Addendum

I posted here last week that Mae's listening grade wasn't so hot, and that she lost her ipad and tv privileges for the next month, so she can "concentrate on listening better."

Bela did not lose her privileges. At least not by my doing.

Last week the girls had their friend sleep over. This was the very day after Mae lost her TV rights. But, you see, they just HAD to watch Coraline. Had to. HAD TO.

Here was the deal, as developed by Bela.  I let Bela watch the movie, and Mae, and their buddy. And Bela gives up all TV and all iPad along with Mae for the next month.

How could I say no?

So, how did our first weekend go without any TV? Without any IPad?

It was so exhausting the girls and I overslept this morning and showed up at school 45 minutes late.

And that was a good thing.

Saturday was Circus class, lunch out, and the Christkindlmarkt in Daley Plaza (they complained almost the entire time between leaving Circus and arriving home after the Market). Then we made gingerbread houses.

Saturday was exhausting, but we all stuck together.

Sunday we were smarter. Sunday we split up. Chris took all three girls plus our neighbor friend sledding by the lake, then out for lunch and Cocoa.

He dropped them off and I stepped in. Next stop? Waveland Bowl for the annual Toys for Tots party our neighbors put on. The girls bowled for two hours. Then it was home for a snowball fight with the neighbor boys.

Not too bad. We'll see how next weekend goes. 

Yawn.

Simplify

I've been too complain-y about my girls lately.

That being well acknowledged, I'll just say that I think they are the coolest, nicest gals around. And I'll also say that, starting after this post (and in the spirit of the holiday) I'll write only positive things for the rest of the month.

Ok. On with it.


I'm coming off a bad month. Things were out of control. Work and responsibility piled up, my two year old behaved like a two year old, my girls were struggling with their listening skills and were not keen on helping out around the house, and my husband was traveling.

Details went hazy. Things slipped through the cracks more than usual - forgotten homework, overlooked deadlines, missed appointments.

And because Chris was traveling and working a lot I was not yoga-ing or running a lot. And one thing I've come to realize in the last several years is that running with my ladies is the only thing standing between me and a giant bottle of prescription anti-depressants. I just feel so angry and sad when I can't run. Period.

So I wasn't at my best.

And then one Sunday morning, in the middle of scooping out piles of chicken poop from the coop, I had... one of those moments.

I remembered that a few years back I heard about Simplicity Parenting written by Mr. Kim John Payne - a former Waldorf teacher and parental guru. And although I didn't (and don't) know all the details of his Simplicity Parenting ideas, I did know that reducing, slowing, and simplifying were big.

So I started throwing things away. Before the book even arrived I started purging our lives of excess.

I started with a 50% reduction in fowl. Yesterday afternoon the girls and I walked Ole Golly, Lavender, and Emma four houses up from us and plopped them in our neighbors large and spacious chicken haven. Their three hens stopped laying a few months ago; I'm sharing the egg love now.

The next afternoon while Gill napped and the girls slaved away in school, I crept up into Bela and Mae's room - a hotbed of domestic disharmony around here. I filled paper shopping bags and moving boxes with books and toys they will never notice went missing. I threw away broken shells and rotted flower petals, candy wrappers and filthy bits and pieces.

And I didn't stop there. I thinned out our own book collection, recycled magazines, trimmed the belongings in the basement.

When I come across something on the floor that I consider to be non-essential to our everyday lives, I chuck it in the trash. 


The theory here is that more does NOT equal better. More just equals more. And more means more mess. And more mess means crazy angry frustrated Mom.

And it's not just about the stuff in our house. It's about the stuff in our lives, and the way we choose to spend our time. Chicago Park District opened up it's Winter Program enrollment recently, and right before I hit the button to register Bela for another clay class, I shut the computer. No. No more! She's in chorus. She's in Girls in the Game. She takes circus classes. It's enough.

The funniest part of all of this is that I still haven't read the silly book. It's just sitting on my shelf next to the other parenting books I never read. Cluttering. But I'm glad its there. Like a reminder to me that filling our lives with extra activities and our home with extra stuff just makes life more difficult to manage for me.

I also know that this little book and the whole idea of Simplicity Parenting isn't going to solve what I consider to be one of my biggest difficulties: I long for a simple, well-organized life. But I'm also always looking for the next thing. The next class. The next hobby. For the girls and for me.

For now, though? I need to step back. Take care of the things at hand (like these mittens I need to finish knitting) and stop spending so much time managing the mess.

Listening Grade

The ladies have been less than stellar listeners lately. 

They have reached a stage in their development where they can completely tune out 99.9% of what I say to them. The only thing they seem to hear clearly is Ipad, TV, and maybe Cookie.

Their teachers agree.

Back in November when I went to Parent Teacher conferences, aside from the glowing praise about Bela's reading level and Mae's artistic and writing abilities, they admitted that they had to give them lower grades in Listening because, well, they were a little chatty. They were tuning their teachers out.

Now, although I'm the kind of lady who likes Good Grades, we're not talking Bad Grades here. They both were handed Bs in Listening.

But as I'm also wont to do, I used another adult's opinion to drive home a point I was trying to make at home (because we all know that they care waaaaaaaay more about what Mrs. S and Ms. L think about them than what their old boring Mom does).

"Your teachers agree with me that you're not doing a great job listening lately, and they have lowered your Listening grades."

I'm pretty sure I told them that if they didn't raise their grades to As in listening "at school and at home" (whatever the hell I meant by that) they would never get into a decent Chicago High School, and, therefore, would never go to college.

I also told them that their Saturday Ipad and Tv time was all dependent upon the A.

Oh the A.

Progress reports came home this week.

Mae's teacher sent hers home yesterday. Not only did her Listening Grade not improve, it got WORSE. Along with her Math grade! Apparently, she's doing most of her talking and not listening during math stations.

I broke the news to her. She had to go the next 4 Saturdays without TV or Ipad.

Bela's progress report hadn't come home yet, but knowing Bela as we all know Bela, (and Mae Mae knows Bela) she didn't get upset. She assumed that she and Bela would be in the same boat, living the bleak and Ipad-less 4 weeks together, in solidarity. She shed not a tear. She stamped not a foot.

I couldn't believe my good fortune. I hinged the screen time on the grade, but it's no secret around here that if I had my druthers I would toss the ipad in the toilet and cancel the cable package.  They cause way more headaches than they solve. So I talked it all up like this had been her doing, and then I patted myself on my back for getting exactly what I wanted.

Until Bela brought her progress report home today.

She got all As.

Mae is devastated. 

I'm still going to cancel cable. Well, as soon as the season finale of Homeland airs this weekend. And then, seriously, it's gone.

Well, at least until Game of Thrones comes back on in the Fall.

What? What was that you said?

Sigh.

And just like that...

...she turns 2.

I love you more than I could ever ever say.

Happy Birthday to my favorite two-year-old.

Thanksgiving - in notes and photos

 

-- rockets in the fields beyond Grandma's house...

-- secret plans for a "Cousin Party" late at night, while the grown-ups are sleeping:

1. Sneak in grandmas frige.

2. Pillow fight.

3. Check on all the doors so we could see if all of them closed there doors.

4. Look out the window.

5. I spy.

6. No music (it will cause the grow ups to wake up!)

7. Barbies.

8. Jewls. 

9. Draw pictures

10. Look out the window.

11. Wish on the first star.

12. Paper air planes

13. Clean the house.

14. Set up breakfist

15. Take a two minute nap two reasons: 1. it might almost be morning 2. not waste our energey.

16. After two minutes, look out the window.

17. Dress in real cloths.

18. take a ten minute nap.

 and that's all.

-- the meal comes together with the help of many. And bacon fat.

 

-- after many days together, the cousins begin to fight. And to make up.

From Mae to Ruby

-- and then there's Gill.

 

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.