The Story of Tom

My boy hates writing. He has tons of difficulty with it thanks to a significant lack of motor skills.

Or maybe I should say "HATED" and "HAD."

We use a writing program called Writing Strands every other week. On the 'off' weeks, we do basic writing instruction with a simpler curriculum that involves some copy work and simple practice of writing, making the shapes of the letters properly, going over punctuation and capitalization, etc. Since he still occasionally flips letters and is still learning the rules for the other stuff, it works out. But he really likes Writing Strands.

This week, the goal was to write a story. An entire story. He freaked out when he first heard the assignment because OMG lots of words means OMG lots of writing means OMG flip out NOW NOW NOW. Thankfully the book gave lots of parameters when it came to this story. For some kids, that might be too restrictive; for my boy, it eased a lot of the "What am I going to write about???" anxiety. It was perfect. He spent the first day brainstorming about exactly how the story should go. He answered questions about his potential story on the second day and ironed out the kinks in his mind. On the third and fourth days, he wrote and illustrated his story. It is his masterpiece. He's incredibly proud of it, and I'm incredibly proud of him, too.

I now humbly present to you "The Story of Tom," as read by its author. Please enjoy.

Sleeping Beauty? Hardly.

My children and sleep have always had an interesting relationship. I suspect that most parents find this to be true, but just for the sake of argument, let me offer a few examples:

When M1 was two (and three and four and part of five), he got up. A lot. We would put him to bed when he got tired, which was (is still sometimes) around 7 p.m., and he would bounce out of bed like a jumping bean on crack until he literally crashed at his doorway, usually sometime around 11. Since he needed (still needs sometimes) about 12-14 hours of sleep a day, this was a problem.

M2 quit napping WAY earlier than M1. He would still nap on almost a daily basis in kindergarten, assuming he was separated from the other kids so he'd shut up for the five seconds it took him to sack out. She hasn't napped since she was barely 2. The days were few and far between when M2's preschool teacher would tell me that they *think* she *might* have slept, though sometimes they weren't entirely sure if she was sleeping or just actually being quiet for a few minutes.

Today, sleep has been an interesting challenge. M1 woke up grouchy this morning. We didn't have anywhere to go today, so when we got back to the house after dropping M2 off - SHE was as cheerful as the Flight Attendant Barbie on Toy Story 2 - I asked him if he wanted to nap. He said yes. He went to his room and tossed and turned for 45 minutes before *I* got sick and tired of listening to him thrash and came and told him to get moving, boy, we got school to do. And he did fine. After we finished our work, he asked if he could get his sleeping bag out of the top of his closet. Eh, sure, why not. He asked if he could put his pajamas back on. I saw no harm in this. He burrowed into his sleeping bag and cinched the top shut (I kept a close eye on this process, by the way) and told me he was a worm and was going to hibernate under the soil for the winter.

Peachy keen, jelly bean, let me know when spring arrives.

Except the worm never did hold still. I finally sent him to his room because again, the thrashing. He kicked and squirmed around in there for 'rest time' and became cranky again by oh, say, 4:30 p.m.

He got sent to bed at 5:30 after a light dinner of a banana and granola. He'll wake up in the morning and want to eat everything in sight, but I'd rather deal with a starving, happy, well-rested boy in the morning than a not-so-hungry, grouchy, tired boy at night.

Then there's the girl. She's back to fussing every evening and bargaining for a spot in my room (read: bed) at night. She had stayed in her own bed for the required five nights and demanded her reward this evening. Didn't ask; demanded. And she didn't want Daddy to tuck her in; she wanted Mommy. She was prepared to scream to high heaven till she got what she wanted. I'm amazed she didn't rouse the boy. She was squalling much like the weather around here. She didn't win, but she's in my room, on the floor (she lost that battle, too), talking to herself. If she sleeps, I'll be content.

The only question remaining is, can I go to bed yet?

Numbers

NaNoWriMo update:

40,269 words.

78 pages.

Nowhere near done.

Methinks this novel is going to take a tad longer than November to finish, although now that I'm started, I'm rather obsessed with seeing it through to the end.

I Need HELP.

First it was the orthopedic surgeon for my 3-month-old's extra toes.

Then it was the pediatric ophthalmologist for my 2-year-old's strabismus.

Then the ENT for my 9-month-old's tubes and 5-year-old's tonsils and adenoids.

Last month, it was the ENT again for the Earberry Incident.

Throw in the psychiatrist and psychologist, and I have a plethora of phone numbers in my contact list that aren't in the phone book of a "normal" parent.

I took the kids to the dentist today for their regular six-month check-ups.

M2 came out with flying colors. No cavities, all beautiful, great brushing, yadda yadda yadda.

Poor M1.

The hygienist stuck a small camera (seriously tiny, it looked like just another suction tube) in his mouth and took a photo that instantly appeared on the TV screen at the foot of the chair. There were a couple of dark spots on the back side of one of his front teeth which I just assumed were cavities.

"Is that a cavity?" M1 asked nervously.

"I'm not sure," said the hygienist as she checked the x-rays.

I figured she was just being nice. When the dentist came in, though, she said something about "#10" and "looks like reabsorption."

"An adult tooth?" he asked, sounding rather confused.

He asked if the tooth had recently had trauma (no, not that I'm aware of). He checked it out, muttered something, and proclaimed, "You're going to have to go see an endodontist. This is really rare in kids. [This doctor] is the only one in [town] that deals with kids, which I don't get because they're just little people, but anyway, she's really good, good with kids, good with teeth, really good. We'll get you here number up front. She'll have to look at it to diagnose it, but it looks like the tooth is reabsorbing itself."

Oh, gawd.

So now I get to add "endodontist" to my list of doctors.

Our consultation is next Tuesday. I'll let you know how it goes.

-----

P.S. If you have a second, could you go to this web site (News On 6 Kitchen Makeover) and vote for the photo by elise1mds? I could use a kitchen makeover right about now. Thanks.

Karma. Not My Friend.

I whined this morning. Now I feel like crap.

No, really, my throat started feeling funky about 1 this afternoon. By 3 p.m., when I went to pick M2 up from school, I was seriously glad that I'd done the grocery (and shoelace) shopping this morning. By 4 p.m., I was wondering how early I could get into bed and get away with it, and various parts of my body were starting to ache. By 5 p.m., I'd taken my temperature twice and was getting quite irritated at the thermometer that didn't believe that I felt like crap and kept saying 98.6, which is actually a .2-degree fever for me, but even that seemed low, especially since I was freezing. I thought about not making supper but decided that even a sickie mom could manage French onion soup, so I made that but couldn't stomach the salty smell and passed on actually consuming it.

Oz insisted that I take a shower - he brought me my pajamas, robe, and Ugg boots (that I only wear around my house, thank you very much) and seriously insisted - and is now making me apple cider pancakes for dinner because A) he's wonderful and B) the leftover batter will keep for breakfast in the morning.

Anyway, because I'm hurting, I need something to make me smile.

Here are some tidbits from my slightly insane high-school past that make me giggle.

1. One of my best friends was nicknamed Flexichu. Her birthday is tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Dear!! (Yes, our friends were a tad obsessed with corrupting Pokemon. I had a completely um... special... nickname that I will not be sharing. Yet. Give it a few years.)

2. I had a friend who had a car nicknamed the Moochmobile. The floor of the car was rusted out so badly that if you didn't know how to get in the car just the right way, your leg would go through the carpet and hit pavement.

3. Back when Surge was a very popular highly caffeinated beverage, a friend of mine would hand me a 2-liter, he'd keep one (or more) for himself, and we'd chug the pop (yes, it's pop here, not soda or Coke) as fast as humanly possible. We usually did this in the school bus on the way to football games. We were total band nerds. By the time we reached our destination, we were so hopped up on caffeine, we didn't sit still for the next five hours.

4. I also took blue hair mascara on these trips. There are photos.

5. I also have photos of Flexichu with carrots behind her ears and mini chocolate donuts around her eyes in the school cafeteria. The carrots look rather elven. The donuts were just fun. Yes, we played with our food. We once got in a Jell-O fight with the table next to us. Rumor has it that it took them several years to get it off the ceiling, since said ceiling was probably a good 20-30 feet up.

6. We band nerds also met up at various houses on Friday nights after the home football games. One night we watched "Night of the Living Dead." Hilarious movie. Less hilarious was the fact that the boys snuck out at one point and scared the crap out of us. I'm able to laugh now.

There. I feel a lot better. Memories are therapeutic. Share one of your favorite memories! I'm always up for a good laugh, especially since the kids have dentist appointments tomorrow.

Monday Morning Rant

Sooooooo I'm annoyed. It happens. I'll get over it. It's a piddly thing in the grand scheme of things, this issue, and I am perfectly aware that I'm being petty about it, but I feel like sharing, so you get to wallow in annoyment with me.

There. How was that for a run-on sentence??

M2 has a pair of sneakers. She's had them since early summer, if I remember correctly. They are pink and white, and they came with bright pink shoelaces.

Bright pink shoelaces are against school uniform code, so before school started, I had to find her a pair of white shoelaces. The only pair I could find were for adult shoes, so they were long, but I figured if they became an issue, someone would tell me.

Nobody said a word.

For THREE AND A HALF MONTHS, since the very first week of August when school started, nobody has said a word.

Nobody.

M2 or I tie the shoes in double knots every morning (she can tie her own shoes quite well), and they come home double-knotted every afternoon. Nobody ever said a word. At the beginning of the school year, M2 would say that they had come untied and she had to have help tying them once in a while, but I hadn't heard about that for a while, so I assumed she was just doing it all on her own.

This morning, I got an e-mail from her PE teacher. She was polite about it, but the gist of the e-mail was that she's tired of retying M2's shoes during PE (apparently she has to do this several times per class) and could I please buy some Velcro shoes or shorter laces?

So I'm annoyed. I could care less about buying new laces, assuming I can find them in M2's length, because it'll cost me a buck, two at the most. I'm not buying Velcro shoes because A) they're Velcro, B) finding Velcro shoes in M2's size is tough, and C) cost of laces vs. cost of new shoes, though it's really not about the cost, either. It's also really not even the inconvenience, because there's a shoe store next to the grocery store that I frequent and if there aren't shoelaces of the proper length and color there, I'm sure I'll get to Wal-Mart or Target eventually.

I'm just annoyed that nobody said a word for 3-1/2 months.

On that note, I would like to issue the following public service announcement: IF you happen to have an issue with me, and if you feel that it is eventually going to worm its way up to your mouth and spew out as word vomit in my general direction, please just get it out of your system now. We'll all feel better about it. And I won't have to be annoyed that you kept stuff hidden from me for 3-1/2 months.

Thank you. Have a great Monday!

Carpe Filia

Seize the daughter!

I did just that today. It was fairly impromptu, too, which is the bestest part. I had an appointment to get my hair done today. It was the first time since about June that I'd been able to escape and get my hair done, so I was really looking forward to it. My stylist had texted me that she wanted to do something "different," and since I trust her implicitly with my hair and its odd funkadelicness, I was all for it.

M2, however, had been a cling monster all week and said, "Mom, I want to get my hair cut, too!"

She'd really been looking forward to growing her hair long enough for braids, so I was surprised that she said that, so I halfheartedly told her that she could come, figuring the day would come and she wouldn't mean it.

Au contraire, the girl got up this morning and not only declared precisely what she wanted done to her hair - 3 inches off and chop the bangs, please - but also futher proved her point by trying on two pairs of flip-flops and two pairs of sandals and showing me that all of them were too small. Since this left her with only one pair of sneakers and one pair of dress shoes that she has always whined about hurting her feet, I knew shoe shopping was in order.

She also got dressed up for the occasion of going to see Miss Billie. She put on a brand-new outfit that consisted of a long, mid-thigh-length, cowl-neck sweater, purple at the top fading to black at the bottom, over black leggings. With the tennis shoes, it just didn't look right.

I caved. I told her she could come to get her hair done with me and we'd go shoe shopping afterward.

It was the beginning of something great. Hair first. She was so patient while I got my hair done, it was amazing. Then we hit the shoe store. They were having a buy one, get one 1/2 price sale, and when we found black AND brown boots AND new black dress shoes that didn't hurt her feet AND I found black ballet flats AND we got M1 some slippers and dress shoes as well when he and Oz met us... it was a beautiful experience. Everyone is now shod for the winter.

M1 is wearing size 7 men's shoes now.

I'm not going down that road in this post, though. That I can save for another day, when he outgrows pants.

It was Happy Hour at Sonic, so M2 and I swung by there on the way home. I had $5 in cash, thanks to the contents of Oz's wallet, and I might have blown it all on Cheddar Bites to have along with the drinks since M2 had only had one piece of pizza for lunch and had been such a darling at both the salon and the shoe shop.

On the way home, with M2 in her new black boots and new hairdo and new outfit, it occurred to me that since I also own a purple cowl-neck sweater and black boots, if I put them on, it would be a great "mommy & me" event.

And THEN it occurred to me that my friend Mary might like to come out to dinner with M2 and I and we could make it a girls' night.

It all went beautifully. Mary had had a wisdom tooth removed yesterday, so her mom had her boys, and she hadn't eaten anything all day since she'd spent most of it sleeping while doped up on Lortab, and she was dying to have good food and company. Plus, she was already wearing black yoga pants and a purple sweater! M2 and I picked her up (M1 and Oz got Chinese food and eclairs and "How to Train Your Dragon" while we were gone), and M1 selected Red Lobster for dinner. We got there before the main dinner rush and only had to wait about two minutes for a table. Dinner was delicious (Cheddar Bay biscuits, anyone??), Mary and I got wine, and we all three shared a dessert called the chocolate wave. M2 had to use the restroom during the middle of dinner, and she just ate up all the comments that we got on the way to and from the facilities. She had borrowed a pair of dangly crystal earrings from me (I had put on silver dangly earrings), I had put a black barrette in her hair (and a black headband on me), and so we really did look remarkably similar, and all the comments just made her glow.

She declared on the way home, completely exhausted at 7:15 p.m., that this had been "the best day EVER in my life, Mama."

I do believe we might have to paint our toenails together tomorrow, and she wants to have an official mother/daughter dinner with some of our friends in January. This sort of bonding has warmed me heart and soul. I don't think I ever knew that having a daughter could be so much fun!

I May Have a Problem

Books.

I'm addicted.

My daughter came home from school today and announced, "Mama! My teacher sent home magazines from the book fair!"

In plain English, that meant she brought home Scholastic catalogs. Four of them, to be precise. I have a hunch that if the second-grade teacher had been able to catch her in the hall before she came home, there would have been more.

I am a book slut. I'll sell my body, mind, and soul for a good book. I'm currently working my way through Caesar's "Gallic Wars." I have three more library books lined up on the coffee table, two nonfiction, one fiction, just waiting to be read. The kids and I have a running average of 20+ books checked out from the library, and I'm constantly requesting more.

We don't have a big house. In fact, there is only one bathroom among the four of us. That we can manage to share. However, we have five bookcases. One for homeschool curriculum, one for books the kids share, and one in each of the three bedrooms. We share books, but it's a jealous process.

I have a method to ordering books these days, because yes, I am that mom who can't see a Scholastic catalog without going, "Ooooooooooo boooooooks...." and ordering something. Or 12 somethings. The teachers love me. My method goes something like this:

Step 1: Go through everything with a blue highlighter (this would be the one I hurled at the cats last night) and circle everything I MIGHT even POSSIBLY want. Someday.

Step 2: Add it all up and have a heart attack.

Step 3: Go back through everything with a red pen and re-circle everything that the kids specifically requested or that will actually be useful in the coming months, because it's not like more catalogs won't come home in late January, just in time for Valentine's Day.

Step 4: Add it all up and experience palpitations instead of a heart attack.

Step 5: Narrow it all down one more time to a financially manageable level, get on the web site, and place the order.

Step 6: Somehow still managed to be surprised 2-3 weeks later when the books arrive and the girl has to have help hauling her backpack out the door of the classroom because there is roughly the cargo of a U-Haul stuffed in there.

Step 7: Read.

Ahhh, bliss. It is all worth it in the end, isn't it??

Even if my husband hesitates to give me free rein at Borders.

It's safer for our budget that way.

Timing is Everything

Timing is everything: There's a cricket in my living room right now. Dorian Gray found it first. I don't think it's a particularly bright cricket. My first thought was that it was suicidal, but I think that's a projection from all the writing I've been doing, and I think it's actually got a seriously masochistic streak instead. It hopped all around the living room and is now hibernating in a rolled-up piece of paper that's been stuck behind M1's desk all week. All of Dorian's action, which is odd for him, drew the others in, and now the cats are driving me nuts trying to get at the cricket. I may or may not have chunked a blue highlighter, a red ink pen, and my iPhone cord in their general direction to try to get them to stop without actually A) getting up or B) hurting the cats. I'm running out of painless, lazy options on my end table, though, so eventually I'm going to have to move. Either that or the cricket is going to have to get an actual suicidal streak and come out to be eaten. Which means I'll clean up cricket remains in cat urp later. Decisions, decisions. Mostly I'm just happy for the laugh.

Timing is everything: I woke up with a migraine this morning. I hadn't had one in a long time, over a month, but since my migraines are related to a negative drop in air pressure and we haven't had a good low move through in over a month, and when I woke up this morning it was also drizzly and rainy... it all makes sense. The part that sucked was that I also used up my last migraine fixer last time I had a migraine and hadn't refilled the prescription. Thankfully Oz was here. He also had volunteered to take M1 to his swimming lesson today, so I went to bed, zonked out, woke up, took some Aleve, and then called the doctor and pleaded my case with the nurse. I swing by the pharmacy tomorrow. A Boy Scout I am not.

Timing is everything: I made a pumpkin streusel pie today. Pie. Singular. There were supposed to be two of them. I made two pie crusts. I made a big honkin' recipe of pumpkin pie filling. I filled two pies. I even started cooking them like the recipe said - 15 minutes at 450 - and then took them out to cover the crusts with foil. I went to put the first one back in, and in total slow motion horror movie close-up shot, it tilted. The silicone potholders slipped. And 2/3 of the pie wound up splattered over the inside of the oven door. I stopped. I stared. And I chunked the rest of the pie in the trash can. It's just pie, right? Then I had to work out a way to clean most of the mess off the door so I could continue cooking the other pie. For the record, LOTS and LOTS of paper towels will keep you from burning yourself and will get most of the stuff cleaned up, except for the brownish residue you find later, cooked to the inside of the door like a bad spray tan. The other pie came out beautifully. I want to see the glass half full here.

Timing is everything: I might have committed murder today. It wasn't entirely my fault. The thing DID play dead for two days. It was the last fish in M1's tank, and when a fish spends one day stuck to the back of the filter and one day lying motionless and visible on the bottom of the tank, I tend to think it's dead. It is a fish, after all, and I'm not prone to giving a fish the ol' poke-'n'-prod to make sure it is actually dead and cold and infused with rigor mortis. Since it was the last fish, I told M1 that I would empty out the tank for him while he was at his swimming lesson. I got the siphon. I got the bucket. I started draining the water. I got the tank 3/4 empty when I realized that I hadn't yet removed the fish and that it would be easier to remove if I siphoned it up as opposed to trying to grab it with my bare hands, something my son will happily do right before feeding it to bugs or dissecting it but something I don't find nearly as fun. I aimed the siphon at the fish and watched it schloop up the siphon. Halfway. Then, at the last possible second (I'm trying to work up drama here), the fish jerked around and flew back out the bottom of the siphon and parked itself in the only remaining corner with more than an inch of water. I had to pause for thought before realizing that even if I filled the tank back up and put in a new filter and got the whole thing going again, the whole water cycle was going to be completely out of whack and it was going to actually die anyway, and M1 wasn't home, and nobody would ever know, and HEY! We have chickens!

They appreciated the odd little treat.

If the stupid fish hadn't waited till the very last second, it would still be alive.

Timing is, indeed, everything.

More Fun With My Son

How My Boy's Mind Works, Vol. 32568:

Picture it. M1 and I are in the van today, getting him a haircut, grocery shopping, and going to the bank, and he suddenly announces out of the blue, "St. Nicholas."

Random.

"St. Nicholas?" I query suspiciously.

"Yes. St. Nicholas is Santa Claus, right?"

Oh God.

"Yes..."

"Well, St. Nicholas was alive a LONG time ago. He should be dead.

[pause]

"But if he's Santa Claus, that means he's still alive.

[pause]

"But if he's still alive, then he can't be a saint."

"Right...," I respond cautiously.

-----

The End.

No, really, that was all. He never did press further. But I strongly suspect this is the last year that Santa exists in his world. It's hard to watch him grow, but dang, the logic is amazing.