Book Fair

The girls bake a lemon pound cake for the School Bake Sale.

There's a lot going on at the girls' school lately. We've had report card pick up, the bake sale, the Fall Dance, and the book fair.

Do you remember the book fairs you used to have in school  as a kid?

I do. Vividly. I remember the inky, newsprinty ad that would come home, listing the books that would be available. I remember filling out the order forms, waiting anxiously for the book fair to start and for my pre-ordered books to be handed to me. I remember the smell of the books, their glossy covers. It was so exciting.

I worked 4 1/2 hours this week at the girls' book fair. I showed up with my mug of coffee and my latest knitting project, because CLEARLY I did not remember what these things were like. It was no sleepy affair. Not only did I not finish my coffee and not knit a single stitch, I almost never stopped herding children to and from the books, and I never sat down.

There were so many hundreds of titles. Some parents sent their children to school that day with money, and those kids tore through there, set on spending every last penny.

 Some kids didn't have money yet, and I helped the littlest of them write their favorite titles down along with the price so they could go home and beg their parents to send them back the next day with cold hard cash.

When my own girls skipped into view I almost jumped up and down with girlish excitement. I took them around to the titles I had seen and thought were interesting. They completely ignored me and got the books they wanted anyway (although I had to put my foot down about the Barbie Princess crap that Mae wanted.)

As I walked through the narrow aisle of books, I couldn't help but notice that, for the most part, the kids were drawn to the very commercial books that had very little to do with reading. Ninjago and Chima character guides, Barbie Princess Paper Purses, Minnie Mouse's Hair Bow.

The kids naturally gravitated towards the books that came with a necklace, a small lego set, glow in the dark pens. And these naturally cost as much as a beautiful hard cover picture book, sometimes more.

I had to take action. I started hiding some of these titles behind the ones I perceived to be of higher quality. I passed judgement on Club Penguin. I banned Barbie. I led 5th grade boys away from Taylor Swift and towards Gary Paulsen. I took the hands of kindergartner girls and showed them the Mo Willems (Don't let the Pigeon drive the bus) as I placed the My Little Pony on the upper shelves.

But for the most part they were un-swayable, those stubborn little imps.

I saw kids crying because they didn't have enough money. I saw a teacher be extremely nasty to her students. I heard a parent demanding to know how her daughter could buy a $2 pencil with $10 and not know where the rest of it went. 'I spended it!" she insisted. Her mother repeated the math lesson until it came out that the little girl had just divvied up the change among her friends.

Working those 4+ hours at the book fair was like conducting a social psychology/marketing/anthropological study in children, literacy, consumerism, and family dynamics.

I can't wait for the next one.

Pajama war

I (temporarily?) deactivated my facebook account last week because I'm drowning in school work.  I've had weird health problems for the last three weeks (my chickens have infected me, I just know it), and lots of grading plus lethargy and general malaise meant I was trolling Facebook in unhealthy and unnatural ways.

So I made it disappear. And with a click of the mouse I was freed, and suddenly found myself facing freely my professional duties. No imaginary obstacles to keep me from tending to the task at hand. The grading. All the grading. And the logging, and reporting, and planning. Not an obstacle in sight.

And now I have time to write this blog post.

We have entered the year of war over here. A more forward thinking, optimistic gal would call it something else, but she'd just be covering up for the fact that all children from the age of 2 -3 are impossible stinkers.

For good reason, of course. Gill is exerting her independence. She is forming opinions. I just don't agree with most of them.

Since the day I took ill with chicken disease I have repeated to myself throughout the days I spend with Gill the following, oh... let's call it my mantra.

[deep breath in] It is my job to be her Mom. It is not my job to  {fill in the blank}.

{ FILL IN THE BLANK: make her presentable to the world; be on time; maintain impeccable body hygiene; get her diapers on timely, or ever; put her in pajamas}

Let me explain how this works.

Gilli's hair is a ratty nest in back and she can't see in front, but if I go anywhere near her with a brush and hair band she'll punch me in the face? It's my job to be her Mom, her role model, not to make her presentable to the world.

We are late to get Bela and Mae from school because I let her sleep too long at nap time on Thursdays but she won't ride in the stroller because she insists on "walkie"? It's my job to be her Mom, to let her explore. It's not my job to make sure she, and we, are on time.

I'm not always great at this, but things have gotten better.

The one battle area where I become my own worst enemy is at pajama time.

The kid won't get dressed after bath. She just won't. Doesn't want a diaper. Doesn't want pajamas.

Not a big deal, right? Except that it's cold in this old house. And dammit I don't want to wash peed on and pooped in sheets every morning.

Each night as bedtime nears my entire insides fill with dread, but on the outside I'm all scheming. I casually whistle my way into her room and pretend like we've never had a battle about pajamas before. And I try everything.

I give her two pairs of pajamas to choose from. Polar Bears or Penguins?

I buy "pull up" diapers to make it more fun. Wanna step in? No need to lie down!

I nurse her naked (she's naked folks, not me) and try to sneak them on by pretending I'm covering her with a soft blanket. I rub her arms gently and then try to slip her feet into those little footie pockets while she's drinking away.

I sneak her into my lap and read a book while I try to quickly slip her fat fists into the polar bear pajamas. She screams for penguins. I act cool. Like this is no big deal. Of course! Yep! You get to choose the pajamas. I reach for the other pair, she squirms away, I get a Brown Bear, Brown Bear in the face, she runs for the door, I grab her ankle, she falls to the ground, I start to sweat, she's screaming so loud and hard her fists are clenched and her body is shaking, Chris - whose whole approach to pajama time is "If you control the hips you control the man" - walks in, we proceed to pin her down, shove her into her pajamas by force, get kicked in the face repeatedly, use bad words in her presence, zip and snap the damn penguins once and for all, and then need to all retreat to our corners to calm down and stop shaking.

And this happens every. stinking. night.

I wouldn't be surprised if we left bruises. The truth is that I haven't looked too closely because I don't want to know the truth.

(Deep breath in) It is my job to hang on until she is 3. Or 4. It is my job to not kill her at Pajama time.

Bright side

It's been one of those moderately challenging weeks that require a little looking to the bright side.

I've been on antibiotics for the last 10 days due to an infection induced by the breast feeding I seriously shouldn't be doing anymore.

After a week on the medication I woke up Monday with fever and chills, but had to work. Blech.

On Tuesday I noticed that my ass was radiating pain and, after a session of some ass kicking yoga (meant literally) at Moksha on Wednesday night, discovered I have high hamstring tendonitis and won't be running for a bit. Damn.

And today I woke with a head to toe itchy rash brought on by my antibiotics (?) which I finally finished yesterday. I'm a mess.

It's easy to get all caught up in the crappy crap that happens to me during any given week, and make it my focus. It's easy for me to play the lead role in my one woman show.

So today, I'm looking for a bright side. I'm looking for some moments from my week that made me laugh.

Like this one.

While I was washing dishes, this little gal sneaked downstairs (where we keep all our embarrassing secrets like fish aquariums and guinea pig hutches) and climbed right in. This looks funny. And it was. But it was also filthy. She climbed in and cuddled up to layers of fleece and felt that were coated in piggie poop and pee. She probably sucked on their water bottle too.

I heard the pigs squealing from upstairs and assumed she had gotten her hands on them. I was partially wrong.

If you zoom in on this one, you can see poor mama mia squished behind - and almost under - Gilli.

OK!. I feel better (itch itch). I'm going to get off my (aching) butt and head home to start my weekend with a glass of wine..

Have a great one, everyone!