the wolf's tummy and you saved them!"

And the crayon was tired. So he slept on someone's head.

Spiderman came and said, "You are a hero!"

Little E wrote and illustrated this book in preschool this week. Just a couple of days ago a friend and I were discussing current literature and she commented that the key element for novels right now is a unique voice (think Death in The Book Thief). Develop that Crayon voice, E, I think we may have a best-seller.

For My Geeky Pleasure

I started tutoring a student in Trig last night. He needed review of the Unit Circle, so I whipped out my WICKED paint skills and made this:

Almost 20 years later, I still can walk around the Rose Garden...Ginter (my trig teacher) would be so proud. (If you see a mistake let me know...it has been 20 years).

Encore!

Last night I did no less than 10 curtain calls for my kids at bedtime. The more practical parent in me tells me this was excessive and I should do more ignoring and less responding. But, something about "I just sneezed and have snot running all over my face," pulls at my heartstrings every time.

How Phobias are Born

It should have been a regular visit to the grocery store.

In fact, it was. Until we took the elevator to the parking garage. The kids were happily batting their balloons around each other and I was lazily thinking about the night's dinner menu. The elevator settled in the basement and I followed Goosie off. Little E, who usually sticks pretty close to me was distracted by his balloon.

He didn't get off in time.

I turned to see the doors closing, a frightened little face behind them, and as I lunged for the elevator button, I heard his blood-curdling scream rise to the floor above me.

Perhaps more unsettled than her ascending 3 year old brother, Goose danced about my legs oozing anxiety. Adopting the "hug-a-tree" strategy, I frantically pushed the call button; I was fairly certain Little E would be too stunned to leave the "safety" of the elevator car and would return shortly. But, of course, the other elevator came first.

Goose and I hopped on car #2 and went up. The doors opened and standing around the elevator were several onlooking adults who, without any verbal cues from us, indicated Little E had just gone back down, this time accompanied by an adult. Of Course.

We got down just as Little E and his helper were about to go back up (how long could we have played that game??). According to his rescuer, Little E had pushed enough of the buttons to get the fire department on the phone. Little E popped his thumb in his mouth and recovered fairly quickly. Goose, on the other hand, won't go near an elevator now without ensuring that all parties are physically attached to a trusted adult.

It's been almost half of a year since it happened. I'm not sure how much he remembers...every now and then he mentions it. But, just in case, I'm going start saving for future therapy bills.

Whew!

I thought I was being super efficient today. I got the kids dressed and chores done in record time. By 9:30 I got grocery shopping for the week done, the dishes done, laundry humming, the next month of preschool planned.....and then the phone rang.

It was some random lady with a bit of an accent calling me by name. "I think you left your wallet in a cart in the Target parking lot." ACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! "Could you take it to customer service? I'll be right there."

Our Target is super ghetto. I see empty boxes and open on the shelves all the time where people have simple stolen the product. In fact, once I accidentally BOUGHT an empty box. The likelihood that an honest person found my wallet, would take the time to look up my phone number, call me, and then secure the wallet at customer service is quite slim. But that's what she did. She even called me back a half hour later to make sure I had recovered it.

Blessings upon your head Good Woman!

Perhaps even better than getting my wallet back it provided a great teaching moment for my children who were very interested in the fact that someone had the opportunity to take something that wasn't theirs, but chose to do the right thing.

I'll definitely be remembering this act of service as our family celebrates Thanksgiving this year.

My Afternoon

tree

alight with sun-drenched fire

wild symphony of branches

assaults and soothes

with violent beauty

Poetry

I've been going through old boxes and folders and found some old poems I dashed off sometime in the past and had saved.

Homecoming Sunset

an endless trek

across the

vast

and beautiful land

coming to an

end

my mind

caught

in the origin of my trials

saddened

by the thought of my home there

my eyes

lift

to the darkening sky

silhouetted peaks

capped with crowns

of gold

of red

dancing

in the purple light

they say to me:

"welcome home"

Untitled

Wandering.

Lost.

Confused by the path

that lies before her.

Woman steps on.

She cannot find herself,

and knows not where to look.

Everywhere she was,

she is no longer.

Vanished.

She searches on.

Lightening Tree

Strong, it stands alone

in the darkness;

its bare arms outstretched

unaware of its majesty.

Until the clouds break;

a singular ray

finds the way to its soul;

And it is beautiful.

Little E and the Whales

In honor of Little E's birthday.

We went to the beach yesterday. Goose was in heaven, diving right in, teaching herself to swim, being called back from going out too far; Little E, on the other hand, was a little stressed. He would not go near the water without me. He's fine in the pool, so the fear of the beach, while partially understandable, was a little excessive and definitely unexpected....until he started talking about sharks and whales eating him.

The kids have been asking for Bible bedtime stories lately. Jonah is a favorite. Perhaps I had been a little too vivid in my storytelling.

Anyway, Little E got more acclimated to the beach as the day went on (and after repeated assurances he would not get eaten) and eventually let me take him in - provided I was holding him the entire time.

That night in bed Little E initiated a what I thought was a rather amusing conversation. Maybe it is only funny to a mom, but I love to see how these little minds work and Little E is finally verbal enough to make things really entertaining.

Little E: Mom, I will take all the little fishes in my hands and save them from the sharks and whales so they not can eat them. (The "not can" inversion is one of my favorite little kid mistakes of Little E's.)

Me: Oh, you are? Well then what are the sharks and whales going to eat?

Little E: Goldfish.

Me: Goldfish crackers?

Little E: Yes.

Goose: You can't do that Ethan, they will get all soggy in water.

Little E: Oh. I will get in a boat and wait until the sharks and come to the top and then I will feed them food.

Me: What food will you feed them instead of goldfish?

Little E: Peanut butter sandwiches and smoosh-mallows and bananas and raisins and....(the list went on for several minutes.)

Me: Because you don't want them to eat the little fish anymore?

Little E: Yeah, yeah, I will save them. And I will feed the sharks and whales from my boat so that they will have food.

My son, the marine philanthropist.

Chocolate Milk Tuesdays

I totally admit that I use food as a coping device. In particular, sugary foods. (Mmm...just typing this I had to jump up and go get a handful of JellyBellies. ) As long as I remember, I've had this tendency. In fact, I remember being warned by a friend's mother, whilst I stuffed my fifth brownie down my throat, I would encounter weight issues in adulthood. My 110 lb, 5'9" frame shook with laughter at the idea.

She was right. I had kids, turned 30 and now I go jean shopping every 6 months.

But this post isn't about weight-gain. It's all about chocolate milk.

Chocolate. My first true love. (Sorry Jimmy-John, Chocolate and I were long time lovers before you came along. You do hold a solid second place, though.) Nothing chocolate in my house lasts for long.

There is one exception, though: chocolate milk. I've never quite understood it. It's relatives, chocolate ice cream and hot chocolate are longtime staples of my diet. But, I never am tempted by the mid-temperature variety of chocolate flavored dairy products.

And then I started home milk delivery from a local creamery. Every Tuesday morning I get freshly bottled organic milk dropped on my doorstep. On a whim, and mostly for the co-inhabitants of my home, I ordered a quart of chocolate (whole) milk. I wasn't planning to have any, but tried some "just to see".

Mmmmm, boy. Tuesday is my new favorite day of the week. Creamy, rich, the perfect amount of cacao bean. But at $2.75 a quart, it's definitely a luxury item.

Jimmy-John is lucky if he gets to lick the bottle when he gets home. I'd order a bigger bottle, but I don't think that would help JJ at all. I'd just be fatter and he would be poorer.

Is This What They Call a Midlife Crisis

There is a girl that lives inside my head who I really admire. She's compassionate, talented, gracious, witty, confident and capable. She looks a lot like me, but she towers over me in strength of character. She's one of those people you'd like to hate, but who is so charming you can't help but love her. I spend a lot of my time and energy trying to mold myself into some reasonable representation of her.

Perhaps that is why I love making New Year's resolutions. I feel inspired and excited about the changes I plan to make in my life. I like to pretend that this year will be the year when I get a little closer to the mirage of my perfect self.

As I pondered what items to add to my to-do list this year, a strange thing happened. Instead of bringing the of the happy buzz of encouragement I expected, the thought of adding one more unrealized expectation to my seemingly unending catalogue of failures weighed heavily on me. And more keenly, I felt the investment of time was one that I could not afford as I am already operating on a severe deficit.

This time shortage is really an enigma to me. I don't feel like I do anything terribly important or productive during a typical day. I don't have a high-powered job. I'm not really what one would call a Super-Mom (you know, the type that has fun, enriching activities for their children all day long while somehow managing to keep a perfectly neat home, make a 3 course dinner, volunteer at the local homeless shelter, and read the NY Times from cover to cover each day). Mostly, I (hardly) manage to maintain a steady baseline of quasi-productivity.

I decided to spell out all the amorphous expectations I have for myself. I won't bore you with the banality of the items on the list, but to give you an idea, after reviewing the list my husband asked me if I had inadvertently omitted restroom trips. Were these mundane tasks really causing so much stress in my life? Could so much boredom really cause my stomach to churn by its incompletion?

I considered the list. Not much could be excised with out great sacrifice on the part of family members (grocery shopping really is essential, they all assure me), and some of the listed items are deceivingly time-consuming (i.e. physically caring for the children: one must also consider this includes providing an impromptu bathing when yogurt mysteriously splatters across the dining room). But most alarmingly, the few things on the list that I actually like doing were at the bottom of the priority list and often are the first casualties when time gets tight.

I finally came up with a few ideas that hint at making things better...you know: enhance efficiency on the most boring and routine tasks so as to free up more time for the more enjoyable options, wasting less time procrastinating undesirable activities (read: not signing into facebook or searching craiglist just "one more time" in case someone listed the serger of my dreams during the past 10 minutes), etc. But really, those strategies just seem like a diversion from the real problem: my life is dull. So dull I couldn't even bring myself to write Christmas cards this year.

It's true. I've become a typical boring thirty-something looking for a little pizzazz in life. (And not the type of pizzazz that comes from your two-year-old pooping on the kitchen floor. Side note: Jimmy-John wanted me to blog that story and entitle it: "Goose didn't lay THIS golden egg!" I laughed so hard, I almost regressed on my own potty-training.) I need something to get my heart racing. I need an interesting response to the question "So, what have you been up to lately?"

So, this leads me to my big question: Does any have a motorcycle for sale?

Shake, Rattle, and Roll

Of late, I've been telling scripture stories to the children as I lay them down to bed. Because Goose has been having nightmares recently and scripture stories almost always have a violent element to them, I try to edit the stories to make them a little more G-rated. Occasionally, I make mistakes and include something I probably shouldn't have. Goose always locks in on it. A couple of nights ago I mentioned earthquakes in the Americas accompanying the death of Christ.

She immediately interrupted me with a barrage of questions. What is a earthquake? Where do they happen? Why do they happen? What does a fault line look like? Why do the plates rub against each other?

Goose has a hyper-analytical mind. She fires question after question at me all day, everyday. I try to be exact and matter-of-fact in my answers, trying to avoid the "because that's the way it is" answer but eventually she wears me down and I can't come up with any more explanations. I've thought about adopting the approach instituted by Calvin's dad from the famous comic strip: making up ridiculous answers in an attempt to avoid further interrogation, but 1) I can't bear to lie to my kids (I even have trouble with the Santa Claus deal) and 2) it wouldn't work with her anyway. She would still press until I answered with "because" or "I don't know". Sometimes I think this is her entire objective: to she how long it takes to wear me down.

But, I digress. Relatively speaking, the questions regarding earthquakes ended fairly early that night. But, I learned the next night they had made a significant impression. We were talking about something else completely and she started asking me about some strange subject: "sorry lines".

After a series of my own questions I realized "sorry lines" were "fault lines". (A cute insight into a 4-yr old's word association, in my opinion.) Goose wanted to know all about earthquakes. More specifically, she wanted to know all about the danger and destruction of earthquakes.

Uh-oh, my gut said. We've just barely gotten to the point where she can be alone in a dark room. What have I done? I assured her that we lived in an area where earthquakes really didn't happen and that she shouldn't worry about it, etc. She wasn't interested in my reassurances. She still wanted to know all about the dangers. I told her in the morning I'd show her some movies of earthquakes on the computer.

Still anxious about inciting a new irrational fear in my daughter, I set about screening youtube videos. I chose the most mild, non-threatening, earthquake videos I could find. A bridge (without cars or people) shaking visibly. Water in a pool rocking from side to side. And of course the dry films from 8th grade earth science with the maps of tectonic plates and fault lines. We wanted to stay as far away as possible from Lois Lane out of gas with a cracking San Andreas faultline in the rearview mirror.

Goose was unimpressed with my selection. "But, where are the things falling on people? I want to see the dangerous ones." Sigh...

I brought out a few of the more violent ones; the kind of videos one would expect to find on youtube. The messy, dramatic ones. I watched Goose carefully while we watched people hysterically run from falling objects. No fear crossed her brow, in fact, they were exactly what she wanted and she has since shown no signs of burgeoning anxiety - just more cold, analytical questions.

Still unsure about her emotional state, I asked her why she was asking me so many questions about earthquakes. She looked at me like I was the dumbest person in existence and said "Because I want to learn about earthquakes." My incredulity continued, but I humored her and tried patiently answer questions all day. We watched more videos, we talked, and we looked at maps.

Tonight as we were snuggling in for bed, we affectionately rubbed our noses together, a sign of love we've shared since her infancy. This time, however, it's meaning changed. "HEY MOM! " Goose exclaimed. "Our noses are like an earthquake!" Wow. She got it all. I laughed. We rubbed our noses again, and this time followed the gesture by shaking violently under her covers. We laughed until tears filled our eyes: she with the satisfaction of new-found knowledge and I with the rediscovery of wonder.

Thanks for reminding me.

Goose: Ewww. Mom, this pasta sauce tastes like rotten applesauce.

Me: Goose, you like this sauce. It's yummy.

Goose: Oh. Did I eat this before and I liked it?

Me: Yes.

Goose: Oh! I like it! (continues to eat the entire bowl of pasta)

Guilty

I was in the basement doing some much needed reorganizing when I heard a thunk. Little E cried, the cry quickly turned to into a whimper and then quieted. I considered going up to investigate, but Jimmy-John was upstairs with the kids and Little E wasn’t crying anymore, there was no need for me to interject myself in the situation.

Several minutes later, Goose came to the top of the stairs.

“Mom?”

“Yes Goose.”

“Um, I was hugging Little E and I let go and he bonked his head on the corner of the bench and he cried and cried. But I helped him and he’s ok now.”

“Is Daddy upstairs”

“Yes”

“Did he help Little E?”

“No, I did.”

“Where is Daddy?”

“In here.” (she pointed at the bathroom door, the shower was running)

“Where’s Little E?”

“Upstairs in our room.”

I followed her up and found Little E cuddled up in his bed, sucking his thumb and surrounded with all of the most coveted toys.

“See, I helped him stop crying.”

Little E was reluctant to show me the wound, but when I finally got to it, this is what I found:

Two outta Three Ain't Bad

Three public experiences this week with my kids. We’re finally getting to the place where the good outweighs the bad. (You can read about a typical past excursion here.)

Number 1: Lunch at Ikea

As a reward for going to sleep without me in the bed with them, I took my kids to lunch at Ikea. Ikea is always a big excursion for us; it’s just far enough away to be a troublesome outing. The long drive plus the intense stimulation it provides the kiddos tends to provoke at least one meltdown.

This trip had all the earmarks of disaster. It was occurring after preschool (read: kids already overstimulated) and would delve deep into prime nap time. We were also taking friends, Tarheel and Charlie. Or rather, the friends were taking us in their souped up minivan complete with built-in DVD player. The kids were bursting with excitement.

The 4 year old girls, having known each other since birth, were fighting like sisters: Tarheel was bossing Goose, and Goosie was either yelling back or passive-aggressively ignoring any attempt Tarheel made at conversation. Little E and Charlie just wanted to sleep.

Once in Ikea, the kids perked up and nothing of note occurred during lunch. (We did have two spills and a little bit of refusal to keep shoes on, but nothing out of the ordinary.) As we were cleaning up and letting the kids go off to play in the toy area an older man came up to my friend and me and proceed to compliment us on our “patience and good humor” with the kids and that watching us had been enjoyable.

Woah. What? Did that really just happen? I mean, I’ve had people stare. I’ve had people look away in embarrassment. I’ve even had people angrily call my children unruly monkeys. But, I have NEVER had someone compliment me with regard to my children in a public setting. I’m still floating. Now, I realize that the man was not really complimenting my children’s behavior, rather our reactions to it, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.

Number 2: Cows at the Grocery

At 3:30 pm, I realized that I was missing the last few ingredients for dinner. Unwilling to change the menu, I loaded the kids up and headed to the grocery. Little E, freshly napped and still a little grumpy, insisted on wearing a large Christmas bell around his neck. Goose, who had taken a mid-afternoon bath, had selected strawberry jammies and rainboots for her attire. I’ve learned to just go with the flow.

My kids rank pretty high on the curiosity scale and everything in the grocery store apparently begs to be investigated. Staying in or near the cart is a constant challenge for my children, so I alternately use bribes, threats and time-outs. Honestly, I’ll use anything that works. I even regularly open grocery items for my children to consume before checking-out. (It shocks me how often I do this when I think how opposed I was to it just 18 months ago.)

This particular trip I was trying to get trough with frequent reminders of appropriate behavior: “Stay by Mommy”, “Don’t touch that”, “Don’t climb on that cart, it’s not ours”, you know, the typical stuff. Goose has figured out that it is easier to just load things into the cart than to ask permission for it and was shopping accordingly. I put the non-dairy creamer back. I put the chocolate soy milk back. But when the mini Nillas landed in the cart it was as if the heavens opened and angels sang.

I opened up the box and told the children they could have them if they stayed close. I doled them out one at a time while the kids jingled behind. The individual cookies were so quickly consumed that a child could not wander far between bites. And if Little E did stray, his ringing bell (and his accompanying moos) betrayed him before any “fun” could be had.

I made it out in record time.

Number 3: Park Play Date

This one still perplexes me. Goose was rested, fed, getting exercise and outside time, and playing well with friends. The friends started leaving, nap time was nearing and I gave Goose and Little E the standard 5 minute warning. 3 minutes. 2 minutes. No friends left. (One stranger still enjoyed the swings.) 1 minute. Blast off.

Goose was still defiantly playing. I tried the patient method. I picked up Little E and started walking. “Good-bye, we’re leaving.” Oh ,why did I park so far away from the playground? I hid behind a tree; Goose hid inside the slide. She won the stand-off. I stomped onto the mulch, fuming. “GOOSE! We’re Leaving!” She chose her best weapon – speed. This 4 year old can almost outrun me. She screamed as the chase closed. I picked her up. She flailed her arms and legs, she smacked me in the face. She wailed like she was enduring some medieval torture.

I cannot say I keep my cool. I blew my lid. I yelled back; I ranted; I flipped her over my shoulder and carried her sack-of-potato style. In the end she endured a time-out and was grounded from the park for a week (it’s up to two weeks now because she snuck out of time-out).

Sigh. So, we’re not there yet. But, two outta three ain’t bad.