Eleven

She was born on a Friday, the first day of the first month of a new century. She was pink and fat and hairy and perfect. The drive home from the hospital was cold and dark, and she never closed her eyes. She saw stars and lights and wonder all around her.

Those first few days were surreal; neither her father nor I had any idea what we were doing, and we didn't pretend to. She was what I can now recognize as a 'good baby'. She was, in fact, a near perfect baby. Even so, those first weeks are a blur of nursing, diapers and tears (mostly mine). Second only to the overwhelming feeling of love was the crushing weight of my own inadequacy.

I would never be good enough.

The reality of it all hit me one morning as I got her dressed. She had, as newborns sometimes do, fallen asleep mid-change. As she lie there quietly breathing, I held my ear to her chest. It was the first time I'd heard her heartbeat independent of my body. The sound twisted my chest into a knot that's yet to be unraveled. It said to me, I am yours, you are mine.

She is kind and funny and happy and prone to dramatics. She is fearless in front of an audience, yet scared of the dark. She is kind. She is terrible about making decisions and keeping her room clean. She is creative and smart and loving and a horrible dancer. She still sees the wonder in everything around her.

She is my heart, my love, my own. She is mine and I am hers. Happy birthday, my New Year's Girl. You are The Beginning.

(I have joined NaBloPoMo again for January, and the theme for the month is 'Beginnings'. I can think of no better beginning than our first child, our Katie, who celebrates her eleventh birthday today.)

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.

Misunderstood

We were standing in line for the Giant Jumping Pillow at the Awesome Corn Maze a couple of weeks ago, and Katie was humming a familiar song. You know it, the one that says, "Pave Paradise, put up a parking lot...". Except Katie wasn't saying that, she was saying "Crave Paradise, put up a mmm-mmm lot..."

I said, 'Katie, it's PAVE Paradise. And what is mmm-mmm lot?'
She replies - "No, it's CRAVE. And I'm saying mmm-mmm because they say, you know, that word.'

Now, I don't know what 'that word' is, but it can't be good. Then again, it could be like the time she came home and told me a friend of hers was cussing - the 'S' word, the 'F' word, and the 'C' word.
Sexy.
Freaking.
Crap.

'OK,' I laugh. Spell it.'

'F-U-C-K-I-N-G.' She says, her eyes like saucers.

Right here, I want to yell, 'WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU HEAR THAT!' Which I do, on the inside. On the outside, believe it or not, I rarely let a dirty bird word escape my lips. Especially not THAT word.

'NO. No, they absolutely do not say that word!'
'Yes, yes they do.'
'No! They do not! They do not say that! Where did you even learn that word?'
'On the radio.'
'You did NOT! That's not what they say. It's PARKING lot. PARKING. That other word doesn't even make sense.'
'Ohhhhh-kay.'

I didn't even ask if she knew what it meant. I don't think I want to know.

On a totally unrelated note, my amazing friend C- took some family photos for us last weekend. They are the first photos we've had done of all of us. I was so happy when I saw them, I actually got a little weepy. You may remember what happened the last time I tried to take a picture with all my children.

These turned out considerably better.

Model Student

When I was in the 5th grade, we studied weather systems. For my weather report, I chose to explain the power and fury of the hurricane the only way I knew how - in song.

A hurricane is a tropical storm,
With floods and winds and rain.
It starts way out in the ocean,
Where it huffs and puffs and strains.

Catchy, no? Is it any wonder that I remember the words 30 years later?

That is the same year I did an interpretive dance to 'Mountain Music',by the country supergroup Alabama. It was a tap dance. I had never taken a tap class in my life.

Other 'special projects' during my school years included a rewriting of The Eurythmics 'Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)' to explain the Electoral College, and a dramatic interpretation of the Bay of Pigs in which I portrayed both President John F. Kennedy and Fidel Castro.

I am so grateful to the many teachers who indulged my desire for non-traditional learning.

So, when we went in for Katie's parent teacher conference today, and the first thing the teacher said was 'Katie must grow up to be an actress.', I couldn't help but beam with pride.

She is the first one to offer (or get elected) to write a script, or make a poster, or recreate a traditional Inuit Home using egg cartons and cotton balls. When she comes blazing through the door and announces 'I have a project!', I don't know which one of us is more excited.

Listening to her talk about the things she loves, her hands flapping all over the place and her eyes dancing and her goofy 10 year old laugh, it all makes me want to grab her and smother her in kisses. It makes me want to keep her here forever, just like this, because she is perfect. Even though she is a complete slob and prone to tears and pinches her sister, she is perfect.

My dad once said to me of Katie, 'She's just like you, but nicer.' I'll take it one step further. She's just like me, but better. She is an extraordinary person, and brings me immeasurable joy.

Theme Song

I have always believed that our lives would be significantly enhanced if only we had a soundtrack playing in the background during pivotal moments. Mundane moments, too, for that matter. Everyone knows how awesome having a kid is, or that first moment when you look into your partner's eyes and realize it's twue wuv. Now imagine it with a stirring, Henry Mancini-level orchestration in the background - it goes from great to spectacular.

I am often forced to compose my own score on the fly. This afternoon, I made cookies because sometimes I just need to bake something. I was explaining this to the Husband, but I didn't feel like he was totally getting it. So I decided to sing it.

"Sometimes I feel a deep, burning neeeeeeed...inside my soul, inside my heart, there is this neeeeeed. And when I get that feeling, there's just one thing to do, I have to cook that shit ouuuuuuuut!"

As usual, music hit the mark that was unreachable with mere words.

Katie gets it. I listened to her sing for ten minutes the other morning, a long, caterwauling ode to pre-teen angst. I remember doing the exact same thing when I was her age. Sometimes I got so into that I was moved to tears by my awesomeness.

"And my heart...my heart...it screams and cries with pain for you..." I am tearing up right now, I swear.

People talk about having a theme song for their lives, but I can't think of one that is exactly right for mine. Instead, I prefer to create my own soundtrack. One that turns the everyday into something special. Right now, I have to go score this baked ziti.

"Oh I apologize to all Italians, for I find I have no ziti, only egg nooooooodlesssss..."

So what's your theme song?

Go, Go, Joseph!

The past five weeks have been a whirlwind of rehearsals and performances of the West Side Civic Theatre's production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Starring SFC's very own eldest child, Katie.

Okay, not exactly starring. But she was in the ensemble and as far as I'm concerned, she was the star.

Can you find her? It's like she hears me take the camera out of the bag.

It was a fantastic show (Julia saw it FIVE TIMES, not mention numerous rehearsals and listening to the CD in the car non-stop) with an awesome theater company and, while it was exhausting for her, she is so sad that it's over.

Oddly enough, so am I.

The morning of the last show, she auditioned for a Little Theater production. 78 girls and she made it to the final 20 for 12 parts...and then didn't get in. She was disappointed but had a good attitude, and not making it is as much a part of the experience as making it.

She's an amazing kid.

The Traveler

"I am a born traveler." This is how Katie responded when her aunt asked how her flight was from North Carolina to Arizona. She's absolutely right; she has no problems with jet lag, is perfectly happy with airplane food, and adjusts well to any new setting or situation. Her first big trip was at 10 months old - a cross country flight from NC to California. She never cried, never fussed. She smiled and babbled and charmed everyone she came into contact with. When we deplaned several of the flight attendants stopped us to comment that they had never had such a delightful baby on a flight.

She is always looking forward to the next adventure, the next trip. She is never hesitant to leave, with or without her dad and me. The first time we dropped her off at sleep away camp, I stood by her bed, fussing and fidgeting with her sheets, looking for excuses not to go. My throat was lumpy and my eyes hot with tears, and she turned to me in exasperation and said "You can go now." Kindergarten, sleepovers, trips big and small, all begin the same way - with a roll of her eyes and the reassurance, "I'm fine, Mom. You can go."

Imaging what your children are going to be as adults is a fun game. As things stand, Henry will be a garbage man or landscaper, or maybe a professional climber of things. Julia will be a dancer or a wrestler. Katie will be a fashion designer or a writer or an actress. When I think about Christmases to come, our family gathering together, I always imagine it will involve a trip to the airport to pick up Katie. Because whatever her future holds, I am almost certain that it will take her away from this small southern town.

It makes me sad, and proud. Wherever she goes, however far she roams, I hope she always remembers to come back home.

And that is where she is heading right now. Approximately 6 hours until I see my girl. Oh, how I have missed her.

Independence

When my husband was four, his parents put him in a car with his 20-something uncle, and they drove from Wisconsin to Los Angeles. The car broke down somewhere in New Mexico, but they finally arrived, safe and sound. It was, undoubtedly, a fabulous adventure.

Can you even imagine? No cell phones? No Google Maps? No GPS? Not knowing where your precious snowflake was at any moment?

You may remember the piece from Lenore Skenazy several years ago, about letting her 9 year old ride the subway home alone. The reactions ranged from high fives to horrified, with most people in my circles leaning toward the latter. I know I did. And while I support the idea of free range kids in theory, I hold on to the notion that the world was a safer place 30 years ago when I was 10. Today, well - there are scary people everywhere! Stranger danger is so drilled into our heads (and our kids'), that we assume multitudes of pedophiles are lurking in every bathroom stall.

Katie is a connoisseur of public restrooms. We almost never go anywhere where she doesn't have to pee, and I am not about to drag two other children, strollers, carts, and various other bullshittery into a teeny bathroom so I can make sure she's not molested by the Tidy Bowl man. She is old enough to get in there, do her business, and get out - and old enough to know that if she walks in on something hinky, she needs to get out toot sweet*.

I temper her independence with my idea of safeguards. Against sound advice, we got her a cell phone. It gives me peace of mind when she's roaming the neighborhood, and it's come in very handy during her extracurricular activities. We only had some minor glitches ("Get a text every day from Justin Bieber!"), and overall it's been a good thing. She's as responsible and mature as any ten year old can be, and I feel reasonably sure that she will conduct herself as such out there in the big, bad world.

The topic 'how old is old enough?' is one that comes up frequently with my friends. How old to stay alone? How old to go to the mall with friends? How old to babysit? How old, how old, how old? It's such an arbitrary question, with so many qualifiers that it's hard to give a pat answer. I can't answer for your kid, only mine. Even then, I'm not always positive of my answer.

Yesterday, we put her on a plane by herself to fly to Arizona to visit the grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins. And every confidence I had completely shattered and I became headless chicken panic stricken hover mother. I tracked her flight (in real time, which is a very cool time suck I learned during my brief stint as a Cha Cha answer girl) and was yelling across the house "SIX MINUTES! SHE LANDED SIX MINUTES AGO! HAS SHE CALLED? WHY HASN'T SHE CALLED?"

She'll be gone for 12 days. It's the longest I've ever been away from her. Even though she is a smart kid, and is in very capable hands, I can't help but worry she won't brush her teeth, or wear sunscreen, or eat vegetables. The more she grows up, the more painfully aware I am that she will always be my baby. I wonder if letting your kids grow up has less to do with letting them go and more to do with keeping quiet about the choices they make.

She's still a kid. Old enough to go to the bathroom alone and fly across the country. Young enough to still need her mom, hopefully as much as I need her.


*Or, tout de suite, if you're some fancy pants French person.

Happy Camper

Katie has been at sleep away camp this week, for her fifth summer. The first year we dropped her off she was this little 6 year old girl, right out of kindergarten, who didn't know a soul at camp. We had barely crossed the threshold of the cabin when she turned to us and said "Okay! You can go now!"

It's just the type of kid she is. 

They have a tradition at camp that after you've gone five summers in a row, you get a paddle. It's a big deal, and they present them to the campers at the closing ceremony. Katie was so excited to get her paddle this year, and I am was very proud. Not just because she spends a week away from home every summer, but because she is a great friend, fun to be around, and open to new experiences. The summer camp director stopped me today and said the nicest things about Katie. She said "She's just a good kid." And she is, top to bottom, a good kid. I should remember that when she's being mean to her sister, or not rinsing out the sink after she brushes her teeth.

That's my girl - a good kid.


 

If you're in the northwestern-ish part of North Carolina and are looking for a summer camp (and they have day camps as well as sleep away camps), I can not recommend YMCA Camp Hanes more highly. I love everything about it, from the facilities to the staff. It is an amazing place, and worth every penny. If you're not in the market for a camp but want to help send a kid who couldn't otherwise afford it, check out their Send a Kid to Camp campaign.

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.

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.)

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?

The Safety of the Nest

"You don't have to go, you know. I won't be mad if you want to stay home."

Katie's flying to Texas with my mom tomorrow, and when I said this to her last night, she looked at me like I had two heads. The thing is, I meant it. I don't want her to go. I want her to stay home with me, safe and snug under my wing and watchful eye. Forever.

Katie is the kid that pushed us out the door the first day of kindergarten, who happily skipped off to sleep away camp like it was not the enormous deal that it was. Meanwhile, I am a weepy, anxious mess until she is home again. I don't think it's okay for people to live in bunkers and never let their kids out of their sight, but I get it. 

It's not that I don't trust the people my kids are with. My mom and Sean are highly trustworthy, very careful, competent, responsible, blah blah blah. I have faith that their schools will keep them well while they're there, and that a friend's house is as safe as my own. But they're not me. I have special Mom powers that will always keep my children well and healthy and happy and ensure that nothing bad will ever, ever happen to them.

Except I don't. I've heard too many tragic stories this week, of sick children and worse, from families better than mine, with stronger faith, more goodness, more diligence. I realize that life and circumstance and sheer bad luck are stronger than the cloak of protection I try to weave around them. I can only hope that my best will be good enough to deliver them to adulthood, and then I can spend the rest of my life worrying about their choices, and cursing the lack of control I have over their lives.

So I'll pack Katie's bag and send her off and know that she'll have a wonderful time. I will try to not drive the rest of the family and myself crazy for the next week. I will try to remember that this is part of growing up, and letting go, and trusting in life.

I will try to have faith that when she leaves my nest, she'll fly.

Four Days

I Would Like to Relive

1. The day Katie was born. All their births were wonderful, but Katie was the first. It was the only pregnancy blissfully free of doubt and worry, and every emotion was new and unexpected. I spent 9 months preparing for her arrival by reading every book I could get my hands on. On the day she was born, I forgot everything I read and I've spent the past 10 years trying to figure it out. On that day, I stopped being just Kelly and became Katie's Mom. What a gift - it was the best day of my life.

2. The day before my Dad was diagnosed with cancer. Until the doctor looked at my father and told him he had cancer, I lived in the world where young women think their young parents will never die. Until that day, Daddy was invincible, and that's my favorite way to remember him.

3. My wedding day. I married a handsome young man on a hot summer day. The day was just pregnant with possibilities - the things we could do, the places we could go, the family we could have. The day we met, I walked past him and he turned to his boss and said "One day, I'm going to marry that girl." Who knew?

4. Every ordinary day. Like today, when nothing special happened except the sun is shining and I am blessed a thousandfold with friends and family whom I love and who make me feel loved. When I get to have coffee with my friends and my kids yell and cry and kiss me for no reason and my husband asks me to take his clothes to the dry cleaners and I face down a mountain of laundry and, once again, lose.

It is the best day. It is the best life. Thank God.

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.

Opening Night

Last night was opening night for "Annie" and Katie made her stage debut as an orphan. She was cool as a cucumber, although she did admit to "sweaty pits". I, on the other hand, was a complete wreck all day. Nervous for her, worried not that she'd make a mistake, but that she'd make a mistake and get upset. She has worked so hard, and I wanted it to be perfect for her.

And it was, of course.

Such a great show - the entire cast was great, Annie herself was perfect, and there was this one orphan that I couldn't keep my eyes off of.

I almost burst into tears when the curtain went up (I am almost all gooey center, don't you know) and couldn't stop smiling every time my girl was on stage. We had front row center seats and Julia was just entranced. She insisted on holding my hand the entire show, she was so excited.

Here is the best part - the feeling I had watching my kid be herself. This was wholly and completely her, it had nothing to do with me or anything I did. There is enormous pride in seeing your child find their passion.

Five more shows to go, and I hope each one is as wonderful for her as last night.

Dear Katie,

You are the most talented, creative, smart, charming, amazing girl I know. You fill my life with sunshine, and I am so proud of the young lady you are becoming. You are my heart, and I love you without bounds.

Now. Stay out of my shit.

Katie shares so many of my personality traits save one - she is a pig. She would be perfectly content to live in semi-squalor, surrounded by gum wrappers and empty toilet paper tubes (made into binoculars or a purse for her doll or a million other things). The biggest problem is she does not contain her chaos to her own space.

She gets in my space.
She gets in my stuff.

The other morning I was greeted by a message on the rolls of extra toilet paper in my closet. "Hi Kelly!!! :)" written in Sharpie. Around the closet she had hung artwork that she had dragged out of the keepsake box (lid left off, other art on the floor). She tried on some of my clothes and shoes and left those lying in the floor, too. She cleaned her ears and shoved the dirty q-tips under my jewelry box. There are THREE trashcans in the bathroom. Four, if you count under the jewelry box.

She likes to take showers in our bathroom. She also likes to soap up the shower door with shampoo and fill up the shampoo bottle with water (like I won't notice that it's water and not shampoo coming out) and cramming little bits of bar soap into every crevice in the shower so I have to spend 20 minutes with a BUTTER KNIFE chiseling it all out.

She poured a bunch of sprinkles and sanding sugar into her toilet before a party, so guests could pee in style. She has drawn and written on every imaginable surface, regardless of appropriateness, all in the name of art.

She went to school smelling like middle management after liberally dosing herself with Sean's man-wash.

Changing her sheets regularly yields such finds as pens and pencils (a couple dozen), dozens of books, flossers (though this should make me happy, I guess), nail clippers, scissors (nothing like sleeping with sharp objects!), notepads, dirty socks, tissues, glue sticks and 18,000 stuffed animals.

Her teacher had a come to Jesus talk with her last week after she found Katie's tooth laying on one of the reading tables.

She cut a hole in a bag of playsand and dumped it all over the garage floor. When Sean told her to clean it up, she hosed it down with water.

She makes sock puppets. Out of my socks. 

We're constantly finding cups full of some disgusting mixture, sometimes hardened and crusty and sometimes just a mass of goo that is so vile it renders the container forever useless. 

She uses my toothbrush. GAK.

There is hope yet. My mom likes to remind me of a bologna sandwich she once found under my bed. And I turned out to be completely neurotic about cleaning!

Maybe sprinkles in the toilet isn't such a big deal, after all.

Apologies

I am very rarely wrong. At least in my opinion. Admitting that I'm wrong is hard enough, adding an apology on top of it can get downright humiliating.

Especially when I'm really wrong. Especially when the apology owed is to one of my kids.

Yesterday, I took Katie to rehearsal and told her the schedule didn't indicate she needed to be in costume. She took her costume bag anyway. Five minutes after dropping her off, she called and said the director wouldn't let her on stage without her costume.

"That's not what the schedule said. You have your costume bag with you, right?"

She didn't answer me. I repeated the question. I yelled her name. She's on the other end of the phone and it's clear she's listening to someone else talking. "Ummmm," she's saying. "I only brought my props in the bag."

I went all screamy. I was irritated she wasn't paying attention to me, I was pissed I had to drive home and get the costume and take it back, I was mad the director wouldn't let her on stage, I was mad the calendar didn't say costumes and how in the hell did everyone else but me know she was supposed to be in costume?

It was ridiculous and I was a real jerk, and even after I hung up the phone I continued to get madder and madder, so by the time I got back to the theater, I was seething. So angry that I decided to punish her with something truly horrible - the picking up of the dog poop. This is ordinarily a horrible chore, but Roxy has really been doing some serious work out there, and it's been a couple of weeks since Sean picked it up. And it rained this week. She was really in for it. I told her as much:

"And when you get home you are picking up poop! I hope you're ready, because it's a Roxy shit storm and you're in the middle of it!"

First of all, I do not curse at, or in front of, my children. Surprising, as I'm pretty free with the f-bombs when writing. Second (ly? second of all?), I don't even know what that means. Roxy shit storm and you're in the middle of it? Even Katie kind of looked at me like 'yeah, that didn't make any sense!'.

In the 15 minute drive between the theater and home, spurred by the ridiculousness of my statement, I started thinking about why I was mad, and at whom I was really mad. Katie just did what I told her to do. I was the one who was wrong.

When I went back to pick her up after practice, I apologized. Profusely and humbly and sincerely. But before that, I picked up the poop. It was a fitting punishment.

Regionals

The whole family (kids, parents, grandparents) packed up and headed over to Greensboro Saturday morning to watch the kids from Katie's school at their Odyssey of the Mind regional competition.

Note to my husband: When I say I want to leave at 6:30 am and follow it with "Did you remember to set the alarm?" and you say, "Yes.", I am assuming that you set it for a reasonable time.

Reasonable, so that when the alarm goes off and you lay there, because you know I will get up and shower first, I do not then shower and dress and head out to the kitchen in search of coffee and glance at the clock and see that it is FIVE OH FREAKING FOUR in the morning. Although it was awesome to get up at 4:45, especially after a night of fitful sleep with a coughing baby. Thank you.

(And I do not need to hear "get your own alarm clock!", so shut it.)


I forgot the card table they needed for a prop. Luckily, my mom was an hour behind us and said she'd bring it, no problem. Except she forgot it, too. Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it? Katie's coach brought an extra and so the day was saved. Briefly.

Katie's team problem was the Unhinged Structure, which is a wee little thing made of balsa wood that has to support x amount of weight. They team had to create a skit around it, involving additional folding structures, props and costumes. The awesome thing about OM is that there can be NO adult involvement. Everything is kid driven. Something needs a little piece of tape? Kid has to do it. Kid has to think about it. No adult help or suggestions or instruction.

So when something is wrong, like the structure is a little bit too short, the kids have to fix it. And the parents have to huddle around and bite their nails while the kids are doing it WRONG WRONG WRONG. The kids were stressing, the parents were stressing, and I had to walk away.


I was so impressed at how cool the kids stayed, how they focused in a worked hard to try to come up with a solution. Throughout this process, I've heard stories and seen examples of just how creative and resilient kids can be. Much more so than their parents, sometimes.

They did a great job on their performance and we went off to stuff ourselves silly with Five Guys and Frogurt and await the results. Both teams from her school ended up with third place trophies and we are all so incredibly proud. Katie was a little disappointed (she was already planning where we were going to stay for the World Competition. Forget State Finals, she was already at World!), but it was an awesome experience and she's already looking forward to next year.

All parents owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the parents and teachers who volunteer their time to coach after school programs. These programs take a lot of time and effort on the part of the adult volunteers, who have to deal with not only the kids, but the parents as well. THANK YOU a million times over to those who committed their time to Odyssey of the Mind this year; Katie loved every minute of it.

The Silent Treatment

When I was a kid, there was no punishment the cut me as deeply as when my father would not speak to me. Reserved for the most grievous of errors, it was a harsh and horrible consequence that could last for hours or, on rare occasion, days. My father was a physically intimidating man, but more terrifying that an angry look or raised voice or even a spanking were his silences. I imagined a red sea of rage boiling behind his closed lips.

This morning, Katie asked for five dollars to buy a hair bow from a teacher at school. I told her she could earn the money this afternoon, and then buy the bow tomorrow. What a good mom I am! What a wonderful idea! What a great way to turn it into a teachable moment! But it wasn't the answer she wanted so she took the money off our dresser, threw it outside onto the sidewalk, and then tried to convince us that she spotted this manna from heaven through the window. What an amazing coincidence, this five dollar bill, right as she needed it so desperately! Then she lied her way around her lie, digging herself deeper until she was finally sunk.

Sean and I were too dumbfounded to be angry. Our kid doesn't steal. Our kid doesn't lie. Our kid understands that you earn privileges. Right? Right?

I drove Katie to school in silence. I could see her in the back seat, her eyes red and watery. I didn't say anything, because I didn't know what to say. I was angry, but it was much more than that. I was sad. I was deeply, deeply disappointed. I thought about my father, and his brooding silences and wondered if I mistook sadness for anger. I wonder if he sat there, much like I did this morning, thinking "What have I done wrong, and what do I do now?"

Every day I learn how little I know about being a parent.

I know what it feels like to take a long ride with someone who is not speaking to you. I know the feeling of staring at the back of my mom or dad's head, thinking if I stared hard enough I could see their thoughts and know exactly how awful my punishment was going to be.  I know the shame in that silence. The agony in not knowing. I held her hand and kissed her cheek when she got out of the car. I told her I loved her and to have a good day. I've thought about her all day, and wondered if she's done the same.

Tonight, we'll sit down with her and her a long, painful lecture. Because it's important that she understand all the things she did wrong. Because it's important that she understand her punishment.

Because I can't stand the silence.