I [Heart] My Life

The Time My Daughter Caught Me Throwing Away Her Artwork

Mama?

Her voice comes to me one evening just as I come in from the cold and dark (this was before the time change, one day when it actually felt like winter for a change). I set my purse on a kitchen chair and lie my coat across the back of the chair as well.

Mama. Her voice is solemn and I catch her tone, looking up finally. She is standing before me all big eyes and small, bird-like arms, legs and shoulders.

Mama, Daddy and I need to talk to you about throwing away my art.

My stomach flutters. Uh oh. Busted. 

Behind her, my husband nods his head. 

Although this was my first time being confronted, for years I'd be sifting through her art, first finger paintings and scribbles, mostly done here on the kitchen counter and then later creations sent home from preschool. The scribbles progressed to faces, rainbows, trees and flowers. Then she began to add words to her drawings: first her name, then other labels like dog, cat, April, Joe. I sifted through, saving a couple, but mostly discarding them. It was more about the process, I told myself, than the final creation.

Don't get me wrong: I love every single brush stroke, scissor snip, and dotted i.  But... well, clutter attracts clutter, right? And clutter after a little while (like, five minutes) feels like oppression and clausterphobia, a dark reminder of the past, to me.

Two weeks ago I celebrated my birthday. A couple of days before, my six-year-old fretted about what to give me.

I'd like to paint you a picture, she said. But who knows what you'll do with it.

And so in the spare bedroom, beside my tiny desk, on the corner of the bed there is now a stack.  A stack of paintings, drawings, worksheets, cardboard tied with string, dried flowers. Paper upon paper, two feet tall and growing, all of it created by my young artist. I ask my friends, desperate for their secret, What do you do with all the paperwork?

But no one has a satisfactory answer. Buy a plastic bin and put it under the bed. Take pictures of it. Use it as wrapping paper. Decorate a room with it, ceiling to floor, wall to wall. This last was my idea. I'm daunted. She's only in first grade, after all, and here is this mound. 

When I quake before a stack of papers it is because I come from a family that threw away nothing. Just last week I threw away jars of dry beans, rice and pasta from the 90s. Stacks of mail, sometimes unopened, gathering dust. Spare buttons, dead pens, journals started and forgotten three pages in. Birthday, anniversary, graduation, and holiday cards dating back to the 50s. Locks of hair, green participation ribbons, immunization records. Every drivers license ever issued, every paper insurance card ever acquired -- health, dental, vision, car. Old bottles with a couple squeezes of shampoo or conditioner remaining trapped inside, a smidge of soft scrub, used candles, spent flip flops, flimsy slippers and a baby blue sleep mask stuffed in a drawstring velour bag -- a souvenir from the worst vacation ever. All saved for what? Just in case? Optimism bordering on neglect? Maybe it's the other way around?

In this house many a family dinner was eaten on our laps or picnic-style on towels spread on the blue shag living room carpet because the table was buried under stacks of paper: magazines and catalogs, paper sewing patterns, textbooks, calendars, grocery lists, receipts, fliers. It is not like there were no filing cabinets. No, filing cabinets, file boxes, desk drawers with hanging file folders abounded, all bursting with the accumulated paper of a collective family lifetime: tax returns, duplicate checks, book reports and report cards, service records, warranties and owners manuals. Bills paid, statements for accounts long since closed, printed directions fom MapQuest, newspaper clippings, and email correspondance. None of it burned, recycled, crumpled, or tossed. Simply stacked, set aside, and forgotten, destined to outlive its owner.

And so, like a pendulum, I swing the other way: mail is opened and sorted a few steps from the mail slot, receipts declined at the register, magazines read and passed on. A steady stream of paper flows through, discouraged from lingering. And yet, I realize as I stare into my daughter's brown, dead-serious eyes, there is a limit. I realize I may be guilty of sweeping away too much in my desperate attempt at controlling the tide. Perhaps all she is asking for, this child of mine, is a record of her life, a sign she was here. 

Don't brush away her baby footprints so fast, mama.

 

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I remember picking up my flannel pillow and pulling my twin-size down comforter off my bed. I balled them up together as best I could and then lugged the heavy bundle up the stairs, dragging a large portion of it on the floor, stepping on parts of it in my sock feet. Dragging a chair across the kitchen, I got a tea bag down out of the Good Earth tea box in the cupboard. Cinnamon filled the air. Near-boiling hot water came from the tea kettle on the wood stove, it was always there, always hot in the winter. With all my supplies ready, a book under my arm, I made a nest on the couch and eased myself into it. And there I'd camp all day, maybe even sleeping there at night, struggling to keep my eyes open during the Evening News.

Sick days. I loved them. The break from routine, the mandatory coziness, permission to do nothing but read all day.

The living room of my childhood was two walls of floor-to-ceiling, south-facing windows overlooking the apple orchard in the foreground and mountains in the background. Sunlight streamed through those windows all day long, ending in magnificent sunsets. As I lay back on the couch, the flickering reflections of the sun on the pool outside danced across the ceiling in watery, lazy apparitions. The room was book-ended with a hard-working wood stove that, in the fall, winter, and spring could raise the temperature in the room to a good 80 degrees if no one was looking. The front door opened into the living room, and from my nest on the couch I had a clear view through the kitchen all the way to the wall on the other side of the house, next to the bathroom. It was a good post for taking a break just outside the action of a five-person family. On the fringe with a good view.

Today, some 30 years later, my daughter is home sick from school. Some things have changed (what I would have given for Netflix streaming on my youthful sick days!) and some is the same: She made a nest of pillows and blankets on the couch, she has a steaming mug and toast beside her, she is happy and content to be inside the cocoon of our home today despite the illness (just a cold, thankfully).

Thinking back on my sick days, they are perhaps my fondest childhood memories, as strange as that sounds. I felt warm, secure, taken care of... And so now I want to protect my child's memories of these days, too. That's why when she is sick, I stop too. I used to get very stressed by her need for a sick day: how would I work my deadlines, conference calls, errands, dinner-making around this sudden change to my schedule? But now I realize how lucky I am for this imposed pause. I can make this day, this week (gulp!) about caring for her. She won't live here forever (despite what she may have told you); I won't always get to fuss over her. I want to savor these times. After all I can work around bringing her more tissues, making her something to eat, helping her find something to watch, tucking her in to bed, reading her a story, playing Checkers. All too soon she'll feel the pressure to ignore sickness -- to work through symptoms, to suck it up. For now I want to protect her ability to take a guilt-free sick day.

And in that way, I get a cozy break day, too.

The Middle Place: Some Thoughts on Mother's Day

There is a new normal round here.

Alarm goes off at 6a.

I reach for my phone & clumsily scroll through a few social networks while I blink hard to clear away the bleariness. Wake up! Between 6:15 and 6:30 I pull on yoga pants, a sweatshirt, a hat, and my shoes. A quick swing by the chicken coop to let the hens out, and then I'm putting ear buds in my ears and heading out for a walk. Mostly I breath, and try to be present. What I try not to do is scroll through and/or update my online calendar. No planning yet, lady.

Be. Here. Now.

Sunrise. Boats. Soaring herons. Happy dogs.

This is MY time.

7:15 I'm back. Now it's Parent Time. But if I can, I snag a quick, drought-conscious (solo) shower. I can still hear the white noise playing ocean sounds in the bedroom so I lay out breakfast for Nia ont he bar (she's in her cereal every single day phase and please-don't-mix-it-with-oats-or-mix-coconut-milk-into-the-cow-milk) and plan her lunch, as well as jot down ingredients for the green smoothie Joe and I will share. Soon Nia wakes and I get her dressed in the clothes she chose the night before. 

We are like a well-oiled machine. (Sometimes.)

Now Joe is up and we tag-team. One of us does Nia's lunch, one does the smoothie. I brush Nia's hair in between, and also pack what ingredients I can for the food I'll cook later in the day. Grocery list? Check. Canvas grocery bag? Check. Cookies for Teacher Appreciation Week? Check. Laptop, paperwork, cell phone charger? Check. Text the parents in the carpool ("I'm on my way!"), grab the booster seat, and Nia and I are out (leaving Joe with a mountain of dishes and chasing after me with my smoothie to-go cup).

It's a 20-minute drive to school and I love every minute. Everett is talking about "How to Train Your Dragon" (there are WAY more dragons in the books than in the movie!), Nia and Anika are drawing (sorry, baby, I can't look right now, I'm driving, but I bet your mandala is gorgeous). Arrive at school, my arms are full of lunches, bags, flip flops in case it gets hot, sweatshirts in case it is cold, three booster seats, stuffed animals for cuddle time, and Anika's unicycle. Whole-school morning circle, then kisses good-bye. Deep breath. (God, it always smells so good here!)

Back to the old apple orchard/parking lot and slide behind the wheel. Exhale.

Now I glance at my online calendar. Where are we going today, what time do we have to be there? Stop at the grocery store for ginger ale and rice pudding makings. And then a 45-minute drive up the mountain. Up the same roads I traversed as a child, back to a house that hasn't changed a lot since I left home, but now contains just one of our five-person family, and a dog I never lived with.

With that I slip out of the parent role, and into the daughter role.

Later tonight, I'll drive back down the mountain, back toward the sea. I'll arrive home sometime between dinner and bedtime and and gather up my girl in my arms. Inhaling the smells of her day off her warm skin and tousled hair, she'll snuggle into my neck. Mama!

We'll climb into bed together and loose ourselves in Encyclopedia Brown. (How does he do it?!) I'll fall asleep exhausted with Nia snuggled close. Later Joe will slide in beside us.

The middle place.

Between my father, my brothers, my husband, and my child. It's challenging, for sure.

But there is no place I'd rather be right now.

~~~

NOTE: The title for this post is a tribute to a book I'm currently reading about a woman who's father was diagnosed with bladder cancer just as she was finishing her own chemo for breast cancer. I carry this book with me everywhere these days. It is like having a friend with me who REALLY gets this weird stage in my life. The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan. Thanks, Karah, for turning me on to this book!

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The other morning, while we were breakfast-ing and getting ready for school, out of nowhere Nia burst into tears. Between sobs she said she was worried that Santa would discover that she was a horribly naughty child and not bring her any presents.

Misreading her fears (which were very literal, but, alas, I'm always trying to read between the lines -- doh!), I held her close and told her that there was nothing she could ever do that would make me not love her.

This wasn't cutting it. What about Santa and his list of good and bad children?

This struck me momentarily dumb, and then I got mad.

First of all, Joe and I never told Nia about Santa. She picked up on him from the environment -- cultural and advertising-based -- and as she asked about him over the years, I explained that he is (spoiler alert!) something that some children and grown ups like to pretend at Christmas time, as part of the Christmas Magic. I'm no grinch. I love magic and sparkle and wonder, but I'm not keen on fooling kids either only to have them be brokenhearted and feel duped later. So I've always asked her what she would like to do in our family: to Santa or not to Santa?

So it was her idea to believe in Santa. (He fills the stockings. And in our house, he simply walks in the front door. The guys around town dressed as Santa? Simply helping out.)

Something else we never told Nia: that children are either Good or Bad. Again, this was something she picked up on (possibly by all the random people who ask kids if they've been good this year --! Come to think of it, this is a lot like strangers who used to ask me if my baby was good -- was she a good sleeper? Was she a good eater?).

So the morning that I held my daughter in my arms, I wiped her tears and assured her that Santa was not going to find out she was a bad kid -- because there is no such thing. I also explained what I believe is the true meaning of Christmas: that we (and Santa) give gifts to our loved ones not because they've earned them, but because it makes us happy to give them. Because some people need things more than we do. Because it is better to be generous and caring than to be classically "good" (read: obedient, quiet, compliant).

Of course, Nia asked how Santa would know our house rules (that she gets presents on Christmas morning no matter what), and I quickly said because I told him (let's not forget who's in charge here, Big Man!). I called him up and let him know that on no uncertain terms would he be putting my kid on the Naughty list -- and that questioning authority, figuring out her likes and dislikes, not being perfect at everything she tries, occasionally getting mad, does not in any way make her Bad.

On the contrary, she's doing everything right to grow up to be a person of character and integrity. That's what I call Good.

~~~

We recently had the opportunity to be generous to some strangers -- after one was generous to us. I posted this on Facebook the morning after:

~~~

And what about the peppermint bark? Oh yeah. The whole reason I sat down to write a post this morning. (Sheesh!) Well, this is our third year making and giving away Christmas candy. I posted the recipe link here.

It is pretty amazing. You kind of have to set aside a whole afternoon to do it, and if you try to multi-task too much, it can go bad, but if you just devote yourself to the project, it turns out beautiful and yummy and makes a great gift for teachers, friends, and neighbors, not to mention the folks that do stuff for us all the time, like the woman who delivers the mail, or the man who dry cleans our work suits. 

Smashing peppermints...

Cleaning out the bowl of white chocolate...

Ready to give...

 

 

 

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Should We Let Our Kids Quit?

A few nights ago, I watched my little girl teeter on the razor sharp edge of her own comfort zone.

It was the night of her school's annual winter performance of Robin Hood. For weeks, the whole school had rehearsed, made costumes, painted props, memorized lines and sequences. Each day my Kindergartener had been so excited to go to school and participate in rehearsals, especially watching Robin Hood and Maid Marian iron out the kinks in their parts. At home she quoted the Sheriff of Nottingham (or, in this case, the Sheriff of Aptos). Each day we counted down the days till The Big Night. 

And then the day was here.

We parked the car on the dusk-darkened school field and climbed the steps up to the gym, glowing invitingly in the icy stillness. Inside, the kids were a frenzy of costumes & face paints & props.

In the happy chaos all around us, Nia clung to me, suddenly unsure.

I want you to be with me, mama.

"OK, baby. Let's find your costume."

Once her simple costume was on, she re-affixed herself like a starfish to my leg.

I want you to be with me, mama.

I stalled. I was supposed to leave her with her classmates and wait outside. She was so nervous, but I knew she'd be ok. I knew she wanted to do this. (Right?!)

Finally: "Parents are supposed to be outside, sweetie. Look, do you want to get your face painted?"

She did, and so she un-suctioned herself and we parted with big hugs and kisses. I went out to stand in line with the other excited parents while the teachers helped the kids with their last minute preparations. The minutes ticked by. We rubbed our hands together and stomped our feet, smiled and chatted, eager to see our kids shine. Finally the doors were opened and we moved into the warm auditorium.

"April!" I heard my name shouted over the din.

When I turned, there was my sweet girl, tears streaking her freshly painted face, sitting in her teacher's lap. I rushed to her. Nia made no move to leave Rosy's lap, but she grasped my hand with urgency. "What happened?" I asked.

"She's going to try," Rosy said by way of explanation. Nia nodded stoically.

And then I understood. Anticipation. The icy fingers of stage fright were gripping my child's throat, stirring up the butterflies in her too-sensitive stomach.The ugly, bat-like ones.

I nodded and hugged her and tentatively found a seat close by.

Looking around, I realized my child was the only one crying. The only one looking terrified. The mama bear in me immediately bristled and I thought 9-foot tall Grizzly thoughts: What if she doesn't want to do this? Maybe she doesn't want to be an actress! I wanted to scoop up my cub and flee with her, deliver her away from the feelings in the pit of her stomach.

But I didn't.

I did not in that moment gallop with my child over the Aptos hills into the sunset (or moon glade, as it were). I sat there, teetering on the edge of my own comfort zone, uncomfortably waiting to see what would happen.

What happened was simple and predictable: the show started and my child became distracted, transfixed. Seeing her relax, my heart beat slowed and the adrenaline in my system was replaced with the oxytocin of an enjoyble time.

And when it was finally her turn to be part of the 9-person dragon (you didn't know there was a dragon in Robin Hood??), she rocked it. As the dragon left the stage, she lifted the costume, beamed and waved to the cheering crowed.

And no one was more proud of her for sticking with it than she was of herself.

And I realized that had I rescued her from her stage fright, I would have been robbing her from something even larger. Something truly valuable.

Maybe she won't grow up to be an actress, and maybe she won't seek out the stage, but what she learned that night was huge:

• The satisfaction of seeing something through
• Of being part of a group
• Of working together to create something only possible by the accumulation of many smaller pieces

And yes, of pushing herself outside her comfort zone into new, sparkling territory.

 After the fact, I researched & found great Washington Post piece that summarizes the importance of performing arts for children: Top 10 Skills Children Learn From The Arts

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Mothering Lessons Learned From a Chicken: The Only Way Through is... Through

"If you're going through hell, keep going." ~ Winston Churchill

I woke up one day recently to discover that one of my hens was not herself.

She had changed from a contented, clucking, yard-scratching, brown-egg laying, curious -- did I mention friendly? -- chicken to a feathers-standing-on-end, not wanting to leave her nest, enormous, growling, unfriendly-type of hen. Experienced chicken farmers recognize this condition immediately. I had to Google it.

Twas the call of motherhood.

My normally sweet hen was overcome with hormones telling her that our hot, late August weather was perfect for nothing other than hatching chicks. And she was hell bent on her task.

We, her people, had to make a decision. With no roosters around, simply gathering her eggs beneath her would prove fruitless -- and draw out her condition endlessly. We could 1) break her of her broodiness (separating her from the flock, putting her in a not-cozy crate until her hormonal shower subsided), 2) obtain some fertile eggs and place them beneath her and hold our breath for 3 weeks, or 3) sneak some day-old chicks beneath her in the night and hope she bonds with them, and they bond with her -- thus moving her on from broody to Mother Hen.

We opted for Number 3. Beneath our sleepy, so-black-she's-green Australorp one night we tucked a fuzzy toe-headed Buff Orpington and a rusty, fluffy Rhode Island Red, both one day old. And then we went to bed, not knowing if the morning would dawn on living or dead chicks.

In my own way, I can relate the crazy-making hormonal cocktail that flips the switch from not necessarily wanting babies, to suddenly wanting them like no body's business. In my twenties I wasn't sure if children were in my future. I was ambivalent. Then, in a switch that seemed as though it occurred over night, I yearned for babies with all of my being. I recall a father walking down the sidewalk with a little one on his shoulders -- and it was all I could do not to cry at the simple beauty of this iconic display of fathering.

Mother Nature had shown me who was boss.

And from that day forward nothing was quite right until I had my own babe in my nest.

The morning after we tucked the chicks under our hen, Poppy, we woke to tiny peeping sounds coming faintly through the walls of the chicken coop. "They are still alive!" we said to each other with awe. It had worked: Poppy had adopted them!

I wish I could say it was all roses from there on out, but alas this mothering thing is a road rot with potholes and mystery.

That first day, Poppy seemed a bit confused about what to do with the chicks. At one point she left the nest in such a frenzied quest for water that one chick toppled out the backdoor of the coop and another ended up on the ground out the front door. There was the day when another hen seemed intent on attacking one of the chicks and a loud raucous of squawks and stampede emminated from the coop, sending me flying out the backdoor to break it up and enforce my place at the top of the pecking order.

And then there came the morning when the Rhode Island Red babe was found dead in the corner of the run. A beautiful rust and cream colored ball of feathers, her eyes closed, her yellow legs outstretched.

Cold.

I let the other hens in my small flock out of the chicken yard and looked in on Poppy. She was hunkered down in a corner of the coop, her surviving chick huddled beneath her out of sight. What horror had transpired in the pre-dawn hours I'll never know.

My heart ached at this cruel turn. I broke the news to my own child and held her while she sobbed. Later, my heart broke again as I watched Poppy searching for the missing chick.

But while one chick had died, there was still another to care for. There was no time for Poppy to morn. And so she got on with the business of teaching her young to scratch and preen, and stay warm and out of harm's way. Joe and Nia buried little Gloria, and life -- cruel, beautiful, uncompromising life -- continued its forward march for Poppy and Ivy.

 

 

 

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Chores & Allowance, Charts & Stickers -- Oh My!

"Mama?"

"Hmmm?" We were in the bathroom together, working through the end-of-the-day tasks: brushing teeth, getting in PJs. This final dance of the day -- me urging the tempo a bit faster, the finish line in sight -- her dragging it out, willing the time to extend just a bit longer.

"Mama, did you know that in some families, the children do things... and get money for it?!"

"Do you mean chores?"

"Yeah!"

"Do you want that to happen in our family?"

"Yes!"

Wow, here it is, I thought. I honestly didn't realize this would be a child-initiated discussion. But like so many times before, my child is one step ahead of me, teaching me how to do this parenting thing. So, a few days later, as we all sat down to dinner together, Nia called her first family meeting to discuss the notion of chores in exchange for payment.

~~~

Growing up, I did not have an allowance. There were tasks in our home that was I simply required to do every day (unloading the dishwasher, feeding the horses & rabbits, shoveling manure) and weekly (cleaning my room, helping clean the 'kid's' bathroom -- 3 kids = 3 tasks: floor/shower, toilet, sink/counter/mirror). Occasionally I was given the opportunity to earn a little money by washing the family car, but I didn't have any real money of my own until I started baby-sitting & Page-ing at the library.

In Joe's family, he had certain chores he was expected to do, too, along with an allowance, which was separate and not tied to whether or not he did his tasks.

It turns out, parents, this is one of the big debates of our day (along with governing Internet access): allowance -- how much to pay and whether or not it is tied to chores. It is a very hot topic online from NPR's Marketplace Money to the Berkeley Parents Network. I learned The American Institute of CPAs says the average kids’ allowance is $65 a month. That’s $780 a year! Some say tying allowance to chores teaches responsibility, others say it undermines the notion that kids should help around the house simply because the family is their community.

The one thing everyone seems to agree on is teaching children about money and budgeting is the parents' job, and they should start early. And parents who are financially illiterate tend to pass that tradition on, too.

~~~

A couple months ago, Nia turned five and with that milestone arrived some birthday cards containing money -- dollar bills that fluttered to her feet when the envelopes were eagerly torn into. This birthday was the first time she'd received cash -- and the first time she was very aware of having money.

A week later a classmate arrived at school with dangle-y, rainbow-colored feather clip-on earrings. When Nia asked for a similar pair, I heard myself respond, "Maybe that's what you'd like to spend your birthday money on."

At first she wanted both the money and the earrings, but I explained that concept of exchanging goods and services for paper we as a society have infused with meaning: If she wanted the earrings, she'd have to trade.

And thus we made our virgin voyage to Clare's in the mall. If there had been sound effects when we walked into that fluorescent-lit, rainbow-colored, pink & purple bejeweled haven of all things plastic & precious to today's children, it would have sounded like a choir singing "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhh."

Nia's eyes bulged at whole racks of Hello Kitty, Justin Bieber and peace-sign emblazoned rings, watches, bracelets, cell-phone covers, headphones, purses, backpacks. And the earrings -- racks upon racks of earrings designed specifically for kids. Glitter, glitz, feathers, pink. All of it clamoring to be chosen.

We found our way to the clip-on earrings and found the coveted feather pair. Proudly she opened her purse and traded green for rainbow.

~~~

As we sat around the dinner table that night, having our first real family meeting, Nia explained that she wanted to do a few chores in exchange for things she valued (ice cream, clothes/shoes, a trip to Happy Hallow). We decided that there are some things she must do without a reward (pick up & putting away, washing, brushing), but that she could do a few things to earn stickers that could be eventually traded for rewards. We settled on restocking the bathrooms with toilet paper, dusting, bringing in the newspaper, helping with the chicken chores, setting the table, & bringing the food to the table at meals. For now we settled on mutually agreed upon chores as well as mutually agreed upon rewards. Another discussion down the road will be whether or not she can spend her money on things Joe & I deem poor choices...

So, this weekend, I was suprised to find myself creating a chore chart. I really never thought we'd have one of those. But, I like the idea of this being Nia-initiated, and I do want her to do chores around the house. Eventually I do think we'll separate the chores from the reward (some things in life you just do because it is the right thing to do, not for any reward -- and I also like the idea of teaching her to budget her own money as a seperate issue), but for now, she is so excited to look at the chart and see how many more stickers she needs for a particular goal. If stickers and rewards get the ball rolling on chores, so be it.

And who wouldn't want to hear their child ask, "Mama, is there a chore I can do?"

Even if they have to shell out a Fresh Mint Chip ice cream cone in the end.

 

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Moving on to Kindergarten

By this time next week, I will have attended not one, but two preschool graduations this year.

Up until about six weeks ago "preschool" and "graduation" were not commonly -- if ever! -- linked in my vocabulary. And prior to having children up until about a year ago, I would have scoffed at the notion -- and lumped it in with "social promotion" and a cultural obsession with praising the mediocre.

But now?

Now I have a graduating preschooler under my roof.

Now, I get it.

To be clear, I don't "get" the pint-sized caps, gowns and tassels. As much as retailers would like to convince me, I don't believe preschool graduation is on par with college graduation.

But. I do believe it is a milestone in my daughter's young life. Maybe we need more milestone-marking. We Tweet and Facebook about every little thing in our lives, what about the big things in theirs? When we post about them, that doesn't do anything to acknowledge the event to them (assuming they are still social networking in real life, and not this online version we all love so much).

All that said, I do agree with author & lecturer Alfie Kohn when he says too much praise can be counter productive in growing happy, healthy children. For this reason, I try to match my enthusiasm to Nia's own pride in her accomplishments.

Case in point: Yesterday I saw her go further on the monkey bars than ever before. This has been a goal of hers for many months now, something I know she's worked hard at. When she dropped to the ground, I expected her to look at Joe and me with a big grin. Instead, she just ran over to another set of bars and did something else. She never mentioned her accomplishment, so neither did we. Had we focused on it and praised her, we might have embarrassed her, or diminished the accomplishment. Or -- worse yet -- made her think we were pretty simple ourselves for thinking something every kid should be able to do was amazing. (Maybe she's been doing this for awhile and we hadn't noticed?!)

But graduating was different. She was proud to participate in a "moving-on-to-Kindergarten" ceremony, to be part of a graduating group, but also recognized individually in a public way.

Some have criticized this graduation practice as being wholly unnecessary since the child didn't achieve anything extraordinary -- saying there was nothing earned, no adversity overcome.

And before having children, I might have agreed.

But watching Nia graduate -- and the build up of the days before, I realized something. Graduation ceremonies are as much about saying, "Yes! You did it!" as they are a gentle way of saying, "Your time here is complete. Whether you are scared or excited, it is time to move on." It is a time for saying good-bye to friends and teachers and the comforts of the familiar. Kindergarten is the Big Leagues. All preschoolers know that. (No less scary than the idea of leaping into the workforce for a college graduate -- and maybe even a bit more thrilling & terrifying.)

Kindergarten means a new physical building, often on the campus of a larger elementary school, a new teacher, new friends (and potential foes), new routines and challenges. It signals the true beginning of a school career.

Preschool has been the gentle introduction to the child's independent life outside of the family. This is no small thing. "She's different there... She acts differently than she does with me at home." I remember the first time I thought that, and the first parent-teacher conference where that point was made even more clear. Besides a few solo playdates, my child is rarely away from the watchful eye of a relative. With preschool, suddenly she was on her own (so to speak) for 25 hours a week, to practice what had been modeled for her, and to learn from her mistakes. You better believe those first few weeks were hard for everyone!

 In preschool, for the first time children have the opportunity to forge friendships due to interest, not just circumstance ("our moms are friends"), and to learn from adults who are not their parents -- to learn to love and respect an adult who is neither family, nor a family friend. And also to trust that when we tell them their school is a safe place, that it is.

All of this is scary in the beginning.

When my child passed through the rainbow tunnel and received her congratulations card & necklace from her teacher, and then stood looking proudly at the audience while her teacher said, "I want to thank Nia for all her loving kindness" -- that signaled the end of something.

Your time here is done, little one. It's time to write a new chapter: a Kindergarten chapter. 

And that deserves to be recognized.

Graduating from Midtown Montessori Preschool, June 2013 from April Stearns on Vimeo.

 
Midtown Montessori, Class of 2013

 

 

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Surviving The Dog Days of the School Year

Surviving The Dog Days of the School Year

Yesterday I read a great blog post called "Worst End of School Year Mom Ever." Jen Hatmaker writes about experiencing the exact opposite of the beginning of school enthusiasm. I can relate.

Jen has five kids.

I have one.

In preschool.

The fact that I can relate to this mother's exhaustion startles me. I guess it goes to show that no matter how many kids we have or what level of schooling they are in (from formal to homeschooling), by the end of the school year, we  -- their chauffeurs, chefs, personal shoppers, activity directors, tutors, relationship mediators, and guidance counselors -- are all running on empty. (And I can say all of us pretty safely given that last time I looked, Jen's piece had 300,000 "likes" on Facebook and had been shared 1400 times on Twitter -- and she only wrote it yesterday. That's a lot of tired parents.)

What to do?

I'm pulling myself up off the floor and resisting the urge to hit 'snooze' one more time. I'm digging deep, people. I'm pulling together the little tricks I've learned over this first year of schooling for getting my little one out the door fed, dressed, on-time, with a lunch in-hand (thankfully homework is not an issue yet beyond the occasional show-and-tell -- and let me tell you, this week, taking the little velvet-lined box and abalone-carved turtle that she took this week to anything beyond simply/literally taking it and showing it, took way more mental effort than I had in me).

So I feel you.

But we've got a couple more weeks. Say it with me: We can do this!

My first three tips fall under the category of "do what you can the night before, no matter how tired you are -- your Morning Self will want to kiss your Night Self."

Tip 1: Take Care of Breakfast The Night Before

With a tiny bit of initiative and effort you can let breakfast cook itself overnight and be ready for a few dabs of cinnamon & brown sugar by morning. How? Crock-Pot Steel-Cut Oatmeal, baby. Huge time-saver & a hot, healthy breakfast to boot. I posted about this awhile back -- recipe/method here.

Tip 2: Dress the Scarecrow (No, not the one from Batman. *shudder*)

You know you should lay your kids' clothes out the night before. It avoids all kinds of delay and drama in the morning. But it is tedious and maybe happens 2 out of 5 nights, right? If you're lucky. So here is a way to get your kids excited about doing this piece on their own. We call it "dressing the scarecrow" in our family. Basically it is laying clothes out with the extra step of hanging them on hangers so they end up looking like a Minny Me of your kid -- and they dig that!

Hang it next to your little one's bed & done. ('50s style poodle skirt and top are optional. As is the head-to-toe pink. Just sayin'.)

3. Plan (if Not Pack) Lunch the Night Before

In the very least, get out a piece of paper and jot down the kid's lunch menu. Look in the cupboards, the fridge and the fruit bowl. Know what you've got to work with. That way when you are rushing around your kitchen in the morning barely awake at least you have a game plan. I won't even mention packing the dinner leftovers the night before for lunch the next day -- that is clearly some September-type thinking, as is this.

Ok, so that's the stuff you can do ahead of time. How about the morning of?

1. Wake Them Up With Music

I know some kids who are up well before the sun (or at least, before their parents). We have the opposite problem in our house: Nia is the last to wake up and so0 slooow m o v i n g. To help wake her up and get her going, Joe has created several high-energy morning playlists. (I wonder, did you know, honey, all those years at KSCU would come payoff in dancing our preschooler out of bed...?) Our current playlist includes this favorite.

2. Breakfast in Bed. (Or, in the Car.)

Kids need breakfast. Studies, scientists, doctors, grandmas say it is important. But how do you get them to actually eat it (in a timely fashion)? Lately we've been doing breakfast in bed. This isn't so great if you need to fly out the door moments after your Little wakes up, but if you plan to do it, it works great. They can wake up slowly and eat at the same time. I'm a huge fan of reading aloud, so I read to Nia while she eats (one chapter = one plate of scrambled eggs). On other mornings when we are needing to move much faster, she takes her bowl of oatmeal in the car.  

OK, moms & dads. Gather your strength this weekend. You can do a couple more weeks of school mornings, I know you can! What tricks are you employing? Are your kids sleeping in their next-day clothes at this point?

 

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Seven Tips For Raising a Reader

Peter Pan ran away the day he was born because he overheard his mother and father discussing what he would be when he was a man.

I kind of agree with his wanting to flee. Who wants someone else deciding their fate for them, especially when they are just a baby?

Except I've done just that for my own child.

From the moment she was born -- maybe even before -- I decided that she would be a Reader.

And I don't just mean one who knows how to read. I mean someone with a voracious appetite for reading. Someone who finds tremendous pleasure in books. Someone who curls their toes with pleasure at the sound of a new binding cracking open, or closes their eyes to savor the smell of ink & paper.

I've decided it & now I'm going about making it so. Here's how.

A lot of this has to do with Jim Trelease & his Read-Aloud Handbook. I've mentioned it on this blog before. It is my Bible. When new parents ask me for my top ten parenting books, it's on there. It is two books in one: The first half of the book is evidence and tips for reading aloud. The second half is treasury of invaluable book recommendations, cataloged by "listening ability."

Here are Trelease & my tips for raising a reader:

• Read aloud daily. Read everything from cereal boxes to picture books to novels. Start your day by reading together in bed.You might have to set your alarm a little earlier to do this, but I promise it will quickly become something you both look forward to (so long as you are choosing books you want to read, too). Read throughout the day (waiting for your order at a restaurant, sitting in the car, at the park), and read again at bedtime. Combine reading with other pleasurable activities, like reading while enjoying a scoop of ice cream. (For older kids -- because being read to isn't just for those who can't read -- try reading to them while they are doing a chore, such as washing dishes. More on this here, plus a wonderful photo of Jim & his teen son.)

• Book baskets. Trelease says raising a reader is as simple as making books available throughout the house. He suggests a basket in the bathroom, and another where your child eats. (Ever notice that people dining alone prefer to be reading?) I have book baskets in the living room and Nia's room as well as the bathroom.

• Reading lamp. This is another Trelease trick. He recommends putting a reading lamp beside your child's bed and telling them. "You can go to bed now, or you can stay up another 10 minutes to read." Most kids will choose to stay up reading.

• Fill your home with print. The literal number of books you have in your home matters (but you don't have to buy them -- don't forget the library!). It is hard to get good at reading if you're short of books. As Trelease puts it, "Giving phonics lessons to kids who don't have any print in their lives is like giving oars to people who don't have a boat -- you won't get very far." (More here with a graph showing the average print climate in three California communities.)

• Model reading. Children want to do what their parents do, so Nia sees a lot of reading in our house from novels to cookbooks to the newspaper. (I know a lot of people read on devices these days. While I do a lot of reading on the computer, too, I don't do this in front of Nia. I prefer her to see me reading real books so that she will want to do it, too.)

• Limit screen time, but say "Yes!" audio books. I don't believe a child will fall in love with books if they are already involved in a love affair with video games or the TV. But that doesn't mean that there aren't others who read aloud much better than me (actors, for example). Nia frequently enjoys "driveway moments" -- times when Joe or I have long since parked the car and her car seat buckles have been undone but she lingers in the car to listen to an audio book just a bit longer. (Next on my list is to get this one.)

• Take your child to the library -- and get them their own library card. Who doesn't love a new book? Or a whole stack of new books? Libraries have audio books, too.

And what of Peter Pan and his running away to avoid his parents' fate for him? Well, he came back looking for a mother, which to him was someone to tell him and the Lost Boys stories. Everyone, it seems, loves a good story.

You may have a tangible wealth untold:

Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.

Richer than I you can never be --

I had a mother who read to me.

-- Strickland Gillilan, "The Reading Mother"