So, I was freaking out a little bit.
After school today, I had Allison unload the dishwasher while Spencer vacuumed the kitchen floor. Then at supper time, Bruce pulled a bowl out of the cabinet and... well, it was obviously dirty. Yuck!
Upon further inspection, several utensils were pulled out of their drawer... nasty.
What's up with that? I know I ran the dishwasher. And the ick on those dishes would have come off in there. So, after reloading the dishwasher with dirty/clean dishes and their close neighbors (because funk spreads!), I came to the conclusion that Allison must have gotten carried away and put dishes away that were left on the counter after snack time.
Mystery solved.
But the power of suggestion runs strong. And I have a healthy dose of hypochondria inside me, passed down from my paternal grandmother. I think it's genetic.
After supper, my throat started hurting. Just a little bit. Probably sinus issues brought on by allergy issues.
But... what if those kids have been putting up dirty dishes for some time now? What if today wasn't a fluke?
You know, strep is making a comeback at the local elementary school.
Gulp.
Just checking.
Yeah. It still hurt to swallow.
Probably a little bit more than it did the last time I swallowed.
"My throat hurts," I said out loud.
"What?! What do you mean 'your throat hurts'?" Clay asked.
"Well, my throat hurts. Like 'strep throat' hurt. That kind of hurt," I replied.
"How can that be?" he questioned. "Your immunity should be at its highest."
"Really? What does this kid know?" I thought.
Because even though I've been taking my multi vitamin and my calcium supplements, I haven't been drinking orange juice lately to really douse my system with extra vitamin C, which I've heard wards off all kinds of sickly bugs.
And I've had some sporadic sleep recently.
Plus some stress because of my grandpa's health issues.
And even though I started a training program last week to run a 5K by the end of May, I also ate at Chick-fil-A three times within six days, two times within a 24-hour period, because I was visiting my grandpa in Cookeville. And I always eat at the Cookeville Chick-fil-A. It's a family tradition. Kind of. (Well, it could be if we wanted it to be.)
But, you know, Clay reads stuff. He knows some interesting (sometimes boring) little tidbits.
Hmmm... I'll bite...
"Why is my immunity at its highest?" I asked my brain child.
"Because, you're 40," he said. "And you've been building it up for all those years."
And then he tacked on this...
"It's all down hill from here."
I hee-hawed.
Because laughter is the best medicine and I needed to do something quick!
I feel much better now.
But just in case, I'm going to have some hot peppermint tea. That always helps my sore throats.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
A Butterfly Thank-You
I think our girl has been dealing with some test anxiety.
A few weeks ago, the first grade teachers sent home notes explaining that the students would soon be taking Accelerated Reading (AR) tests. Basically, the kids check out certain books within their reading range from the library and once they've read them, they take a short quiz on a computer about the book. Each student has a log sheet so we parents can list the books once they finish reading them and are ready to take the test.
Allison's log already listed her first book. And her test result. A 70.
Shortly thereafter, I noticed that Allison's library books weren't in her backpack. In the interest of not losing school library books or mixing them in with books from home or the local county library, the kids are supposed to leave their school library books in their backpacks. They can take them out to read them, but have to put them back in once they are finished.
But for a little more than a week, Allison wouldn't bring her books home. I asked her about it the first time I noticed their absence, and she said simply that she'd left them in her desk at school. I told her to bring at least one home so we could read it in preparation for the next AR test.
In one ear and right out the other one.
Or so I thought.
Because the next week... still no library book in her backpack.
I asked her about it again and that's when I got the waterworks. As she cried, she explained, "I can't take that test. I'm not ready. I've read the book, but I won't do well on the test. You saw! I failed the first one and I'll never do better."
On a side note, she took AR tests in kindergarten, so I wasn't sure where this was coming from. I thought it was ridiculous. She almost always does great on all her tests.
And since when is a 70 a failing grade?
I took a deep breath and told her, "Allison, you did not fail the AR test. So what if you didn't get a 100? Nobody gets a 100 all the time. And even if you did fail one, this isn't a score that goes toward your report card grade. It's so the teachers and your daddy and I can see how well you remember the details of a story so we can help you if you need help."
Whatever. That did not convince her one bit.
Sometimes my kids get this perfectionist bent and it drives me nuts. Obviously we've instilled it in them somehow, but I wish I realized how so we could stop doing whatever it is.
Finally, I told her that everyone messes up a test at some time. Dad did. Mom did. And even Clay does.
Hmmm... that got her attention. Because she thinks Clay is king of knowledge. Mostly because he spouts of trivia constantly. And since he's close to her age and not ancient like her parents, the possibility of Clay not doing perfect on a test started to make an impression.
While she went to the bathroom, I found Clay and whispered to him what was going on. I asked him his worst AR test, because I couldn't remember. But of course he did. A 60. I asked him if he would tell Allison and then reassure her that she'd do fine on her next test.
When she came out of the bathroom, he told her.
I thought we were over the hurdle, because she brought her books home after the next library visit.
But when I called her into the kitchen after school one day to have her read the book to me, she freaked out again.
"I'll never make a 100!" she said.
"Never" statements burn me up. And I don't have much patience for self doubt in my kids. I think they rock! So they should, too!
I told her, "Allison, you're going to read me that book. And when you are done, I'll go through the book and ask you all kinds of made-up test questions. Anything I can think of from the facts of the book. Let's just see how you do, okay?"
Most weeks, I give the kids practice spelling tests at home the day before their spelling tests in school. This concept was not new to her. So she agreed.
We had fun with the book. She did great reading it. And I asked every silly and serious question I could think of about the book. She nailed every one.
Then I told her, "I bet you get a 100 on that test!"
I volunteer to help the teachers with the students on their AR testing days. It gives me a chance to be around the kids that my children are around every day. You can learn a lot that way. And I don't mean anything about academics!
Allison was the very last student I worked with. And the only thing I said to her that showed special treatment to her as my daughter was at the beginning. I asked all the kids if they would read the test questions themselves or if they wanted me to read them. And then, for the ones that read them all by themselves, I remind them to ask me if they don't know a word. Allison tried to get me to read the test questions! Um, no. I told her she could read them all by herself, which she did.
Then I went on a mini-vacation in my head. Because I can't help the kids, even if I know the book they read.
At one point, I was pretty sure Allison answered one question wrong. Quickly I went back to hiking my make-believe mountain on my mental pretend vacation.
But when her test was over, she must not have missed it, because she aced that thing!
Whew! That was just a huge load off my back. I was so happy for her. Her little face just lit up. She knew she could do it now!
When she got in the van after school when I picked the kids up, she handed me something she said she'd made me. I told her I couldn't look at it right then, because I was driving. But once I got home, what I saw made my day.
She's such a sweet girl.
She made me this:
As a side note, she's done great on every test since then, too.
A few weeks ago, the first grade teachers sent home notes explaining that the students would soon be taking Accelerated Reading (AR) tests. Basically, the kids check out certain books within their reading range from the library and once they've read them, they take a short quiz on a computer about the book. Each student has a log sheet so we parents can list the books once they finish reading them and are ready to take the test.
Allison's log already listed her first book. And her test result. A 70.
Shortly thereafter, I noticed that Allison's library books weren't in her backpack. In the interest of not losing school library books or mixing them in with books from home or the local county library, the kids are supposed to leave their school library books in their backpacks. They can take them out to read them, but have to put them back in once they are finished.
But for a little more than a week, Allison wouldn't bring her books home. I asked her about it the first time I noticed their absence, and she said simply that she'd left them in her desk at school. I told her to bring at least one home so we could read it in preparation for the next AR test.
In one ear and right out the other one.
Or so I thought.
Because the next week... still no library book in her backpack.
I asked her about it again and that's when I got the waterworks. As she cried, she explained, "I can't take that test. I'm not ready. I've read the book, but I won't do well on the test. You saw! I failed the first one and I'll never do better."
On a side note, she took AR tests in kindergarten, so I wasn't sure where this was coming from. I thought it was ridiculous. She almost always does great on all her tests.
And since when is a 70 a failing grade?
I took a deep breath and told her, "Allison, you did not fail the AR test. So what if you didn't get a 100? Nobody gets a 100 all the time. And even if you did fail one, this isn't a score that goes toward your report card grade. It's so the teachers and your daddy and I can see how well you remember the details of a story so we can help you if you need help."
Whatever. That did not convince her one bit.
Sometimes my kids get this perfectionist bent and it drives me nuts. Obviously we've instilled it in them somehow, but I wish I realized how so we could stop doing whatever it is.
Finally, I told her that everyone messes up a test at some time. Dad did. Mom did. And even Clay does.
Hmmm... that got her attention. Because she thinks Clay is king of knowledge. Mostly because he spouts of trivia constantly. And since he's close to her age and not ancient like her parents, the possibility of Clay not doing perfect on a test started to make an impression.
While she went to the bathroom, I found Clay and whispered to him what was going on. I asked him his worst AR test, because I couldn't remember. But of course he did. A 60. I asked him if he would tell Allison and then reassure her that she'd do fine on her next test.
When she came out of the bathroom, he told her.
I thought we were over the hurdle, because she brought her books home after the next library visit.
But when I called her into the kitchen after school one day to have her read the book to me, she freaked out again.
"I'll never make a 100!" she said.
"Never" statements burn me up. And I don't have much patience for self doubt in my kids. I think they rock! So they should, too!
I told her, "Allison, you're going to read me that book. And when you are done, I'll go through the book and ask you all kinds of made-up test questions. Anything I can think of from the facts of the book. Let's just see how you do, okay?"
Most weeks, I give the kids practice spelling tests at home the day before their spelling tests in school. This concept was not new to her. So she agreed.
We had fun with the book. She did great reading it. And I asked every silly and serious question I could think of about the book. She nailed every one.
Then I told her, "I bet you get a 100 on that test!"
I volunteer to help the teachers with the students on their AR testing days. It gives me a chance to be around the kids that my children are around every day. You can learn a lot that way. And I don't mean anything about academics!
Allison was the very last student I worked with. And the only thing I said to her that showed special treatment to her as my daughter was at the beginning. I asked all the kids if they would read the test questions themselves or if they wanted me to read them. And then, for the ones that read them all by themselves, I remind them to ask me if they don't know a word. Allison tried to get me to read the test questions! Um, no. I told her she could read them all by herself, which she did.
Then I went on a mini-vacation in my head. Because I can't help the kids, even if I know the book they read.
At one point, I was pretty sure Allison answered one question wrong. Quickly I went back to hiking my make-believe mountain on my mental pretend vacation.
But when her test was over, she must not have missed it, because she aced that thing!
Whew! That was just a huge load off my back. I was so happy for her. Her little face just lit up. She knew she could do it now!
When she got in the van after school when I picked the kids up, she handed me something she said she'd made me. I told her I couldn't look at it right then, because I was driving. But once I got home, what I saw made my day.
She's such a sweet girl.
She made me this:
As a side note, she's done great on every test since then, too.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Homework Mix-up
Most of the time, I oversee the kids completing their homework each day. Long before Bruce gets home from work.
With Clay, that means nothing more than asking the question, "Do you have homework?" Usually, his reply is a simple "no". Because he does it before he gets home, either in some down time at school or if he rides the bus home.
With Spencer and Allison, I spend 30-45 minutes, mostly listening to them read. And actually, that time would be shorter if they'd come prepared to do homework with a happy attitude. Depending on how they are behaving, sometimes they'll do their homework together at the same time. If they're acting like snotheads, they go one at a time. I'm looking forward to them being in second grade next year, because that's when my hands-off approach to homework kicks in.
Occasionally, if I'm having a harried day, I'll ask Clay to listen to his siblings read and help them accordingly. And rarely, if I'm having a harried day and I'm running somewhere in the evening, Bruce will pick up on homework slack.
Clay missed a few days of school a couple of weeks in a row recently. He did well to keep up with all his work at home so he wouldn't fall behind once he got back into the classroom. But he had one extra credit assignment sheet that I'd left on the counter top. It wasn't due for a few more days, so we planned to do that over the weekend.
Along came a harried day when I also had plans for the evening so I asked Bruce to work with Spencer on his homework while I was gone.
When I returned home, Spencer had done Clay's extra credit assignment!
The assignment was to draw a picture of your hero and then list 10 adjectives to describe them.
Spencer drew a picture of Jesus. Sweet, huh?
Then he wrote a few sentences describing Jesus. Now, I'm not sure if that means that Bruce didn't really look hard at the assignment, which wasn't really Spencer's to do anyway. Or if that means that my husband has been out of an English class for far too long and no longer remembers what adjectives are.
No matter. The end results are blog worthy, so here's what Spencer wrote, in his own special way of spelling things:
"His name storts with a G. He live's in Hevien. He is a prechr. He loves us very moch. He Hls peopol."
With some effort, I figured it all out, but the last sentence. It is not "He hells people." Spencer said he wrote "He helps people." Yes, I like that much better.
When Clay did the assignment a few days later, he drew a picture of his dad. Awwww!
Here are the adjectives (and, yes, he definitely knows what adjectives are) Clay used to describe his dad:
funny
smart
cool
nice
tough
strong
great
weird
odd
youngish
Perfect adjectives for a hero. Aren't all your heros weird and youngish?
With Clay, that means nothing more than asking the question, "Do you have homework?" Usually, his reply is a simple "no". Because he does it before he gets home, either in some down time at school or if he rides the bus home.
With Spencer and Allison, I spend 30-45 minutes, mostly listening to them read. And actually, that time would be shorter if they'd come prepared to do homework with a happy attitude. Depending on how they are behaving, sometimes they'll do their homework together at the same time. If they're acting like snotheads, they go one at a time. I'm looking forward to them being in second grade next year, because that's when my hands-off approach to homework kicks in.
Occasionally, if I'm having a harried day, I'll ask Clay to listen to his siblings read and help them accordingly. And rarely, if I'm having a harried day and I'm running somewhere in the evening, Bruce will pick up on homework slack.
Clay missed a few days of school a couple of weeks in a row recently. He did well to keep up with all his work at home so he wouldn't fall behind once he got back into the classroom. But he had one extra credit assignment sheet that I'd left on the counter top. It wasn't due for a few more days, so we planned to do that over the weekend.
Along came a harried day when I also had plans for the evening so I asked Bruce to work with Spencer on his homework while I was gone.
When I returned home, Spencer had done Clay's extra credit assignment!
The assignment was to draw a picture of your hero and then list 10 adjectives to describe them.
Spencer drew a picture of Jesus. Sweet, huh?
Then he wrote a few sentences describing Jesus. Now, I'm not sure if that means that Bruce didn't really look hard at the assignment, which wasn't really Spencer's to do anyway. Or if that means that my husband has been out of an English class for far too long and no longer remembers what adjectives are.
No matter. The end results are blog worthy, so here's what Spencer wrote, in his own special way of spelling things:
"His name storts with a G. He live's in Hevien. He is a prechr. He loves us very moch. He Hls peopol."
With some effort, I figured it all out, but the last sentence. It is not "He hells people." Spencer said he wrote "He helps people." Yes, I like that much better.
When Clay did the assignment a few days later, he drew a picture of his dad. Awwww!
Here are the adjectives (and, yes, he definitely knows what adjectives are) Clay used to describe his dad:
funny
smart
cool
nice
tough
strong
great
weird
odd
youngish
Perfect adjectives for a hero. Aren't all your heros weird and youngish?
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Father and Son
Doing a little catch-up blogging here. Last week was crazy. But here I am, chugging away again.
Early in the school year, Clay entered a couple of pictures in a county 4-H photography contest. The fourth grade social studies/science teacher at his school is excellent (don't just take my word for it... she's previously won the area title of Teacher of the Year... probably more than once, but at least once that I know of!). Mrs. T, as she is known to her students, even taught Bruce back when he was in school. And I'll tell you a little story about that in a minute.
Mrs. T works along with the county 4-H folks and gets the students involved in various projects. Clay doesn't do all of them. He wasn't interested in the cornbread making contest, although I'd have let him follow my grandma's killer cornbread recipe if he'd asked. Seriously, I'm sure he'd have won with her recipe! But he had no desire. Nor did he jump to be involved in the public speaking competition. Can't say that I blame him there. He can always get over his fear of being center stage when he's older.
But he was all over the photography contest. Probably because he's seen Bruce be so interested in photography.
So one fine day in late October last year, during a camping trip to Pigeon Forge, our family spent a day at Cade's Cove in Townsend. We really enjoy that place.
Bruce toted along his camera equipment. Clay brought tons of enthusiasm.
It was chilly, windy and kind of drizzling to boot. But perfect lighting for some outdoor photography.
Bruce took several pictures and then we found a very pretty spot for Clay to take his picture. Bruce explained some camera settings to Clay and then cut him loose.
Clay entered a couple of pictures in the competition, including this one...
... which won second place in the "water" category. Nice job, Clay! (And dad, too, for braving the weather while mom stayed tucked away inside the truck.)
Now for my story about Mrs. T and my husband. This story also features Clay.
A couple weeks ago, I started thinking about canning with a pressure cooker. Spring is just around the corner. We had a friend dig up a garden plot for us last fall. Seeds had been purchased for every vegetable that appealed to Clay the day he went shopping with me.
However, a few years back, for my birthday Bruce exchanged our normal range for a glass top range. I thought I'd love it. And when it's clean, I do. But it is harder to clean, in my opinion, than a regular stove top. AND, if you go online and do some research, you'll read all kinds of cautionary tales about not using a pressure canner on glass top stoves. Something about the weight breaking the glass. Or the base of the canner scratching the top. Or the variant heat not keeping the pressure regulated, thus leaving you with a chance of poisoning your family with botulism. Who knows which is actually true, if any.
But I am a rule follower by nature. I read instructions when baking. I heed traffic signs. I am a huge fan of directions. They make me feel safe and secure.
All that info is back ground, so you'll understand why I was spending a morning working through a junk drawer that I rarely open. It holds various things that won't be mentioned along with every single owner's manual for each and every kitchen appliance owned by our home's previous owner (who must also have had a great love of following directions). And since we bought our home nearly 10 years ago, we've just tossed into the drawer any owner's manuals for new appliances we have bought along the way.
I was sure I'd find the owner's manual for my glass top stove and it would tell me in no uncertain terms either "Do not use a pressure canner" or "Go ahead and can to your hearts content... all other contrary opinions are stupid."
I found no such great guidance.
But I did find an envelope addressed to my mother-in-law from Mrs. T. The letter had been passed on to me a few years ago, long before I ever thought that Clay might also have this same teacher. I had completely forgotten I even had the letter.
There was a note inside from Mrs. T to my mother-in-law. It said she had found a note that my husband had written to her back when he was in her class... on July 2, 1981. Bruce was in second grade at the time.
Then Mrs. T tucked in the note from my husband. I'm going to type it the way he wrote it after the salutation...
"I told my Mom and Dad that I cheated a few times this past year. I have asked them to forgive me, I have prayed and ask Jesus to forgive me and now I would like to ask you to forgive me. Thank you for being a nice teacher.
love,
Bruce"
I got a nice chuckle out of it, so I kept it out, planning to send Mrs. T an e-mail about it.
Later that day, Clay found the envelope and wanted to know what it was. I told him to go ahead and open it and find out.
He read both notes, got a silly little smile on his face and then said, "Dad was a dirty rotten cheater."
I burst out laughing!
Clay wasn't being disrespectful. He got a little glimpse into what his dad was like as a boy. And I think it was good for him to see that his daddy wasn't perfect. And he still isn't!
Early in the school year, Clay entered a couple of pictures in a county 4-H photography contest. The fourth grade social studies/science teacher at his school is excellent (don't just take my word for it... she's previously won the area title of Teacher of the Year... probably more than once, but at least once that I know of!). Mrs. T, as she is known to her students, even taught Bruce back when he was in school. And I'll tell you a little story about that in a minute.
Mrs. T works along with the county 4-H folks and gets the students involved in various projects. Clay doesn't do all of them. He wasn't interested in the cornbread making contest, although I'd have let him follow my grandma's killer cornbread recipe if he'd asked. Seriously, I'm sure he'd have won with her recipe! But he had no desire. Nor did he jump to be involved in the public speaking competition. Can't say that I blame him there. He can always get over his fear of being center stage when he's older.
But he was all over the photography contest. Probably because he's seen Bruce be so interested in photography.
So one fine day in late October last year, during a camping trip to Pigeon Forge, our family spent a day at Cade's Cove in Townsend. We really enjoy that place.
Bruce toted along his camera equipment. Clay brought tons of enthusiasm.
It was chilly, windy and kind of drizzling to boot. But perfect lighting for some outdoor photography.
Bruce took several pictures and then we found a very pretty spot for Clay to take his picture. Bruce explained some camera settings to Clay and then cut him loose.
Clay entered a couple of pictures in the competition, including this one...
... which won second place in the "water" category. Nice job, Clay! (And dad, too, for braving the weather while mom stayed tucked away inside the truck.)
Now for my story about Mrs. T and my husband. This story also features Clay.
A couple weeks ago, I started thinking about canning with a pressure cooker. Spring is just around the corner. We had a friend dig up a garden plot for us last fall. Seeds had been purchased for every vegetable that appealed to Clay the day he went shopping with me.
However, a few years back, for my birthday Bruce exchanged our normal range for a glass top range. I thought I'd love it. And when it's clean, I do. But it is harder to clean, in my opinion, than a regular stove top. AND, if you go online and do some research, you'll read all kinds of cautionary tales about not using a pressure canner on glass top stoves. Something about the weight breaking the glass. Or the base of the canner scratching the top. Or the variant heat not keeping the pressure regulated, thus leaving you with a chance of poisoning your family with botulism. Who knows which is actually true, if any.
But I am a rule follower by nature. I read instructions when baking. I heed traffic signs. I am a huge fan of directions. They make me feel safe and secure.
All that info is back ground, so you'll understand why I was spending a morning working through a junk drawer that I rarely open. It holds various things that won't be mentioned along with every single owner's manual for each and every kitchen appliance owned by our home's previous owner (who must also have had a great love of following directions). And since we bought our home nearly 10 years ago, we've just tossed into the drawer any owner's manuals for new appliances we have bought along the way.
I was sure I'd find the owner's manual for my glass top stove and it would tell me in no uncertain terms either "Do not use a pressure canner" or "Go ahead and can to your hearts content... all other contrary opinions are stupid."
I found no such great guidance.
But I did find an envelope addressed to my mother-in-law from Mrs. T. The letter had been passed on to me a few years ago, long before I ever thought that Clay might also have this same teacher. I had completely forgotten I even had the letter.
There was a note inside from Mrs. T to my mother-in-law. It said she had found a note that my husband had written to her back when he was in her class... on July 2, 1981. Bruce was in second grade at the time.
Then Mrs. T tucked in the note from my husband. I'm going to type it the way he wrote it after the salutation...
"I told my Mom and Dad that I cheated a few times this past year. I have asked them to forgive me, I have prayed and ask Jesus to forgive me and now I would like to ask you to forgive me. Thank you for being a nice teacher.
love,
Bruce"
I got a nice chuckle out of it, so I kept it out, planning to send Mrs. T an e-mail about it.
Later that day, Clay found the envelope and wanted to know what it was. I told him to go ahead and open it and find out.
He read both notes, got a silly little smile on his face and then said, "Dad was a dirty rotten cheater."
I burst out laughing!
Clay wasn't being disrespectful. He got a little glimpse into what his dad was like as a boy. And I think it was good for him to see that his daddy wasn't perfect. And he still isn't!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Counting Down the Months
I thought for sure this past Christmas would be the year that Spencer and Allison finally figured out that Santa is not real. Frankly, I'm tired of the jolly old, red-suited man getting all the credit for the cool toys that Bruce and I agonize over picking out. Any crazy person who visits Toys R Us in the month before Christmas to buy that special toy deserves credit of some kind. Lifelong gratitude comes to mind.
But, no. Our younger two are holding fast to the idea that Santa lives in all his greatness up at the North Pole where little elves rush to do his every whim in toy making. And the streets are paved with candy. And Mrs. Claus makes hot chocolate and cookies for dinner. But never fish.
We don't make Christmas all about Santa by any means. All our children understand about Jesus' birth long before they can even pronounce Santa's name. We read to them each Christmas Eve from the book of Luke about Christ's birth.
But probably my favorite holiday movie is Polar Express, which we own. And we wear the DVD player out watching that thing each year. Seriously, how can you resist singing the Hot Chocolate song? "Hot, hot... oh, we got it. Hot, hot... yo, we got it. Hot, hot... say, we got it. Hot chocolate!" It's better if you tap your feet, too.
So, anyway, the whole idea of the movie is to believe.
Spencer is super gung ho about Christmas. One of these days I envision him actually helping his wife decorate for the holidays, instead of simply opening a very large cardboard box, pulling out a pre-lit tree, fluffing a bit and pronouncing: "I've done my part".
I just can't make myself tell him that Santa is bunkum.
I was beside myself excited when he came home from school before Christmas telling me about a classmate of his that told him Santa was not real.
"Oh, this is THE DAY," I thought. "No more pretending. Santa... poof, be gone!"
I asked Spencer what he thought about Santa, whether he was real or not. And he said: "I think that Blake just isn't going to get any gifts this year. Because Santa won't give you gifts if you don't believe."
Well, crud.
Another brick wall.
This morning while driving the kids to school, I nearly destroyed the myth. I was distracted by the fact that Clay was not feeling well, but I was making him go to school anyway. He doesn't have any strong symptoms that help me justify keeping him home, so off to school he went, even though he cried and said that I wasn't listening to him when he told me he wasn't feeling well. And, of course, I understood that to mean: You don't believe me. You don't love me enough to keep me home when I feel yucky.
All that Mommy Guilt was wriggling around in my head when I heard Spencer talking about reindeer flying.
I'm always spitting out facts to the kids when I can. Just doing my part to educate. So I said, "They can't really fly, Spencer."
Um... what?! Well, if reindeer can't fly, then how do they pull Santa through the sky on Christmas Eve when he's on his mission?
Scramble, scramble, scramble. What to say that isn't lying but preserves his innocent belief in a fraud?
And then my sickly older son saved me. Unintentionally, I'm sure.
"Can you believe that it's already the end of February? Seems like it was Christmas just the other day."
Whew!
Distraction. It's a fine thing.
"You know what that means, don't you?" I asked. "Well, it means we only have 10 more months to go until next Christmas!"
"Mom, please," my pitiful sick boy said about his brother, "Don't get him started!"
You know, at this point, I really should just consider paying someone to burst my children's bubbles. Five bucks to any takers who don't mind seeing a sweet-faced girl and a red-headed boisterous boy with crestfallen looks on their faces when you tell them Santa is not real. If you can do it without making them cry, I'll give you ten bucks. Per child. Call me.
But, no. Our younger two are holding fast to the idea that Santa lives in all his greatness up at the North Pole where little elves rush to do his every whim in toy making. And the streets are paved with candy. And Mrs. Claus makes hot chocolate and cookies for dinner. But never fish.
We don't make Christmas all about Santa by any means. All our children understand about Jesus' birth long before they can even pronounce Santa's name. We read to them each Christmas Eve from the book of Luke about Christ's birth.
But probably my favorite holiday movie is Polar Express, which we own. And we wear the DVD player out watching that thing each year. Seriously, how can you resist singing the Hot Chocolate song? "Hot, hot... oh, we got it. Hot, hot... yo, we got it. Hot, hot... say, we got it. Hot chocolate!" It's better if you tap your feet, too.
So, anyway, the whole idea of the movie is to believe.
Spencer is super gung ho about Christmas. One of these days I envision him actually helping his wife decorate for the holidays, instead of simply opening a very large cardboard box, pulling out a pre-lit tree, fluffing a bit and pronouncing: "I've done my part".
I just can't make myself tell him that Santa is bunkum.
I was beside myself excited when he came home from school before Christmas telling me about a classmate of his that told him Santa was not real.
"Oh, this is THE DAY," I thought. "No more pretending. Santa... poof, be gone!"
I asked Spencer what he thought about Santa, whether he was real or not. And he said: "I think that Blake just isn't going to get any gifts this year. Because Santa won't give you gifts if you don't believe."
Well, crud.
Another brick wall.
This morning while driving the kids to school, I nearly destroyed the myth. I was distracted by the fact that Clay was not feeling well, but I was making him go to school anyway. He doesn't have any strong symptoms that help me justify keeping him home, so off to school he went, even though he cried and said that I wasn't listening to him when he told me he wasn't feeling well. And, of course, I understood that to mean: You don't believe me. You don't love me enough to keep me home when I feel yucky.
All that Mommy Guilt was wriggling around in my head when I heard Spencer talking about reindeer flying.
I'm always spitting out facts to the kids when I can. Just doing my part to educate. So I said, "They can't really fly, Spencer."
Um... what?! Well, if reindeer can't fly, then how do they pull Santa through the sky on Christmas Eve when he's on his mission?
Scramble, scramble, scramble. What to say that isn't lying but preserves his innocent belief in a fraud?
And then my sickly older son saved me. Unintentionally, I'm sure.
"Can you believe that it's already the end of February? Seems like it was Christmas just the other day."
Whew!
Distraction. It's a fine thing.
"You know what that means, don't you?" I asked. "Well, it means we only have 10 more months to go until next Christmas!"
"Mom, please," my pitiful sick boy said about his brother, "Don't get him started!"
You know, at this point, I really should just consider paying someone to burst my children's bubbles. Five bucks to any takers who don't mind seeing a sweet-faced girl and a red-headed boisterous boy with crestfallen looks on their faces when you tell them Santa is not real. If you can do it without making them cry, I'll give you ten bucks. Per child. Call me.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
My Babies
Allison is in trouble. She's in her room. My girl has taken a shine to kicking people. Sometimes in very painful places.
So in the interest of us ever becoming grandparents, she's getting a lengthy time out right now.
And Clay is evaluating how many children are too many.
"I think three is too much of a handful," he said. "So I plan to stick with just two."
Well, my sweet firstborn... "What if your wife wants six babies?" I asked.
"Yikes!" he replied.
Then Spencer checked in with his plans.
"I want six kids," he said. "You want to know why? Because I love babies."
Well, my sweet second born... "You know all babies grow up. And you still have to feed them when they're big." I said. (I couldn't help it. All these snow days are killing me. I feel new empathy for the ladies in the lunch room at school. I just can't feed these kids enough to fill them!)
"I know," he said. "But even when they're big, they'll still be MY babies."
See. That right there tells me there's nothing wrong with that boy's hearing!
I tell him the same thing all the time.
"Grow up all you want; you'll always be my baby!"
So in the interest of us ever becoming grandparents, she's getting a lengthy time out right now.
And Clay is evaluating how many children are too many.
"I think three is too much of a handful," he said. "So I plan to stick with just two."
Well, my sweet firstborn... "What if your wife wants six babies?" I asked.
"Yikes!" he replied.
Then Spencer checked in with his plans.
"I want six kids," he said. "You want to know why? Because I love babies."
Well, my sweet second born... "You know all babies grow up. And you still have to feed them when they're big." I said. (I couldn't help it. All these snow days are killing me. I feel new empathy for the ladies in the lunch room at school. I just can't feed these kids enough to fill them!)
"I know," he said. "But even when they're big, they'll still be MY babies."
See. That right there tells me there's nothing wrong with that boy's hearing!
I tell him the same thing all the time.
"Grow up all you want; you'll always be my baby!"
Monday, February 15, 2010
Valentine's Day Treat
Bruce and I had our Valentine's Day date early, thanks to our awesome church's Parent's Night Out on Friday.
But our real Valentine's treat fell on the correct day when Spencer and Allison got baptized last night.
Spencer has probably not let a full week go by since he asked Jesus into his heart back in November without asking, "When can I be baptized?"
We were working our way through this neat magazine that we got from the children's minister at church, so we had a tentative date in mind for Spencer's baptism.
But then Allison started asking questions about Jesus and his sacrifice and sin and heaven. Before we knew it, she asked Jesus into her heart in December.
So we pushed the PAUSE button on Spencer while catching Allison up in the booklet.
I would not have picked the timing this way, necessarily. You know, no matter how many times I repeat the phrases, "Life's not fair; get used to it" to my kids, I still try to make things "fair". It's just proof that I don't even get close to perfect parenting.
My thoughts would have been for Spencer to have his special day. And for Allison to continue on her slower pace until she was fully ready, and then she'd have her special day.
But my thoughts are not God's thoughts, nor my ways His ways. Thankfully.
He knew before those critters were born that Spencer and his boldness would lead the way in Allison's curiosity taking full shape. They've both been exposed to the same amount of church, Sunday school, Bible Study Fellowship and Vacation Bible school. But they are not the same children, even if they are twins. Rooming together for their first nine months of life is pretty much where their personal similarities end.
Yesterday at breakfast while Bruce prayed about their upcoming baptisms that night, I peeked. (Real moms peek while praying with children. Especially moms of boys. It's necessary. And that's all I'm going to say about that.) Because I peeked, I got the sweetest blessing of seeing Spencer and Allison's personalities perfectly displayed.
Bruce was waxing eloquently in his prayer. Both kids had their eyes shut, amazingly! Allison's hugely smiling face was lifted up toward heaven, like she was beaming at God. Spencer's head was bowed, but his right arm was lifted up toward heaven... and his hand was making the "rock on" sign.
Yep, those are my twins! Thank you, Jesus!
After morning church services, and lunch, Spencer was immediately ready to turn around and head back to church.
"I'm ready to be baptized... now!" he said at least once an hour until we were finally ready to return to church for evening services. But first, a picture for mom.
But our real Valentine's treat fell on the correct day when Spencer and Allison got baptized last night.
Spencer has probably not let a full week go by since he asked Jesus into his heart back in November without asking, "When can I be baptized?"
We were working our way through this neat magazine that we got from the children's minister at church, so we had a tentative date in mind for Spencer's baptism.
But then Allison started asking questions about Jesus and his sacrifice and sin and heaven. Before we knew it, she asked Jesus into her heart in December.
So we pushed the PAUSE button on Spencer while catching Allison up in the booklet.
I would not have picked the timing this way, necessarily. You know, no matter how many times I repeat the phrases, "Life's not fair; get used to it" to my kids, I still try to make things "fair". It's just proof that I don't even get close to perfect parenting.
My thoughts would have been for Spencer to have his special day. And for Allison to continue on her slower pace until she was fully ready, and then she'd have her special day.
But my thoughts are not God's thoughts, nor my ways His ways. Thankfully.
He knew before those critters were born that Spencer and his boldness would lead the way in Allison's curiosity taking full shape. They've both been exposed to the same amount of church, Sunday school, Bible Study Fellowship and Vacation Bible school. But they are not the same children, even if they are twins. Rooming together for their first nine months of life is pretty much where their personal similarities end.
Yesterday at breakfast while Bruce prayed about their upcoming baptisms that night, I peeked. (Real moms peek while praying with children. Especially moms of boys. It's necessary. And that's all I'm going to say about that.) Because I peeked, I got the sweetest blessing of seeing Spencer and Allison's personalities perfectly displayed.
Bruce was waxing eloquently in his prayer. Both kids had their eyes shut, amazingly! Allison's hugely smiling face was lifted up toward heaven, like she was beaming at God. Spencer's head was bowed, but his right arm was lifted up toward heaven... and his hand was making the "rock on" sign.
Yep, those are my twins! Thank you, Jesus!
After morning church services, and lunch, Spencer was immediately ready to turn around and head back to church.
"I'm ready to be baptized... now!" he said at least once an hour until we were finally ready to return to church for evening services. But first, a picture for mom.
Once we were there, a couple from church walked us through the process. And the education minister talked with Spencer and Allison about baptism. Then the kids got changed into these nifty, green jumper shorts things.
They were ready. I did my best to keep them quiet while listening to the beginning of the worship service, hoping that any exuberance on their part wouldn't be too loud.
The lady helping us actually asked at one point which one of them was more hyper. I don't think anyone has ever asked me that before. Spencer generally wins that title hands-down. I finally just told them to sit until it was time.
See that? Role reversal!
And then it was time.
Ladies first.
And then our little gentleman.
I just realized they both did the same thing with their hands when they were nervous, right before being immersed.
Both kids were excited about the candles they'd be given. Even thought we're new at this church, they've seen enough baptisms now to understand the meaning.
We're lights for Jesus in this dark world. And they were waiting for their charge to "go light your world".
I'm sure this was the best Valentine's Day ever.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Rodents and Winter Weather
It seems that the rodent up in Pennsylvania is accurate this year... we are ankle deep in more winter, as "predicted" on Groundhog Day. And the kids are on their ninth snow day this school year.
Today I discovered that people are not the only creatures who are crazy sick of snow. Our dog Dixie flipped out just a bit earlier today.
I hadn't gone out for the day to feed her yet. And I really didn't want to. It's been below freezing all day and hasn't stopped snowing since we woke up this morning.
I kept peeping out the window to see if our sweet Labrador had come out of her doghouse. By noon, I saw her playing in the snow.
She looked like she had a pine cone in her mouth. She often finds pine cones in our backyard, puts them in her dog food dish, and carries the whole thing around like it's filet mignon and she's a waitress at a fine restaurant.
But, this time, the closer Dixie got to our kitchen window, where I stood watching her, the more I realized, "That is not a pine cone in her mouth!"
The object swayed as our dog walked. A pine cone does not sway.
Nor does it have itty bitty feet. And the object dangling from our dog's mouth definitely had some itty bitty feet.
I got our camera out and zoomed in for a picture, but it was snowing too hard to see clearly exactly what Dixie had caught. My best guess is that it was either a mouse or a mole.
My poor puppy's brain has frozen and she thinks she's a cat!
Thankfully, I'm certain this dementia is reversible and it's only partial. Dixie then walked to my favorite tree, dug a hole in the ground at its base, dropped her mouthful, and gave the dead thing a proper burial.
Only 37 more days until Spring.
Today I discovered that people are not the only creatures who are crazy sick of snow. Our dog Dixie flipped out just a bit earlier today.
I hadn't gone out for the day to feed her yet. And I really didn't want to. It's been below freezing all day and hasn't stopped snowing since we woke up this morning.
I kept peeping out the window to see if our sweet Labrador had come out of her doghouse. By noon, I saw her playing in the snow.
She looked like she had a pine cone in her mouth. She often finds pine cones in our backyard, puts them in her dog food dish, and carries the whole thing around like it's filet mignon and she's a waitress at a fine restaurant.
But, this time, the closer Dixie got to our kitchen window, where I stood watching her, the more I realized, "That is not a pine cone in her mouth!"
The object swayed as our dog walked. A pine cone does not sway.
Nor does it have itty bitty feet. And the object dangling from our dog's mouth definitely had some itty bitty feet.
I got our camera out and zoomed in for a picture, but it was snowing too hard to see clearly exactly what Dixie had caught. My best guess is that it was either a mouse or a mole.
My poor puppy's brain has frozen and she thinks she's a cat!
Thankfully, I'm certain this dementia is reversible and it's only partial. Dixie then walked to my favorite tree, dug a hole in the ground at its base, dropped her mouthful, and gave the dead thing a proper burial.
Only 37 more days until Spring.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
