Kindergarten Registration

I sat in the elementary school cafeteria last night, surrounded by parents in various states of anxiety. Even those who had been through this process before were a little nervous. It's a big thing, no matter how many times you've done it before, no matter how excited you may be about pushing another kid through those big doors with a smile and kiss, the event won't be ignored for the milestone that it is.

Last night, I registered Julia for kindergarten.

When Katie started kindergarten, I was unable to face the first day alone. The Husband went with us, and the poor teacher had to practically push my weepy, snotty mess of a self out the door. Katie, on the other hand, turned to us as soon as we walked her past the threshold and said "You can go now!" I held my belly full of baby Julia and cried, because I knew that things would never be the same. I spent the majority of the day at the mall with my friend M-, unable to sit in an empty house all day.

It was equal parts traumatic and pathetic.

Julia is so very different than Katie was - she is more intense, and energetic, and restless. She needs more, and often more than I can give her in a day. I know that full time school will challenge her and fulfill her immense social needs. Last night I was practically high fiving the kindy teachers and wishing luck to whomever draws the Julia straw.

I laughed and joked and made sympathy clucks to the poor parents around me, so scared to let their babies go. Cut the cord! I cried with glee, then went home and to bed, where I buried my head in the pillow and lamented the loss of my baby girl.

Is it ever easy? Is it ever easy to pin a note to their chest and send them out into the big bad world, without you? Probably not. Will I mark every milestone with public fist bumps and private sobbing? Probably so.

She's ready, she always will be. I'm not, I never will be.

My Do It!

My children's independence is a great source of pride. Oh, look! I'll say. She just marches right in there and doesn't look back! Or, I've never had to teach them to do it, they just do it! Independence is a hallmark of good parenting. Either that or complete neglect, but I'd like to think it's the former. "My do it!" has been the battle cry of all my children.

But sometimes - sometimes I just want to tell them to let me do it.

Sometimes, I don't have half an hour for you to fiddly fart around with your buckle. Just sit your ass down and let me buckle it and let's go. I have shit to do.

Henry, sensing that his two year birthday is upcoming, has decided to adopt the WAYS OF TWO a little early. For those of you not familiar with the WAYS OF TWO, let me explain: It means your kid becomes a total asshole about ridiculous things. Mostly, things to do with independence. Independent dressing, independent car seat getting into, independent eating. It means that if you dare to take the wrapper off a cupcake, you are risking a meltdown of epic proportions.

It means that you have to take the cheese stick out of the fridge, hide it behind your back, take the wrapper off, then re-wrap it before you hand it to your child to "unwrap".

It means that he will walk around with his shoes on the wrong feet, because he likes them that way! It feels good!

It means that there is nothing too heavy for him to lift, or too tall for him to climb, or to difficult for him to figure out. He is TWO, and you can not fuck with TWO. You know nothing, Parent! I am TWO!

Today, as we were running late to drop Julia at preschool, and I dared to pick him up to put him in his car seat, he threw a tantrum. I'm dodging head butts and trying to use my elbow to fold him down at the waist (like a stroller, or an ironing board, children bend if you apply pressure in the right places), and he is screaming and kicking his legs. Julia, who is calmly sitting in her seat waiting, rolls her eyes and mutters under her breath, "Kids."

The wisdom of five.

Five

Julia fills a room. From this very small person comes an enormous force of self, and she makes her way into every inch of a space. Her voice, her smile, her endless energy; she takes it over completely. When Julia leaves a room, the silence is deafening.

She is exhausting.

She is a child of extremes, and she elicits extreme emotions from me. There are times when I find myself clenching my fists and gritting my teeth and using every ounce of willpower I have not to completely lose my mind with her. And other times, I love her so hard it feels like a giant hand is squeezing my heart until it might just burst inside of me. Julia is fierce, and that is how I love her - fiercely.

She is a whirling dervish - constantly moving, exceptionally loud, blindingly bright. She is the spirit of this family, and we would be considerably more dull without her.

Today, my girl in the middle is five years old. Today, I am going to dress like a pirate and surprise her at school and read to her class and take her to Chuck E Cheese for lunch, just the two of us. I am going to play every game she wants to and let her make a mess and not once, not once, tell her to be quiet. I am going to make her mashed potatoes and mac and cheese and salad for dinner, and let her have two pieces of cake if she wants to. I will let her stay up late and watch a movie and sleep in my room. And as she drifts off to sleep, I will kiss her head and whisper, Good night, Birthday Girl. You are perfect and I love you so much.

Ah, the Life of a Thespian

It has been a big week for the SFC girls. On Monday, Julia was a Christmas angel in the preschool play about trees and families and red feather boas - I don't know, it was a little unclear as to what exactly was going on. But I did catch Julia's big line, delivered in typical Julia TOP VOLUME EXTREME LOUDNESS:

"THE FAMILY WAS SO HAPPY THEY FOUND THE PERFECT TREE THEY CUT IT DOWN AND OFF THEY WENT."

Brava, young thespian.

On Tuesday, Katie and the other 5th graders at her school graduated from the D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education, for those of you not familiar) program. At one point, another parent told me, he looked out at all the children and took note of the bored expressions, with one notable exception - Katie. Who absolutely beamed the entire time. "Aren't you proud of me?" she asked me afterward. So proud, I said. I didn't say, let's talk again in 9th grade when your BFF is rolling up a doobie and showing you how to shotgun a beer.

They probably don't call them 'doobies' anymore.

I did notice something about 5th graders - either they are still very much little kids, all bony elbows and baby faces, or they are - like Katie - Amazon children. They have legs longer than mine and everything about them is getting thicker, and no one can find a pair of pants that fit. They all look old men, with their waistlines up to their armpits and their grown up teeth, still too big for their mouths.

They are adorably awkward.

Tonight was opening night for 'A Christmas Carol', as presented by the children's theater where Katie takes an acting class. The entire cast was children, from the age of 5 to the age of 18. They did everything, from stage manager to prop master, rearranging sets between scenes, and several of them played multiple parts. Katie was Martha (Bob Cratchitt's daughter) and Mrs. Dilber (one of the people who cast lots for Scrooge's belongings after his death). She was perfect. They were all perfect, even when they weren't.

The Ghost of Christmas Present is, in the story, a Bacchanalian figure - all mirth and merriment and enormity. He is, in this production, a wee boy of about 8. He summed up the entire show with one line:

"You have never seen the like of me before!" exclaimed the Spirit.

"Never," Scrooge made answer to it.

Never, indeed. What a wonderful show. What a wonderful week.

Coach

Julia just finished up the fall soccer season, one made especially interesting by the presence of The Husband as The Coach. At nearly 5, Julia was one of the oldest kids on her team of seven, the youngest players having just turned 3.

Seven girls, with an average age of 4. One Coach, with the average patience of a 4 year old.

He went to the coaches training and came home with pages of notes, a bag of balls, and an upset stomach. The night before the first practice, he tossed and turned in bed.

"Are you nervous?" I said in the darkness.
"Yes. No. I mean, I just don't have much experience with little kids."

This, coming from the father of three children.

He wanted to coach because he wanted something to share with Julia. She's a naturally athletic, very energetic kid (translation: a crazy person) and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. Little kid recreational soccer is just that - recreational. He didn't have any expectations of his team, other than they have fun. His larger concern was the parents.

Anyone who's had their children in any kind of extracurricular activity knows the parents I'm talking about. Overbearing and over involved, they yell from the sidelines and give the coach hell. What if he ran into one of those parents, who expected their little girl to be molded into the next Mia Hamm?

But that didn't happen, of course. All the parents - and the girls - were there to have fun, and that's exactly what they did. Even the Coach.

When Being a Little Kid Sucks

Julia has been engaging in non-stop naughtiness for a couple of days now. Yesterday, as we were buckling up in the car to go on a fabulous, fun and exciting trip, she decided she was just going to DIE if she didn't get a drink. The in-laws are standing in the driveway, I have the baby buckled in, and the two big kids in the back seat and it's hot and we're going to lunch first and I don't want to get her a drink. I just want her to zip her trap and sit down and let us get on the road.

But instead, she completely lost her shit. Crying, blubbering, arching her back, yelling. And she is so unbelievably loud. She opens her mouth and emits a sound that is like a tornado siren, "BUT I-I-I-I-IIII'MMMMM SO-OH-OH-OH-OH THIIIIIIRRRRSSSSSTY!" and the next thing I know, I am yanking her out of the car and carrying her inside, where I sit her on the counter, hold her face with my hands and get nose to nose with her.

You are not being a nice girl! You have been naughty all day! You hit your cousin! You tripped your brother! You are yelling and being naughty! What is wrong with you?

She looks at me with big, wet eyes, face streaked with tears, hair plastered to her head and, between great, wracking sobs says "I am only four years old! I just do these things!"

Sigh.

There is something about Julia that pushes every button I have. Whether it's her tenacity (relentless), her volume (supersonic), her temper (ferocious), when she wants to get under my skin, she can do it with lightening speed. I have lost my temper with her a shameful number of times. I have yelled and threatened and been less the kind of parent I want to be with her than my other children. Simply put, she makes me crazy.

Then she looks at me with that angelic face and says something like "I am only four years old! I just do these things!" and I remember that she is this very small person, who - more than anything in the world - wants and needs my love. It is very humbling.

Four is the kind of hard that I have no memory of. Four is just old enough to know what you want, but too little to know how to get it most of the time. Four is too small to soldier on when you're tired or hungry. Four is a black hole, attention sucking vortex. Four has no voice modulation. Julia at four is stuck in the middle, and that's a tough spot to be in at any age. She's spent the past couple of weeks trying to assert her place with the visiting grandparents and cousin. She has plenty of competition for their attention and affection, and it's been hard work for a little kid.

Tonight, everyone else (minus the baby) is out of the house. Julia and I played Hullabaloo and ate pizza and she is waiting patiently for her brother to go to sleep. Then we'll watch a movie together and she'll sleep in our room, cuddling close to me in the big bed. Because she needs to know that, to me, there is no Julia in the middle. That she isn't stuck there, between being the big kid and being the baby. That she is as special and loved and cherished as her brother and sister, even if she spends more time in the corner than either of them combined. She is, after all, only four years old. She just does those things.

Ten-Four-One

At Ten: 
Katie honey, you need to clean up your room.
Awwwwwwww! But why? I was just getting ready to play. Oh my GOD. Why can't I do it later? Why do I have to do EVERYTHING around here? It's like I'm your SLAVE! I just cleaned it! But why? WHY? You don't understand my life!

At Four: 
Julia sweetie, let's pick up your room.
I don't need your help! I can do it! I know how to do it! I know evvvverything about cleaning my room!

At One: 
Henry bubby, let's clean up! Clean up! Everybody! Everywhere!
AAAAACCCKKKK! *Throws toys and hits me with a golf club. A plastic one, but still.*

It is probably the most difficult aspect of parenting for me right now - dealing with three children in such different stages of development. What works with one rarely works with another, thanks to their ages and personalities. And they keep doing new shit, so I'm constantly caught off guard. Just when I think I have this parenting gig figured out, one of them does something completely random. It's like they're conspiring with each other.

Katie: OK, you guys. This week, I am going to freak out about bras. Julia, develop a fascination with your butthole. Henry, bite some kids.

It's hard sometimes to remember that you can't reason with a one year old, nor can you trust a four year old, or expect a ten year old not to be a hormonal lunatic. As if to illustrate this very point, I just now glanced up to see the baby has used a kitchen chair to reach his high chair, and is standing on the tray. Instead of jumping up and running to get him down, I say, "You better think about what you're doing, boy!" Then, remembering that one year old boys are not known for their reasoning skills, I jumped up and ran to get him down.

Last night we all went out to dinner. It was freakishly awesome - no one screamed or threw food or vomited on the table. We left the restaurant in the sanctimonious glow of people with well behaved children. As we walked to the car, I said "Honey, this is the best time of our life. One day, the babies will be grown and gone and we'll be lonely. We'll remember this, and miss it."

I believe it. You know why? Because right now, it's easy. As hard as I think it is, it's a relative breeze. Right now, they're still little. They've yet to experience loss, or have their hearts broken, or realize that sometimes people just plain suck. The worst problem I've dealt with today is the fact that Henry thinks every piece of furniture is a gee-dee jungle gym. I'll take that any day over sitting with my child after their first breakup.

It's something I try to remember on those days when switching gears between the three of them seems impossible. This is a very brief window in our lives, when all three of them are small, and so are their problems.

And so are mine.

Superstah!

Today was Julia's last day of preschool (I weep!) and the last day of gymnastics until the fall. The class did a cute dance, then each child showed off their mad skillz. At the end, they each received a medal. I asked Julia to let me take some pictures, and this is what I got. Sigh. I don't know where she gets it from.

 

She is a crazy person.


And remember when I did a giveaway a couple of weeks ago with a FABULOUS MYSTERY PRIZE, which Scout won? Well, I can reveal the prizes now, as she's received her prizes.

You can pretty much forget about any gift giving quandry you have from here on out, because I have found the number one source for awesomeness on all the internets: www.perpetualkid.com.

Behold, Scout's FABULOUS MYSTERY PRIZE(S):
The perfect thing for when you're stuck on a dinner cruise with a Celine Dion impersonator and need a stiff drink.
For a kick ass baker. Or just a baker that likes to kick ass.
This really needs no explanation.

I was thisclose to getting her the Squirrel Underpants, but practicality won out. Although, Scout may have some squirrels running around her yard with their junk all hanging out and could really use the squirrel underpants. You never know.

Let this be a lesson to you, dear readers - when I say there is going to be a FABULOUS PRIZE, you bet your bippy it's going to be fabulous. Keep coming back, because there will be something soon to celebrate my ONE HUNDREDTH POST!

Blah Blah Blah

No one listens to me. Out of all my gripes (and they are numerous), this is Numero Uno. I can cry, cajole, plead, threaten, bribe and rationalize, all to no avail. I can (and have) pitch a fit of epic proportions, yelling and stomping and throwing soft items (hurling a downy slipper is about as threatening as, well, hurling a downy slipper). I can sit calmly, establish eye contact, hold their hands and speak from my heart in a simple, easy to understand manner. Regardless of the approach, the effect is the same: Brick.Fricking.Wall.

I'm not alone. A friend recently told me the story of his wife lecturing their 10 and 12 year old daughters after the umpteenth yelling, smacking, name-calling fight between the two. At one point, she told them they were acting like stupid jerks (and if this strikes you as harsh, let me tell you that if you've never said something similar - or worse - to your children, it's only because the opportunity hasn't yet arisen. Sometimes our precious cherubs are a-holes, and sometimes, we let them know.). At the end of the lecture, the girls were both in tears. But not because of their horrible behavior, or because they felt bad about treating each other so poorly, or because they were overcome with sisterly affection and were vowing to never let it happen again.

No, they were crying because Mom said they were stupid jerks. They hadn't heard anything else.

I found myself in a similar situation tonight. Julia annoys the shit out of Katie. Katie, in turn, treats Julia like a dog. It pisses me off to no end. I was really ramping up to a good, long lecture, when I noticed their eyes glazing over. Julia was sitting there trying to fit her hand in her mouth, and Katie had suddenly developed an acute interest in her big toenail.

"This is just ridiculous!" I'm ranting on. "You're sisters! Is this how you treat your friends? Are friends more important than your sister?" I wonder if at some point I start sounding like Charlie Brown's teacher - wah wah wah wahhhhhh. I had barely gotten started and I had already lost them. I had to pull out my secret weapon.

I got silly.

I started making goofball noises and funny faces and flapping my arms. It got their attention. I danced around the room and pinched them on the butt. They started laughing. And now, now that I finally had them focused in on me, I found my anger was totally diffused. My girls were laughing and smiling and looking at me. I seized the opportunity, bent down and whispered, "Love each other."

It worked, at least long enough to get us through supper and everyone tucked into bed. Long enough for me to not end up frustrated and upset. Tomorrow is another day, and who knows what might happen. But for tonight, they listened, and so did I.

(Congratulations to Scout, who won my Fabulous Mystery Prize giveaway! Scout, I'll be contacting you soon, and I'll post the details of the fabulous prize.)

Pride Before the Fall

Fiction Friday is delayed, because I am uninspired and a little bit lazy. Look for it this weekend. In the meantime, I will share my humiliation with you!

I am in line at the Ham Store (because apparently, people like ham for Easter? What is it about the risen Christ that says 'let's eat pig!'? Does no one see the irony in celebrating the resurrection of the world's most famous Jew with a meal of the number one unclean animal?) - and the line is 8 miles long. Julia and Henry are being exceptionally adorable and charming throughout our excessive wait, and the two women behind us are especially taken with them. They are going on and on about how wonderful they are, how great their names are (and here I throw a plug in for Katie, too), how well behaved. I am so proud, and as we inch closer to the front of the line it appears that we're going to get out of the store without any screaming, tantruming, puking, shitting or breaking of things. Truly, an Easter miracle.

Now, if you have never been to the Ham Store, it is kind of a weird deal. You stand in line forever, then are greeted by a gal who tries to upsell you ("Buy our $400 ham and we'll give you a turkey breast for only $100 more!"), then directs you to one of half a dozen or so ham-specialists who assess your ham-needs and pick the perfect piece of meat for you. You're then directed to the Pre-Pay Ham Person, who confirms that you have just the right ham, and then directs you to a register to check out.

Things were going great, up until the point that I get to the Pre-Pay Ham Person. She is a lovely woman who gives me a big smile and then confirms that I have, indeed, had a hamtastic experience. She says "Hello, pretty girl!" to Julia and "What a handsome little man!" to Henry, then looks down at my mid-section and says,

"Oh! And you're expecting another!"

Now, everyone who has ever had a baby KNOWS that, unless a woman is squatted down pushing out a kid, you never, ever, assume that she is pregnant. Never. Ever.

If I were a much quicker witted person, I would have told her that I was smuggling out a ham. Instead, I just laughed nervously and said "Uh, nooo." And this should have made the Ham Person sufficiently mortified, and she should have made some lameass comment about my fluffy shirt. Or something. But NO! She says:

"Oh, just a little leftover from this little guy!" What, WHAT? You are lucky I have a baby in one hand and a big ass ham in another, lady - because you are setting yourself up for a big, fat neck punch! And she keeps going, "But he's worth it! He's worth every bit of it!"

Yes, my child is worth every flap, fold and crease of the meat apron. It's something I console myself with in front of a mirror under the harsh fluorescents, in the privacy of my bathroom. Not something I need to be reminded of in the middle of the gee-dee HAM STORE, ASSHOLE!

I can only hope that she's out there somewhere tonight, in a blog, on a message board, or sitting at her dinner table with her family, saying "You are not going to believe what I did today!"

Race Relations

I'll never forget the day Katie found out she was white. She was in kindergarten, learning about the Civil Rights Movement and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. She came home railing about the injustices African Americans suffered at the hands of White People. She went on and on about the White People - she couldn't believe that anyone could be so ignorant! So cruel!

And then I sat her down and broke it to her gently: "Honey, we're white."

She was devastated. All this time, she thought we were beige. What a disappointment!

My liberal sensibilities take enormous pride in that story. Each time my children prove that people can indeed be colorblind, or that being different than us is something to be envied, I almost break my arm patting myself on the back. Just this week, Julia said "Mommy, some people are brown, and some people are just plain. We are just plain." Do I get points for that? A sticker for the car or something?

Then, just about the time I am feeling all United Colors of Benetton, they say something that makes me do the big arrrooo? Scooby Doo face.

Julia was playing with her friend A-, who has apraxia and a limited vocabulary. A- was trying to communicate something to Julia, but it just wasn't getting out. Julia says "It's okay, A-, we all talk differently," (awww, isn't that sweet?). She continued, "I talk like a Mexican!"

What?

And just now, playing Barbies with another friend - Julia hand her an African American doll in a Sleeping Beauty dress and says "Here's Sleeping Beauty." The friends says "That's not Sleeping Beauty, she's black." To which Julia replies "She's not black. She's white!" Which leads me to believe that Julia has no idea WTF her friend is talking about.

If 10 is the age where I have the sex talk, is 4 the age where I have to tell my kids they're white? Is it a rite of passage, where they get a yoga mat, a cable knit sweater, and a copy of the How to Be a Honky Handbook (see: Stuff White People Like for more gift giving ideas for such an occasion)?

I think I'll hold off for awhile. I'll let Julia live in a world where she is just plain, and the shade of your skin is no more important than the color of your hair. Where Sleeping Beauty can be black, and Julia can be a Mexican. Why not?

What Are We Doing in the Next Morning?

Julia wakes up READY. Ready for - whatever. When she was very small, her first words in the morning were "UP! I EAT!". Now they are "Where are we going today? What are we doing today?"

That was fine. Today I can handle. And when she started saying "What are we doing in the next morning?" - tomorrow? Sure, I can usually answer that, too. But when she started asking 4 and 5 days out, it was...excessive. Like, make me want to punch someone excessive.

So in a rare stroke of genius, I made her a calendar. The rest of April and all of May so far, each little square with a picture and a word, telling her what's on the agenda. I'm not an artist, so my apple (for school) looks a little like a pumpkin, but she gets the idea. We'll mark the days off so she can keep up. She loves it, I love it, I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner.

I AM BRILLIANT!

In other mundane news, Henry has decided his primary means of communication is going to be screaming, I have a golf ball sized blocked milk duct in my right boob (caused no doubt by those stupid new bras!), and we bought Shutup Roxy a Thundershirt. You may have even seen the ad for the Thundershirt on this very blog (oh, have you not noticed that I have ads? For high quality, topical products? That you want to click?). We tried it yesterday, and it appears that it might actually work. Even on a Jackass of a dog like Roxy. I will keep you posted.

Night Noises

Every night, as I tuck the girls into bed, they always ask the same thing -

"Where are you going to be?"

They are big girls, big enough to (mostly) not be scared of monsters or shadows. Old enough to know that Mom and Dad are near, and will come running should the need arise. But they are still small enough to need the reassurance.

I remember lying in my bed as a child, listening to the clink of glasses and silverware as my mom washed the supper dishes. Hearing her and my dad talking and laughing in low voices, the warm glow of the television lighting the hall and the strains of the Dallas theme song providing the soundtrack to my last wakeful moments. Whatever had happened during the day faded into a warm fuzziness as I fell asleep, safe under watchful eye of Mommy, Daddy, and J.R. Ewing.

"Will you do some laundry?" Julia asks, as I fulfill the last of her list of ridiculous demands (closet light on, hall light on, princess lights strung over the Barbie house on, cup of water, music, books). And, because there is always laundry to do, I oblige.

Later, I stand in her doorway and listen to the clothes tumbling in the dryer.
clink...clink...clink. The snap on a pair of jeans.
shhhh-ick...shhhh-ick...shhhh-ick. The zipper on a jacket.
Dishes being washed, low grown up talk, doors locking and the soft click of a bedside lamp. The quiet nighttime sounds that wrap you in warmth and safety. I imagine my children drifting off to the simple sounds of a busy house, slowly winding down, getting ready for- Sleep.

All the Single Ladies

In the aftermath of the Japan earthquakes and tsunamis, blogging about coffee at Panera and park playdates seems unbearably shallow and small.

But it's all I have. The beginning and end of my great wisdom on all matters tragic:
Love one another. Take care of your neighbor. Do what you can.

And let me tell you about my weekend.

Sean was off at his annual national sales hootenanny, sharing a room with his boss and eating hotel chicken every night for dinner. I was home getting the very faintest glimpse of life without a husband and, let me tell you, it sucked. To all you single parents, parents whose spouses travel extensively and those in the military - that shit is hard. I barely made it three days, and that was with considerable help from my mom and lots and lots and lots of coffee.

The highlight of the weekend was a fabulous birthday party for a preschool classmate of Julia's at the park on Sunday. Perfect weather, pony rides, pizza, cake, and a 4 year old little boy who dropped trou and peed next to one of the picnic tables. Things like that are always funnier when it's not your kid.

This is a face of pure joy-

Katie has had play rehearsals almost every day. It has been such an amazing experience, and opening night is just 3 days away. Lots of pictures of her in her costume coming soon. She is such a talented young lady, I am so very proud of her.


I missed my husband, the kids missed their daddy, and all is right with the world now that he's home.

Julia in the Middle

I have one word for the belief that a person's birth order dictates their personality traits - hooey. How small minded to think that we are, by virtue of where we fall in our families, forever tied to a certain set of behaviors. The idea is terribly disheartening.

But.

But, almost without exception, people that I know with a "middle child" agree - middle children are different. Lacking the luster of a first born, or the perpetual cuteness of the baby, middle children always have something to prove. My sweet Julia is a middle child, and embodies all those negative traits associated with the position - loud, stubborn, bossy, physically aggressive, quick tempered and quick tongued. Especially loud. My God, the girl is the LOUDEST CHILD ON EARTH. There is no such thing as an inside voice. She has exactly two speeds - wide open and asleep. She knows every button to push, and does so with glee. She ignores. Her moods are mercurial and those around her fall in and out of favor frequently. She once ordered my mother in law out of her room with the pointed finger and the command "Not YOU! I want my mom. You are really gross."

I have had strangers come up to me in public places and whisper "Is she a middle child?" and nod knowingly when I answer in the affirmative. In talking to other mothers of middles, I will say something like "She is completely crazy." and their eyes will get wide - "Exactly!" Middles present an interesting challenge to parents whose first children were easy. Middles seem to come out kicking and screaming and, despite our efforts to parent them in exactly the same way as our eldest child, continue on a path that tests our will and makes us question our methods. I am firmly, completely, wholeheartedly against corporal punishment. But I will admit to having to put myself in time out on numerous occasions before I did something I know I would regret. I will also admit to popping her butt out of anger and frustration and desperation. It has happened exactly once, made me feel horrible, and had little effect on her - except to make her turn to me and yell with indignation - "We do not hit in this house! We do not hit people we love!" Ouch.

She's in a tough spot. When your sister is Mary Poppins (practically perfect in every way), and your little brother is a cherub that just oozes sweetness, getting attention becomes your number one goal in life. You do whatever it takes to achieve that goal. As she gets older, she is slowly learning that positive behavior gets your positive attention, and negative behavior gets you ignored. Most of the time.

I'm defensive on the subject of Julia. I excuse much of her behavior (and rightly so. Mostly. I think.) to being tired, hungry, or needing attention. I will say "oh she makes me crazy" and follow it in the same breath with "but she's so much fun." And she is. She is a great companion to take most anywhere. She is exceptionally well behaved in public. She is very smart, quick witted, and kind to her friends. She is the most affectionate of my children, free with hugs and kisses and cuddles. She is, frankly, one of the most stunningly beautiful children I've ever seen. She worships Katie and is an awesome big sister to Henry (when she's not lying on top of him or rubbing her feet in his face). She is determined. She is a hard worker. She is the most self assured 4 year old you'll ever meet.


Julia has humbled me. She has made me realize that I don't know nearly as much as I think, and every day presents an opportunity for me to learn something new. She's also taught me patience in measure that I didn't know I was capable of. Yesterday, she was overtired and had a meltdown. I went and laid down with her in bed and rubbed her head until she started to drift off to sleep. I was staring at her amazing little face - cheeks still flushed with anger, eyes heavy, when she looked up at me, sighed deeply, and said "Mommy, I love you."

Oh, Julia. I love you, too. Fiercely, I do. Julia in the middle, right where you're supposed to be.

Sam's Party

I think it is a pretty special thing when you find friends and like the children as much as the parents. Such is the case with our friends Will and Tina, and their kids Sam and Annalee.

Sam, 4 years old, rock star, lover of dinosaurs and Peter Pan, Julia's future husband. Sam wins out over Jackson, her other suitor, because he doesn't run when Julia tries to kiss him. When in doubt, pick the guy who doesn't run away.

If the ball is any indication, Sam knows how to party.

Today was Sam's birthday party. It was a great little shindig with a fabulous spread (Question: How many dinosaur shaped pimento cheese sandwiches can I eat? Answer: Seven. In my defense, they were small dinosaurs.), no injuries, awesome goody bags (oh, how we mothers are judged on the quality of the swag!) and one slightly disturbing pinata.

All pinatas are required by Pinata Law to be disturbing. Some, more than others - those of you familiar with the Donkbee know what I'm talking about.

There is only so much realism that can be achieved with watery paste and newspaper. So Sam's pirate pinata kind of looked like a cross between Blackbeard and Jesus. Jesusbeard. Argh! The power of Christ compels you...to hit me with a stick! Follow me and I shall spew forth a bounty of tiny chocolates and plastic jewelry! Or I'll make you walk the plank! I managed to only get a picture of the back of the pinata, so you'll have to take my word on it.

The kids had a blast, of course. Look at Annalee, isn't she cute?

And how happy is this kid? (Note the theme sweater!)

Happy birthday, Sam. You're one cool kid, and I'm glad we're friends.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

Mother Knows Breast

I'm an unlikely lactivist. No one in my family breastfed. At the time Katie was born, I had no close friends, or even acquaintances, that had breastfed. I don't even own a pair of Birkenstocks. And yet, when I finally got the hang of it with Katie, something really kind of amazing happened. In the midst of all the hormones and emotions and doubts and concerns and obsessive worry about what kind of mother I might turn out to be - I found a quiet moment where nothing existed but me and my baby.

Nursing Katie was rough in the beginning. I thought we were doing okay in the hospital, under the guidance of the Tit Nazi (the one who grabbed my boob and shoved it in that tiny mouth). But when we got home, I freaked. Katie cried and cried and my milk didn't come in. My support system, trying to be supportive, suggested I give her a bottle. I didn't want to, and I don't even know why. I don't know why, suddenly, it was so important to me to breastfeed. Before having her, I'd had a pretty take it or leave it attitude, but now it was a matter of pride. Of failing, without feeling like I'd even really tried.

I will always be grateful to a stranger at La Leche League, who talked me through those first five days until my milk came in. For my husband and mother, who indulged me and helped my syringe feed Katie. Who kept encouraging me through those first weeks of sore nipples and toe-curling latch. Within a month I had forgotten how awful those first few days were.

I fell in love with my daughter in those still moments of middle of the night feedings. I felt all the stress and anxiety leave my body as my milk let down. I watched as she grew and got fat on nothing more than what I provided her, and that is something that still amazes me.

When I went back to work, I continued to nurse. I pumped while at work (which takes every bit of sweetness out of breastfeeding. There is nothing relaxing about being hooked up to a milking machine. Moo!) and she got bottles at daycare. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't horrible. She weaned at a year, my milk supply and her interest both dwindling.

And then came Julia. The Barracuda. Who sprang forth from the womb with her mouth wide open, a natural nurser. I remember her at 1, a mouth full of teeth. Friends would watch her cuddle up to nurse and gasp "You're still breastfeeding?" I never considered myself an 'extended nurser', but I happily nursed her until she was 2 1/2.

As Henry approaches his first birthday, he still nurses frequently. His daytime feedings are efficient and all business, because he has better things to do. But when he's ready for sleep, or just waking up, he'll cuddle contentedly for the longest time. Sometimes, he'll pop off and give me a milk drunk smile. It's those moments that take my breath.

I know that breastfeeding doesn't work for everyone, for many reasons. I've had friends who have had issues and gotten frustrated and stopped, and I don't blame them. I've had friends who've had a horribly tough time and kept at it, when I am sure I would have given up. Every mom has to make the choice that is right for her and her baby. I'm lazy and cheap, so breastfeeding was the obvious way to go.

I read stories and hear from friends who've had a bad experience nursing in public. I've nursed babies in restaurants and stores, in the elementary school and during church, in the middle of meetings and movies. I have left a place to nurse in the car, but only when it would be more comfortable and less distracting for my baby. I have never been asked to stop nursing, or leave an establishment. In fact, with the exception of one elderly woman (who said "It is so nice to see a young mother nursing.") I have never had a stranger comment on me breastfeeding.

It has been so deeply satisfying and rewarding to me, in a way I never could have imagined in those first, stressful days. Henry is almost certainly my last baby. I am storing up the memories of him nursing - the funny half laugh, half cry before he latches on, his warm smallness curled up against me, a little hand rubbing my chest, dark eyelashes on a fat cheek as he drifts off to sleep. He is beautiful, and right then, it is only us.

Me and my baby.

Perfectly Julia

Julia, Julia, oceanchild, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
Julia, seashell eyes, windy smile, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
-'Julia', The Beatles, 1968 

Julia does not wake up, she bolts up. And so she did this morning, running out of her room and announcing "Now I'm FOUR!"

 She had pancakes for breakfast. Then a cinnamon roll and a brownie (this is perfectly acceptable on your birthday). We painted, played blocks, got dressed, hid behind the couch when the Jehovah's Witnesses came calling*, and were out the door by 10 a.m. We spent the day doing Julia things - riding the carousel at the mall, watching movies, eating ice cream. Birthday dinner was mac & cheese at Cracker Barrel. Four year olds are easy to please.

Yesteryday's pic of the day - the rare and elusive Napping Julia (Nappus Julius)-


And modeling her new gymnastics outfit-

And tonight, the Birthday Girl winds down with a movie in bed-

Julia...is just perfectly Julia. Who could ask for anything more?

*There is no shame in hiding behind the couch in your own home, yelling "GET DOWN!" to your kid, while two poor young men look at you through the window in the door. OK, there is enormous shame in it, but Julia thought it was hilarious and so did I.

Julia Jumps

and flips and somersaults and dances and moves at a nearly non-stop pace from the moment her feet hit the ground in the morning until she is tucked in at night.

And nothing moves more than her mouth. Her first words every morning when she was just learning to talk were: "UP. I EAT." Now, they are "What are we doing today? Where are we going today?" And I'd better have an answer ready, and it had better be good.

Today, I answered the question with two of her favorite things - school and gymnastics. School, where the awesome Miss Nancy let them play in shaving cream. She's awesome because there is not a trace of shaving cream anywhere on my child - not in her hair, on her clothes, in her nose or ears, or any other place where you might expect to find it on a little kid.

And gymnastics, where Julia's ability to do things like climb the knobs of the kitchen drawers is not only okay, it's encouraged.

Photo of the day for January 6! It stinks, because I haven't learned how to do motion photography and she won't stay still.

Yesterday, we washed and dried and broke up into tiny pieces and dyed egg shells to make a mosaic. A fun craft with a cool end result. It gets a 4.5 on the pain the ass scale, because of the wait time between drying and dying. Next time I'll know to do that step in advance.

Photos of the day for January 5! Eggshells dying. In wine glasses, because we're fancy like that.

Our mosaic egg.