The day Bob Costas ruined my daughters’ childhood innocence

Posted on February 7, 2014 by missemtoo

I’m absolutely not ashamed to admit it: we loooove us some Olympics. Summer, winter, doesn’t matter – the pageantry, the history, the amazing feats of athleticism, the sappy TV-produced backstories – I love every single bit. I’ll cheer both the underdog and the world record-setter; I’ll cry over the heartbreak and the triumph; I’ll avoid online updates so that I can watch the events on TV. Just hearing the Olympic theme (actually titled “Bugler’s Dream,” which I am so totally teaching my students about) brings goosebumps – which, while overdramatic, is not an exaggeration.

For two magical weeks, the world comes together* and laughs and cries and cheers its ass off, and it is Nick’s and my absolute most favoritest thing.

* unless they’re being boycotted, and then we don’t come together, and it sucks. But I digress.

* true story: my dad and stepmom’s sister-in-law (married to my stepmom’s brother) is a crazy-amazing, world record-holding swimmer who was favored to win gold in, like, six events at the ’80 Moscow Games… but then the US boycotted the Games and she, along with all of our athletes, got totally screwed. She did, however, win a silver medal at the ’84 Games in Los Angeles. She regularly sends Annie and Ella her daughter’s hand-me-downs, and they think that wearing clothing that was touched by the same hands that have held an Olympic silver medal is maybe the coolest thing ever. But I digress more.

At age two, Ella couldn’t exactly understand the 2006 Winter Games (Annie, at two months old, probably took in even less, but perhaps my own new-baby brain fog is clouding my memory). I seem to remember them tumbling about the living room emulating the gymnasts during the 2008 Summer Games, but it wasn’t until the winter of 2010 that they really got the Olympics – or, at least, they got that their Mommy and Daddy were batshit excited over something on the television.

Watching the opening ceremonies is akin to the Super Bowl or the Oscars ’round these here parts, and I vividly remember tucking in with the girls for the Vancouver celebrations. For reasons that escape my memory, Nick was out of town, so it was just the girls and me. The coverage began at 8 p.m., which was at or past the girls’ bedtime, but I reasoned that this was such a special occasion, it warranted the privilege of staying up late. I anticipated that Bob Costas would welcome us, his eager audience, to the games – and then, after a few pomp and circumstance montages (during which I would cry), we’d be whisked away to the start of the ceremonies. I figured, if I let the girls stay up until, say, 9 p.m., they’d be able to catch some of the pageantry.

As the broadcast began, we piled into the reclining chair, all three of us, so that I could keep them close and explain the fantastic things they were about to behold. There was Bob – just like I’d imagined! – welcoming us to the Games; surely the ceremonies were only minutes away. THE EXCITEMENT!!!

What? Don’t you wear bathing suits in the dead of winter to avoid getting paint on your clothing when you make a bigger-than-you GO USA poster?

But then, without warning or preamble, the tone of the broadcast shifted dramatically. I was mid-sentence, likely doling out some Canadian history tidbit or maybe explaining (for the 37th time) what the Olympic rings symbolized, so I didn’t really register what Bob was telling us… Something about an accident… A practice run… The tragic death of a luger from Georgia (near Russia, not near Florida)…

It was the word “death” or “died” that suddenly piqued the girls’ interest, and they turned toward the television screen to see what had happened. I was still trying to process what Bob was calmly explaining, like a doctor giving an expectant family bad news in the waiting room. Someone died? Is that what Bob just said? A luger? Is that the technical term for someone who does the luge – luger? When did this – wait, did someone die? I thought we would be seeing the opening ceremonies by now…

… when BAM!, my processing was interrupted by video footage of the poor Georgian luger hurtling down the luge track… then flying off the track (leaving his lonely sled behind)… and then, horribly, smacking into an unpadded metal pole, after which he lay crumpled on the ground, surrounded almost immediately by paramedics and spectators.

Okay. Hold the phone.
Did we seriously just watch someone die on national television? When we were supposed to be seeing the opening ceremonies of the damn Olympics? Instead, we just watched someone die right before our eyes? AND THEY DIDN’T EVEN WARN US to maybe, I don’t know, look away or even just be prepared, because you are about to watch another human being die???

Horrified at what had just unfolded before us, I tore my eyes away from the screen, hoping, by some miracle, that Ella and Annie had not really been paying attention… and found them literally – almost comically – open-mouthed, staring mutely at the television. Turning back to the TV, Bob was now showing us photos of this athlete in happier times, then photos – closeups – of him lying in a heap beside the track. Is that – oh my God, is that blood on his forehead?

“Mommy? What happened to that man?”

“Why did he get hurt?”

“Is he dead right there?”

“But you said that there would be singing and dancing!”

Before I could answer their barrage of questions, NBC was airing the video again! There he was, racing down the track… Oops, there he goes, off to the side… SMACK!, now he’s down…

There was no avoiding their questions; it’s not like I could pretend that they hadn’t seen what they’d just seen, because there we all were, gaping intently at the television, poised with excitement and rapt with attention. And there was Bob, telling us exactly what had happened (so there was no possibility for doubt), and there was the video. Again. AND AGAIN.

I reasoned that, surely, the coverage of this terribly sad and unfortunate event would dim and we’d be seeing the opening ceremonies any moment now… but no. LUGE LUGE LUGE. By the third showing of the accident, I knew enough to place my hands strategically over the girls’ eyes so they wouldn’t have to witness the horror anymore (which, don’t get me wrong, was indeed awful and undoubtedly newsworthy… just maybe not so much in primetime when we were expecting prancing maple leaves and festive mounties). I answered their questions as calmly as I could – physically turning them toward me so they couldn’t see the TV screen – and then began talking up other parts of the Games.

And there will be skating! And hockey! And something called snowboarding with a guy who has wild red hair! Did you know that there’s a crazy event where you ski and then shoot a gun? Should I be talking about guns? WHY NOT – WE JUST WATCHED SOME GUY DIE! The Olympics are so much fun!! LA LA LAAAAA!!!!

The artists hard at work…

As nine o’clock rolled around (yes, we kept “watching” because I reasoned that they would switch over ANY TIME NOW), we still hadn’t seen any of the opening ceremonies, but I promised the girls that I was recording the broadcast and, tomorrow, I would show them the highlights. They could not wait, let me tell you.

Eventually, the ceremonies did start, and I watched the coverage for the rest of the night. At least once an hour, there would be a break so that Bob could tell us again about the death of the luger – but I noticed, by the fourth or fifth announcement, that NBC had changed their presentation somewhat. “Be forewarned – the footage we’re about to show you may be graphic for some viewers. Children are advised not to watch.”

NO SHIT, SHERLOCK.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who was bummed that her three and five year-olds had spent a cheerful family evening gathered around the television set to watch someone die.
Also, apparently NBC pays attention to Twitter and Facebook feedback.

#WTFNBC

By the following day, NBC had shifted its coverage entirely; they no longer showed video footage of the accident, and Bob even apologized for terrorizing us the night before. All well and good… but too little too late, Peacock. Are none of your producers parents? Or even just human beings? It’s the OLYMPICS, for crying out loud. THE OPENING CEREMONIES, not something potentially dangerous like slalom skiing or speed skating or, heck, even figure skating (okay, so a lot of the Olympics features potentially dangerous events, but I digress yet again). The most “dangerous” coverage we were preparing for that night were Proctor and Gamble commercials of mothers hugging their wee ones after falling on the ice rink. Instead, we got Evel Knievel meets CSI. MY CHILDREN CAN NEVER UNSEE THAT.

Or, at least I thought they could never unsee it. Like all good Olympics-loving families, we have been talking up the 2014 Games for several weeks now. In one of our recent discussions, I was reliving my incredulity over the 2010 “opening ceremonies” – laughing at what a horrifying gong show it had been, complete with lunging to cover the girls’ eyes – when it dawned on me that, four years later, they likely didn’t even remember it. A lot has happened since then; certainly they’d forgotten.

And so I asked: Do you actually remember any of that?

They were quiet for a moment, deep in thought, and then…

“No. I’m not sure that I do remember.”

YES. Childhood innocence restored!

“But wait… I think maybe I do remember it…”

“Were we all on the black chair together?”

“Was that the time with that guy on the little sled?”

“Weren’t we all cuddled together watching TV? Except Daddy wasn’t there?”

“And that guy fell off his sled?”

“And then he hit that thing? Wasn’t he bleeding?”

“Yeah. He was lying on the ground.”

“And then he died. We watched him die.”

NOPE. CAN’T UNSEE IT.

You might think this would have turned us off from Olympics-watching, but no. Oh, no no no. We are still rabidly pro-Olympics. And although we may be gluttons for punishment, we will absolutely be watching the Sochi opening ceremonies tonight. The girls’ bedtime is later now, so Nick and I are confident that, no matter how much air time is devoted to stories about terrorism threats and diverted planes and stray dogs and unfinished hotel rooms, they will still see at least part of the actual festivities.

And don’t worry, Bob. We’re still tight. Even with your unfortunate eye incident last night (yes, of course we were watching), we still adore you. You can tell us about someone’s death anytime.

But when you do, if you could just warn us a little, that would be great. Or at least sandwich it between sappy stories that will make me cry happy tears.

I’m hearing the theme in my head as I write this, which means I’m typing with goosebumps on my arms. But I don’t care – the Olympics are worth it.

I’m a lover, and I’m a sinner…

Posted on February 6, 2014 by missemtoo

I heard her in the hall as she shuffled quietly, calmly, demonstrating no concern over what was about to happen. “Mama?” Her voice was even, sweet. “My tummy hurts. I think I need to throw up.”

It was 1:30 a.m. – I should have been asleep – but even in my exhausted stupor, I knew that standing around chatting about vomiting was probably a bad idea, so I ushered Annie to the bathroom just in time for her to empty her dinner into the toilet.

After getting cleaned up, she seemed no worse for wear, so off to bed she went, tucked in with wishes of sweet dreams and hope your tummy feels better, before I returned to my own bed and stage-whispered to Nick, “Shit! What are we going to do??”

This was completely new for us – not the sick kid, not the puking in the middle of the night – but what to do the following morning. Since Annie’s birth, I have always been the one to stay home with the girls when they’re not feeling well. (Given that I don’t have to take a sick or vacation day to do so, nor do I have to shuffle my schedule to work from home, it just makes sense that I’d be the nursemaid.)

We can’t call on help, either; with no family close by who can watch a kiddo with a low-grade fever or a tummy ache (save for my fabulous grandma – who, at 93, I’m not willing to expose unnecessarily to kid-germs), it falls to Nick or me (in this case… me) to cancel appointments or rejigger things in order to sit by a sick one’s side. Thankfully, my piano students’ families have been tremendously understanding of my occasional need to cancel lessons for an ailing daughter. Part of that may have to do with them not wanting me to sit right next to their offspring for thirty minutes with plague germs emanating from my sweater, but still. They’re really good about it.

These days, though, taking care of sick children isn’t quite that easy. Last Tuesday, I started an 11-week, long-term subbing job as a middle school General Music teacher (oh yes, I did. HOLLA!), and so for the first time in seven years, I felt an unfamiliar terror grip me as I slid back into bed: OMG, will I have to miss work? Who would cover for me? Who do I even call in order to get a sub? Wait… is that funny? A sub for the sub? I haven’t even been there long enough to leave a set of emergency lesson plans behind…

Nick would normally have immediately offered to watch Annie, but – Murphy’s law – one of the “big bosses” was in town and there was a very important lunch meeting that he absolutely could not miss. We entertained several possibilities other than my just staying home all day… Perhaps I could go in for the first few periods and then ask someone to cover for me so I could cover for Nick? Perhaps a neighbor could watch her for a short while? Each seemed less appealing than the last.

And so I did the only thing I thought made sense: I crossed my fingers and prayed fervently that Annie would be fine in the morning. Annnnd, thusly, I committed Cardinal School Parent Sin #1: Contemplating the possibility of sending your child to school within twenty-four hours of vomiting, despite the very clear school rule prohibiting such activity.

But… you see… I had excuses. Or, perhaps better, I had explanations. After dinner, I had discovered that the brand new shredded mozzarella I’d included in that night’s baked pasta was covered with mold. A quick 10 p.m. Google search confirmed that it was entirely possible for moldy mozzarella to make people sick to their stomachs… So, perhaps that was what was wrong with Annie.

Translation: she wasn’t contagious, so there was no reason not to send her to school, despite vomiting.

Translation #2: I freaked out about missing work on only my third day, so I was willing to do almost anything to avoid such a possibility.

Because I am awesome like that.

I was still slogging through my thoughts, nearly incoherent, when Annie appeared – silently – at our bedroom door a little after three a.m. “Mama? I just threw up in my bed.”

Much like Uh oh! or It’s even bigger than I thought! or Promise you won’t be mad!, the words I just threw up in my bed will startle even the heartiest, been-there-done-that of parents. Prying my stinging eyes open, I immediately sprang to action (after waking Nick for some help), changing sheets, offering a toothbrush and a glass of water, and once more tucking Annie back into her bed.

You might think that this second bout would cause me to rethink my earlier stance on possibly sending her to school, but no. She had puked up the rest of the pasta, which clearly indicated that it – the moldy mozzarella – was the source of her trouble. Smart little tummy for getting rid of the offending junk! She had no fever. She said she felt fine. Surely, she could go to school.

Cardinal School Parent Sin #2: Continuing to consider sending your child to school after she has vomited not once but twice.

Come the morning, Annie, indeed, felt fine. Her temperature was normal. Her appetite was solid. She was energetic, despite the lack of sleep. Plus, earlier in the year, Ella had been sent home early from school (on her birthday, no less!) because she’d vomited once in class, which subsequently caused her to miss all of the next day of school… and, turned out, that one little blip was her only hint of illness; she was completely fine otherwise. Although I understand – and agree with – the school’s policy, I was bummed that Ella had had to stay home from school, completely healthy… and so I reasoned that Annie would be equally okay.

Cardinal School Parent Sin #3: Actually sending your child to school after she has vomited twice because you think she’s okay, even though you know the policy prohibits such behavior.

One of the best things about my new (temporary) job is that my schedule is an 0.6, meaning I teach three classes and a study hall and I have to be at school from 8:48 – 11:40 a.m.. Three hours! That’s it! And then the afternoon is mine! Most days, I stay after school for a quite a while because teaching is not exactly a punch-your-time-card kind of job, but that Thursday, there was a class at the Y I wanted to attend. I’d carefully chosen my outfit that morning – black yoga pants, black tank top, cute (long) sweater and scarf – so that it would look professional with black boots… but then I could pull a Superman, throw on some sneakers, whip off the sweater, and be ready to work out.

I am so clever like that.

I left school immediately following teaching and arrived at the Y with a few minutes to spare. Even though I was running on, oh, about three hours of sleep, I managed to feel like an exceptional badass. I am so on top of things. I can change my clothes on the fly. I can work out AND teach. I. am. AWESOME.

It wasn’t until I accidentally touched the screen of my iPhone (yes, I keep it nearby when I work out; I’m ~~addicted~~ weird) that I discovered I had a voicemail, left fifteen minutes ago. From the school. Or, more specifically, from the school nurse… Who was calling to tell me that Annie was really not feeling well, and would I please come get her.

Cardinal School Parent Sin #4: Having to admit your asshattery and pick up your sick child.

In the blink of an eye, Nick and I had become those parents: the ones who put their own agendas before the school’s. The ones who decide that they are better arbiters of school rules than the school officials. The ones who are struggling with everything in them to figure out how to honor their own job commitments while simultaneously doing right by their children and their children’s classmates.

In short: we become the parents we have long criticized, the ones we bitch about on Facebook or over coffee. And, man, was that a slap in the face.

But it was a weird kind of slap – like a fake stage one, maybe – because, although it stung, both sides of the argument suddenly became crystal clear. Do the rules exist for a reason? Sure. Did we push it by sending Annie? Yes. Should we have kept her home? In hindsight, yes. But, in a nearly identical situation, Ella absolutely did not – medically – need to remain home that second day… And so the doubt, understandably, crept in.

Although the rules do exist for a reason – a good one, at that – they can also be difficult to follow. It’s awfully easy to complain about a parent who sends their feverish kid to school so that she can go to work; after all, it’s “just” work. Our children always come first, right? What about their classmates’ well-being? Since when are your wants and needs more important than everyone else’s? Just keep them home, damn it.

And yet… It wasn’t that easy. It just wasn’t. I knew my students – my brand new students – had no lesson plans awaiting them, and I had no idea what would be done with them that day, especially at the last minute. It’s just one day, you’ll argue, and I agree… but this one day, this early on, was one I wanted to be there for. I had just started my job; I wanted to make a good impression on my superiors. I wanted to be a team player. I wanted to continue to establish a good relationship with my students. I also knew that Nick was going to be out of town all this week… and so, if one of the girls became sick or there was an emergency, there would be no choice but for me to stay home. Doing so on my third day of work just seemed… not okay.

Nick and I also, of course, wanted to do the right thing by Annie. In that moment, the right thing seemed to be sending her to school. Yeah, so we made the wrong choice; but it was not a choice that was made quickly, callously, or without a lot of consideration.

I’ll be honest: Do I feel bad about sending Annie to school? Yes. She wound up feeling icky (although she felt otherwise that morning), and I’m sad for her that she was at school feeling gross. I also feel guilty about breaking the school rule, given what transpired. Ahhh… but that’s the rub, isn’t it… Given what transpired. Because, faced with a similar situation – a kid who’d been briefly ill but rallied and did not seem remotely contagious – I’d do it again.

Yep. I said it. Would I keep her home when she was obviously sick? Feverish? Sore tummy? Vomiting or diarrhea? Absolutely. But if she felt great and exhibited no current signs of illness and I had a super-pressing reason for going to work? I would. I’d send her to school.

It’s only been eight days since I started my new job, but that has been the hardest part: the balance. Some of it is logistical balance – prepping for things the night before, finding time to do my lesson plans, getting the girls off to school in the morning before I head my way, navigating the ins and outs of our schedules with Nick – but the bulk of it is mental and emotional. How much time can I spend researching beat versus rhythm lesson ideas before the girls start to feel that I’m ignoring them? Can I still fix their hair and make it to school with enough time to run copies and organize my classroom? Should these “free” thirty minutes be spent watching my kids put on a Frozen medley (for the 835th time) or making sure I’ve graded the assessments for my other kids?

Which explains why I was still awake at 1:30 a.m. last Wednesday. (Okay, I guess it was technically Thursday. But it felt a lot like Wednesday.)

Don’t get me wrong… I’m loving this. The job is absolutely perfect for me, and I truly don’t think I could have found a more supportive school, district, and staff. The students are hard-working, respectful, and genuinely kind – even though, at age thirteen, this should practically be an oxymoron. I’m being challenged mentally in a way I haven’t in… well… seven years, and it’s fantastic. I’ve even learned how to use a SMART board (mostly).

And when this little ditty arrived in my school mailbox, I did a not-so-little happy dance. It’s OFFICIAL!!

I realize that loving this so much makes me a dork. I’m good with that.

Part of why I’d been so excited for this position was that it would still allow me to continue to teach piano and do most of the mom/wife/volunteer/me stuff that is so important to me. I know myself well enough as a teacher to know that I wouldn’t do it half-assed; I’m going to give my students everything I’ve got, and then some. This amazing job enables me to give them that, while still being able to help out at Ella’s third grade Valentine’s Day party or walk Annie home from school.

Having spent these past seven years with the girls, I imagined that it would be difficult being away from them when I returned to work, and that they would always be prioritized above anything teacher-related. It came as more than a little bit of a surprise, then, when I found myself concerned about missing school when Annie got sick – when, in that particular instance, I prioritized work above being by her side.

Not above her well-being, no. If she’d been more obviously sick, I wouldn’t have hesitated to call in a sub for the sub, however it needed to be done. If she or Ella gets sick again, and Nick isn’t able to take off of work (as he did last Friday, when Annie was still home with an ailing tummy; maybe that mozzarella wasn’t the culprit…), I will be home with them, no questions asked. But, given that she seemed okay, the immediate priority became my students and their well-being… and suddenly, the thought of committing Cardinal School Parent Sins went from shameful to possible to definite.

I’m sure there are parents out there who are abusing the system, who routinely send their kids in when they know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they’re too sick to be in school. I’m sure that some of them do it callously and without consideration for their child’s classmates or teachers. And those parents piss me off.

I’m equally sure, however, that for every parent who doesn’t care, there are three more who hem and haw about sending their maybe-sick child to school, who weigh the possibility of rescheduling meetings or finding childcare or taking their last paid sick day or falling behind on their lessons against the possibility that their kiddo might simply have a headache through math, but otherwise, feel fine. Some days, the decision turns out to be good for everyone involved. Other times… it doesn’t go the way you’d hoped.

Turns out, most of those parents are simply us, doing the very best we can with what we have. We deeply admire their teachers. We respect the school rules. We love our kids to pieces. And, occasionally, we commit Cardinal School Parent Sins – because we are frazzled and stretched thin and we make mistakes because we are human.

Lesson learned: enough with the judging. You just never know what’s going on in another person’s life.
And also: make emergency sub plans the first day you accept a teaching job. They might come in handy… immediately.

Adventures in Annie

Posted on February 4, 2014 by missemtoo

Three days… three separate conversations…

————————————–

So… who’re you talking to?

“Oh, just my toes.”

Excuse me?

“My toes. They all have names.”

I’m not even sure how to respond to that.

“Wanna know their names?”

I’m guessing I don’t have a choice.

(pointing) “These are Alissa, Annie…”

You named a toe after yourself?

“… Grace, Anna, Katelyn, Kathryn, Molly, Hannah, Lucy, and this big one is Chenille.”

Chenille? You named one of your toes Chenille?

“They’re sisters and they’re really funny.”

I just bet they are.

—————————

“Hey, Annie. Mom says you named your toes.”

“Yes, I did.”

“So, what are their names?”

“Welllll…. They’re… Anna, Elsa, Hannah, Harper, Molly, Marin, Grace, Lilly, Jojo, and Polly.”

“I thought one of them was Chenille.”

“Ohhhhh, right. This big one is Chenille. I just forgot.”

“You forg…”

“And these (points to fingers) are Lucille, Camille, and Chenille.”

“You also have a finger named Chenille?”

“Yes. They’re twins.”

—————————–

“Mama – did you know that my toes can lose their teeth?”

Yet again, I’m not sure how to respond to that.

“They do! Chenille already lost hers.”

She did?

“Yes. Except when toes lose their teeth, the Tooth Fairy doesn’t bring them any money.”

No?

“No. All they get is a letter and some glitter.”

That’s a bummer.

“Yeah. I’m glad I’m a person and not a toe.”

Aren’t we all.

——————–

You cannot make this stuff up.
EVERY DAY IS AN ADVENTURE, PEOPLE. Every. Single. Day.

New York… New York

Posted on January 28, 2014 by missemtoo

When Ella turned eight, Nick promised her that he would take her on a business trip with him. He travels for work approximately five days a month, and Ella has long been asking just what he does on these trips; rather than continue to explain (“Meetings… a presentation… grabbing something cold from the lunch buffet… another presentation…”), he thought it would be fun to show her.

In reality, of course, it wouldn’t really work to have Ella attend any of Nick’s meetings and presentations (and lunch buffets), so we’d thought that he could take a short flight somewhere, meet some of our extended family, drop Ella off to spend the day with them, do his work stuff, pick Ella up once he was through, hang out with her wherever they were, chill in a hotel room overnight, and finally, fly home the following morning. Ella turned eight in December of 2012 – more than a year ago – but our 2013 was a bit… crazy… So the opportunity for the trip never materialized.

MBAs and new jobs and mourning and nutty schedules don’t really mean much to Ella, however, so she remained determined that such a trip would take place. At last, Nick decided that he needed to make good on his promise – and so, last weekend, a month after she turned nine, Ella joined Nick on a business trip to New York City.

With Ella and Daddy gone for just over twenty-four hours, that left Annie and me to hold down the fort. And, oh, did we ever hold down our damn fort.

Watching her walk to school and greet our beloved crossing guard – without her sister – was a little bittersweet…

Oh, look: snow. Such an anomaly.

… But once we hit the new indoor trampoline place, all missing-of-sisters-and-daddies was soon forgotten.

The kid’s got AIR.

special overnight a4
Oh, yeah. I got game.

special overnight a2
When you can’t play outside for ten days because of absurdly frigid temperatures, bouncing yourself into a frenzy is SENT FROM THE GODS, I tell you.

During the hour that we jumped, I think I lost 7 pounds in water weight: trampolining makes you sweat, man (and also maybe, um, lose liquid in other ways; those of you who have birthed a child and are over the age of 35 know what I’m talking about. The bathrooms in these places should come equipped with paper towels, tampons, and Depends).

Downstate, it was a little warmer, so our other halves were able to venture outside and explore the city. My dad and stepmom – Papa and Grand Meg – had met Nick and Ella that morning, then spent the day with her while Nick took care of work business.

special overnight e3
Enjoying a muffin the size of her head at Papa’s office.

Taking the A train.
(Not literally. They did go uptown, though, so I suppose that was possible…)

Although the temperatures were doable, they weren’t exactly fun, so Papa and Grand Meg decided that the American Museum of Natural History would be a dandy indoor adventure. Later, when she told me about her day, Ella couldn’t stop talking about how incredible the museum was – wisely chosen, Papa and Grand Meg FTW!

My big girl in action…

Perhaps spotting a sucker when they saw one (or, more accurately, realizing that a grandma and grandpa were enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime one-on-one day with their eldest granddaughter, and would do anything to celebrate the occasion), the museum employees convinced my dad to purchase a photo package, to Ella’s delight and my great amusement. Maybe it was the cold… Maybe it was giddiness from the crazy-early hour at which they all awoke… Or maybe it was just the joy of spending this special day together, but my normally reserved, easily-embarrased nine year-old struck silly poses and smiled with abandon, while my normally reserved, not-too-silly dad pretended to see a flying dinosaur over his left shoulder.

In short, these are some of my most favorite photos, ever.

special overnight e7
RAWR.

special overnight e6 Oh, look. A pterodactyl.

This is the one Ella liked best, in spite of the neckpiece growing out of her cheek.

Knowing, especially, that Ella and Nick would be dining in Manhattan splendor, I’d offered Annie the opportunity to go to any restaurant in the Rochester area, just the two of us…

Instead, she chose to cook me dinner at home.
Could I find out the menu in advance, so I could supplement the meal with additional ingredients? No. Could I help her prepare? No. Could I offer suggestions? WHY WAS I BEING SO DIFFICULT??

And that’s how, on a Friday night in January, I found myself being served gluten-free pasta with jarred pasta sauce (with a little cream added for extra flavor), “the fluffy parmesan from the green container”, and broccoli sautéed with soy sauce.

You may notice that she changed her clothes after the trampoline place – partially because she was a sweaty mess, and partially because she needed to dress up in order to properly make me dinner. Duh.

Cutesie poses make everything more delicious…

For dessert, I offered – again – to take her out. Would she care to grab a piece of cake somewhere? Go to a candy shop? Get some ice cream? Indulge in Starbucks?
Or, if she’d prefer to stay home, would she like to bake some brownies? Make a sundae? Create a milkshake?

After some serious eye-rolling and a hissed, “Mom! I’ve GOT this!”, Annie returned with dessert…

Why, yes, that is a carefully-arranged plate containing two Trader Joe’s chocolate crisps, one jellied candy, and four Advent chocolates.

I know. She spoils me.

Meanwhile, back in the Big Apple, a slightly different experience was being had. Seeing that Nick had Ella with him (and, therefore, trying to make a kid’s day), the front desk guy at the hotel surprised them with an upgrade to an absolutely ridiculous suite (it had one and a half bathrooms and a 70″ flatscreen television, if that’s any indication of what I mean by “ridiculous”).

special overnight e4
Also? Two bathrobes. Per person.

And an equally ridiculous view.

special overnight e8
That’s Ella posing by the window, for scale…

Yeah. Not bad.

Post-dinner at a delicious steakhouse (name: The Strip House. That won’t look strange on Nick’s expense report. Especially because he took his daughter there), Nick convinced Ella to take a swing through China Town, where they tried their first – and last – bubble tea.

Tapioca balls just sound… weird…

Having awakened at 4:15 that morning for their flight, Ella was positively bushed, and passed out in the second of her hotel robes before 9 p.m. Annie and I, on the other hand, were still going strong…

There were nails to be painted:

I didn’t notice until now that the American Girl doll’s hand had slipped into this photo.
Both super creepy and oddly appropriate.

And much snuggling before the two of us crawled into my bed for the night:

She doesn’t thrash around but does keep the bed warm. No complaints from the mama!

In the morning, I offered to do whatever Annie wanted for breakfast: head out to one of her favorite restaurants. Enjoy a hot, toasted bagel from Bruegger’s (we could even eat there instead of bringing it home – the luxury!). Snag a doughnut – or two! – from Dunkin’ Donuts.

Instead – say it with me – Annie wanted to stay home and fix me breakfast.

What? Your seven year-old doesn’t routinely pipe out A (for, you know, Annie) and M (for MOTHASCRATCHA) pancakes and hearts and ~~blobs~~ circles over the wildly hot griddle?
Mine neither. Hence, why I am six inches away in this photo, to Annie’s great chagrin.

To my surprise, the pancakes were quite delicious (and a lovely departure from my usual breakfast of only fresh juice), and she and I had a delightful conversation while we devoured our meals.

By the time Ella and Nick arrived home (where Nick rushed himself to Urgent Care for a wicked cough, poor fellow), the girls were more than ready to see one another. They played together nonstop all afternoon and into the night, and although they would never admit it out loud, it was absolutely clear that they had desperately missed each other.

New York is a pretty fascinating state. From subways to the museum to bubble teas in China Town, snowy walks to school to devilishly fun trampoline centers, it’s really got just about everything you could need. Or, at least, everything that we need.

Nick and I had been mildly concerned that Annie might have trouble with Ella going on this trip – missing school, getting to stay in a fancy hotel, seeing Grand Meg and Papa… But, not only was she not jealous, she was genuinely excited for Ella (with more than a little sister bothering thrown in for good measure).

Conversation between the girls on Nick’s and my phones.
Such love…

Even more to my surprise, Annie wasn’t upset that Ella would be having fun in New York City – because she was having such a blast right here in Rochester. It’s hardly a mecca of entertainment and excitement, but between jumping on the trampolines, having the opportunity to take over meal prep and make it her own, painting her nails, and sleeping in Mommy and Daddy’s “big bed,” Annie was in absolute heaven.

As we were eating our dinner, Annie leaned over and said, “This has been an amazing day, Mama!” I had just started to agree with her when she interrupted me with a grin, saying, “And it’s not even over yet!”

Similarly, Eleanor had a total blast. From the museum to the steakhouse to the hotel room (where she could have happily spent the entire day; she and Nick both agreed was the most incredible room they’d ever seen), it was one big blur of happiness and fun — but the best part, by far, seemed to be sharing the day with her dad and especially her grandparents, just the three of them, something they haven’t had the opportunity to do in the seven years since Annie was born.

It seems that the feeling was mutual; Papa and Grand Meg were heading out of town themselves on Saturday morning, and arrived at the airport early (where Nick and Ella were waiting to board the plane back to Rochester) to savor a few extra minutes with their granddaughter. I know I just said it, but I mean it: we may not live close to our extended family, but that has not diminished the closeness of our relationships with them – and the time we do have together, whether it’s at a large family gathering or on a private day trip, is all the more special.

Both Ella and Annie agreed it was one of the best days of their lives. In turn, it was one of the best of Nick’s and mine. Having one-on-one time with your kiddo is so important, but can be so difficult – almost impossible, sometimes. Having an entire day of one-on-one time is priceless. I know that neither Nick nor I will forget this weekend with each of our girls; having Annie all to myself was really pretty damn fabulous.

Next year, when Annie turns eight and is able to join Nick on a trip, I’m sure they’ll have just as much of a blast. I, myself, am looking forward to a little one-on-one time with my big girl; now, we have some catching up to do.

I bet I can convince her to join me at a local restaurant. Or order pizza. Or just get a bagel.
If not, I know where the leftover Advent chocolates are stored, and I’m not afraid to get them.

All Systems Go

Posted on January 24, 2014 by missemtoo

So, remember back when fall started and we were juggling new schedules and grieving the loss of Bill and Nick was traveling and I began substitute teaching and things got a little hairy for a while? No? It’s largely a blur for me, too.

But I do remember kind of, I don’t know, losing it during a visit with my therapist, frustrated that not only did we have a million balls in the air (and I suck at both sports and juggling), but also that the girls were struggling with all of the change. My therapist asked me what I thought I could do to help get things under control (not in an OMG you are such a mess way, but more in a literal way), and I told her that once I had a system for things – a way of keeping us organized, some checks and balances – it would get better.

Or at least we’d know what the hell was going on, when.

Annie, in particular, was growing agitated that every day was different than the one before. Did she have library? Was our babysitter coming today? Would Daddy miss bedtime because of an early hockey game? Did she have soccer practice? Would Mommy be gone at breakfast because she was subbing? Was dinner going to be before, during, or after Ella’s swim lesson? Did Ella even swim tonight?

Damn. Just typing that makes my head spin.

And she couldn’t even have a glass of wine at the end of the day. Or, say, for lunch. No wonder the kid was out of sorts.

In typical ADHD fashion, I hatched a plan the moment I left my therapist’s office and decided to put it into play that afternoon. Yes, it meant that the vacuuming wouldn’t get done and that our dinner might never get made, but we would be organized, damn it.

Home base would be the fridge, in part because it’s in a central location, and in part because the girls open the fridge doors, like, 238 times a day, so I knew they’d be facing the information over and over again.

What? This IS organized. Go with it.

Although we have a large wall calendar, it’s up high and the girls never check it, so I decided to put a monthly calendar above the ice dispenser, specifically tailored to the girls’ needs. Visits to the vet and oil changes and annual checkups for my lady parts? I’ll keep those to myself, thanks. Daddy’s early hockey games and Mommy’s subbing and the visit from a relative at the end of the month? Vital.

Feel free to click on any of these fabulous photos to see them larger.
Come on. You know you want to see the puppy up close.

Next, there’s the two week dry erase calendar, which is more detailed than the monthly view. This way, the girls can know, at a glance, if I’m teaching piano and a babysitter is coming, or if I’m teaching piano at home sans sitter, or if they need to gather their library books or should plan to stay after school for an activity.

Below this calendar are the girls’ weekly homework assignments as well as the monthly hot lunch calendar, which they check nightly to determine which days they’re buying and which they’re not. I don’t think they’ve missed a pizza Wednesday all year long.

Finally, away from the fridge, there’s the daily dry erase board – an idea I got here – which is kept by the girls’ backpacks and lets them know what they need to bring with them that day. systems2

systems1
Can you tell we live near Rochester? What gives it away?

Annie and Ella tell me what to write on the list each night, and then they’re responsible for packing their bags in the morning. While they both go down the list to see what they’ve got and what they don’t, only Annie actually crosses things off… but, ironically, she still occasionally forgets things. I don’t know anyone else in our family like that. *cough*

systems6

I’d love to say that this has eliminated frantic goings-to-school, but it totally hasn’t. There are still tears some days as we head out the door, because hair doesn’t fix itself, you know, and breakfast cannot magically teleport itself into hungry stomachs… but at least I know that the daily WHAT ELSE DID YOU NEED TO BRING?? craziness has been largely eliminated.

systems5
Boots on… bags packed… maybe we can sneak out the door without having a brush come anywhere near our heads…

We started this whole “system” thing back in October (ish), and it’s pretty much accomplished what I wanted it to: namely, I know what the hell is happening, and when, and Annie feels like she’s got a sense of what each day looks like. Nearly every night around dinner, I’ll catch her standing in front of the fridge, muttering things like, “So, tomorrow I’ve got library… Looks like Daddy’s playing goalie again… HOLY COW WE’RE GOING TO MINNESOTA IN THREE DAYS!” She really seems to thrive with everything laid out so clearly in front of her, and although we’re going through enough dry erase markers to buy stock in Expo, I’m down with it.

Ella, however, didn’t really seem to care. Although she’s always been our kid who craves predictability, who struggles with change, and who absolutely cannot handle a surprise, she didn’t voice any opinions about the system. Yeah, I’ll see her rechecking the school lunch calendar from time to time (making sure that she’s really chosen the best options for the week), and she seems to peruse the dry erase checklist each morning, but like I said, she doesn’t mark anything off, and she doesn’t talk about it one way or another. So I wasn’t sure that she was even paying attention.

Because Ella really needs to know what to expect each day – as mentioned, homegirl cannot stand being surprised – I always make sure to remind her, casually, of anything I think might throw her for a bit of a loop. Sometimes, I’ll just work a reminder into conversation while we’re walking to school: “After Sammy picks you up from school, you can try one of our new snacks!” Other times, I’ll be more direct: “Don’t forget that I need to take yearbook photos tomorrow after school, so we’ll need to stay at the building for an extra twenty minutes.” Sometimes, she rolls her eyes at me, but she’s ultimately grateful to be in the know.

Last week, it was already well past bedtime when I remembered that I’d completely forgotten to tell Ella that I’d be pulling her from school the following day to take her to a doctor’s appointment. I was afraid that, in the hustle and bustle of the morning, I might also forget to tell her – and also, I know that she likes to know things like this as far in advance as possible – so I crept back into her room to supply her with this critical information.

Ella! I’m so sorry, but I forgot to tell you – you have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning…

“… at 10:30. I know.”

(She said this without lifting her head or even opening her eyes.)

Oh. Well then. Glad we got that straightened out. ‘Night.

“‘Night.”

Sooo… I guess she actually is looking at the kitchen calendar. Like, a lot.
Maybe we should buy that dry erase marker stock after all.

Where else would you go for a January vacation?

Posted on January 24, 2014 by missemtoo

When we moved to Rochester in 2007, we knew what we would be gaining: a great job for Nick, a super-short commute, a very affordable cost of living, amazing schools, a wildly family-friendly community, a superb neighborhood, more time with my Grandma, and more snow than we could shake a stick at. We also knew acutely what we’d be giving up: living near family and friends. (Because we’re so awesome, we have since made more friends, but the family thing is probably never going to change.)

As a result of living near none of our parents, siblings, or extended family (save for my aforementioned stupendous Grandmother – hi, Phoofsy!), we do a lot of traveling and hosting-of-guests – averaging at least twelve visits a year, both here and there (and everywhere). We try to see everyone fairly equally, but sometimes that’s just not possible.

To whit: Nick’s mom (whom the girls call Gigi, rhyming with jiggy) and stepdad (whom the girls call Grandpa Ray, rhyming with Grandpa Jay), who live in Minnesota, kind of got the shaft in terms of visits over the past several years; we were seeing as much of Grandpa Bill (and GranMary) as we could – quite understandably, and we’re damn glad we did. But still… although they’ve never complained (or even mentioned it), Gigi and Grandpa Ray definitely got the short end of the visitation stick.

But wait! you might say. They could have come and visited you, instead! And yes, technically, that’s true. They’re certainly welcome, and they have visited us, indeed – but it’s not quite that simple. You see, in the fall of 2008, Gigi earned superhero status when she beat the (almost unbeatable) odds and survived a ruptured brain aneurysm. Yes, you read that right: she had an aneurysm. That ruptured. In her brain. And she kicked its ass.

The aneurysm did its share of ass-kicking too, however, causing Gigi some rather significant problems – including making it difficult to travel. Complicating things, Gigi has been battling Multiple Sclerosis for nearly fifteen years; her symptoms have worsened recently, and have effectively prevented her from being able to visit us and Nick’s sister (and her family) as often as we all would have liked.

When it became clear that Gigi and Grandpa Ray wouldn’t be able to head out to New York any time soon, it became equally clear that we needed to book a trip to Minnesota. The long weekend in January provided us with the perfect opportunity for a quick jaunt west, and so we found ourselves headed from one frozen, snowy suburb halfway across the country to another.

Come on. When you think, Where should we go in the dead of winter to escape all of this Rochester cold and snow? the Twin Cities are SO the first place that comes to mind.

Although the purpose of our visit was to spend time with Gigi and Grandpa Ray, Annie and Ella had another mission: to get to know their Aunt Emi’s fiancé, Matt, and decide whether or not they approved of their upcoming nuptials. I bet Emi and Matt are thrilled they asked the girls to be in the wedding.

Turns out, they needn’t have been concerned: Matt (who, by the way, is a freakin’ neurosurgeon. So he’s not smart. I can totally talk music theory circles around him, though, don’t worry) jumped right in and assumed his soon-to-be-uncle role. He carted the girls around on his shoulders, shared his sweet dance moves, watched kid movies, sprung for ice cream, and braved amusement park rides with nary a sigh. He was earning it, you guys.

Ready for lift-off at the Mall of America.

Not to be outdone, Gigi took her grandmother role equally seriously. Waking up early because her granddaughters were still on east coast time? Done. Smiling and laughing through lunch at a St. Paul restaurant, despite fighting wicked nausea from her MS medications? Absolutely. Resting in the afternoon so that she could trek to Emi and Matt’s downtown Minneapolis apartment for dinner on Saturday night, then playing an epic game of Go Fish with Annie and Matt, fighting through dizziness to see the cards? Her granddaughter asked her to play; of course, she would.

Getting clarification on Annie’s “rules,” which were ever-changing… which might explain why Annie won this round.

Come on! It’s not brain surgery!
Yes, I went there. For both of them. Awwww, snap.

Watching the girls with Grandpa Ray so that we could go with Emi and Matt (and also Molly and Molly’s sister, Katie) to a Wild game? Wouldn’t miss it. Braving the American Girl store in her wheelchair so that she and her sister could take the girls to lunch with their AG dolls? You better believe it.

Then finally, on Sunday night, searching through her sewing materials to find an adhesive backing that I could take home with me to sew up Annie’s hole-filled, most favorite silkie blanket, all the while apologizing that she didn’t feel well enough to actually fix the silkie herself… then holding the wall for balance so that she could ransack her fabric to locate an appropriate silk-like piece that I could bring back with us, admitting sadly that if she weren’t so nauseated, she could mend it in no time flat… then explaining that her medication often causes her to awaken super-early, so perhaps she could repair the silkie at 4 a.m. before our flight… then drawing herself up and visibly steeling herself and saying with determination, “No. I can cut these silk fabric patches myself. I’ll make them the right size and you can bring them home and iron them on – it’ll be simple”…? YES. I BEAT A DAMN BRAIN ANEURYSM AND THIS EFFING MS MEDICATION WILL NOT STOP ME FROM DOING THIS FOR MY GRANDDAUGHTER.

Except she didn’t say “damn” or “effing” or actually any of that, but the sentiment was there. And I know reading this will make her laugh. Hi, Karen!

… and then deciding, Screw it, I’m in, and not only cutting the silk patches and adhesive backing, but getting out the iron and the silkie and having everything ready to go to repair Annie’s damaged blanket… When Annie appeared, sobbing, from the bedroom, saying that she couldn’t go to sleep without her silkie, and she just had to have it back.

In spite of all of the superhuman effort she’d just put in to cut the fabric and the adhesive and get the iron ready to repair the blanket, Gigi simply said No problem, she understood perfectly, and handed Annie her silkie, who wiped her eyes with it, then trundled back to bed. The silk circles and adhesive backing were meticulously put in an envelope for me to take home so that I can repair the blanket at a later date. Gigi shook off her nausea once more to climb upstairs just in time to watch Downton Abbey with Grandpa Ray, making sure to get to bed early so that they could awaken at 5:30 a.m. on Martin Luther King day to say goodbye to us before we headed to the airport.

As I looked at the envelope containing the patches, the circles that Gigi had used sheer willpower to make, I was struck, almost physically, by the depth of love involved in their creation. We may not live near any of our extended family, but that hasn’t diminished our relationships with them; if anything, it makes the time we do spend with them all the more sweet. How incredibly lucky Annie and Ella are to have grandparents – from Gigi and Ray to GranMary and Grandpa Bill, Grama and Pops, and Papa and Grand Meg – who adore them so.

It was a marvelous visit. Even if we did go from one winter wonderland to another.

Oh – and the girls gave Matt two thumbs up. The wedding can go ahead as planned.
Thank God, because otherwise, the black and white (“formal”) Rainbow Loom bracelets that Ella has made for the bride and groom to wear on their wedding day might just go to waste. And that would truly be a tragedy.

* Gigi’s story – of her aneurysm and her battle with MS – are shared with her permission and blessing. Although she may change her mind in the future…

Like the corners of my mind

Posted on January 17, 2014 by missemtoo

You think they forget. The don’t talk about it often, so you think they’re not thinking about it.

But then suddenly you’re rising over the clouds, spread out below you like rolling fields, and your oldest says that way off in the distance she can see Grandpa Bill. His house is there – fluffy, big like a castle – and he’s just chillin’ with Maddy and mommy’s grandpa, Great. It’s neat up above the clouds, closer to where he is.

After hearing this story while waiting for dinner in the C concourse, your youngest becomes uncharacteristically quiet. In a moment, she is leaning in close, and you don’t even realize that her face is wet with tears until she pulls you close to whisper, “We’re just not complete without Grandpa Bill here.”

And you understand that they do remember, after all. It is woven into the fabric of themselves, worn and frayed but making up their DNA, these people and pets they have loved and lost. Most of the time, they do not even mention them… But when the memory bursts forth like a sunbeam, they cannot stay quiet.

We are on our way to Minnesota to visit Gigi and Grandpa Ray, Aunt Emi and soon-to-be-Uncle Matt. It promises to be a fantastic weekend; we are excited and very much looking forward to it.

And if the trip there brings us closer to Bill and Maddy and Great, then so much the better for us all.

All that glitters is a PAIN IN THE *$$

Posted on January 15, 2014 by missemtoo

You never want to assume that your children are lying to you. I mean, when their toothbrushes aren’t wet and their breath could melt a refrigerator, yet they insist that they brushed their teeth, it’s pretty obvious that some fibbing is going on… But still, you’d like to think that your kid is the kind of kid who wants to tell you the truth, whose answers you can trust, rather than always jumping to the conclusion that everything out of their mouths is bullsh*t.

Well, there’s having faith in your kid – which can be a beautiful thing – and then there’s just plain stupidity. Our own girls fall somewhere in the middle of the lying continuum: telling the truth most of the time, but certainly not all; being just conscientious enough to spill the beans but cunning enough to practice some tale-telling; being afraid of the consequences of being caught in a lie but also being scared as hell to get in trouble for the original infraction. Aw, man, I love parenthood.

So, when I found a pile of glitter on one of my darling daughters’ bedroom floors (I shall refrain from naming her to afford her some modicum of privacy, but really, there are only two of them so your imagination can totally run wild), my first assumption was that it had been dumped there. I mean, this isn’t a strip club; glitter is not usually peppering our floors, except after art projects and the wearing of particularly “fancy” dress-up clothes, so it had to come from somewhere – namely, my little Darling.

Upon questioning, however, she insisted – absolutely insisted – that she had no idea how the glitter found its way onto her floor. Maybe a dog had knocked it over? Perhaps it had spilled out of a craft bag? Could it be that the tooth fairy left some behind? No matter how many times I tried to poke holes in my Darling’s reasoning, her denial remained ironclad: she did not put that glitter on her floor. No ma’am. No how.

Seeing that I was getting nowhere and I had no actual evidence that she’d been the glitter dumper, I decided to let it go. Maybe, in all of our post-Christmas comings and goings, the glitter really had just fallen to the floor somehow. And maybe, also, I shouldn’t be so quick to assume the worst of my Darling, but should instead take her at her word. No more Judgey McJudgerson. In fact, perhaps, in the past, she has felt compelled to lie because I have automatically found her guilty before trying her of the crime. New year, new leaf: I will believe in my children. Teach them well, and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside. Or something.

Monday was one heckuva day – nothing bad, really, just one of those days when your calendar is like a Jenga board, with all of the appointments and To-Dos fitting just so, lest the tower topple. It was in the fifteen minutes between my final piano lesson and Ella heading to swim practice that I first noticed the glitter in the living room. It didn’t seem like much – a small trail in the middle of the room – but it caught my eye, so I asked my Darling about it, the one whose floor still bore a pile of glitter (vacuuming her room was not amongst my Jenga pieces, thank you very much).

And I received the same response: Nope. Not her. She had no idea how the glitter had gotten on the living room floor. Was she sure? Yes, she was sure, damn it (except that she didn’t really say “damn it” because then this story would have a far different ending). And so I again began to doubt my parenting, again chastising myself for assuming the worse of my Darling – after all, the puppy had recently been upstairs. Maybe she’d gone into my Darling’s room and had brought a trail of glitter with her into the living room. I should blow it off, anyway – you know, and let the children’s laughter remind me how I used to be. A bit of glitter? How charming!

After swimming (which was really after two swimmings, because Ella forgot something vital at the pool and we had to go back again to retrieve it after dinner; those top Jenga pieces were tottering, let me tell you), as the kids were on their way upstairs to get ready for bed, I passed through the living room and noticed that there seemed to be more than just “a small trail” of glitter. At that moment, however, I didn’t have time to stop and examine it, much less clean it up, because of bedtime and lunch-packing and teeth-brush-monitoring (see above: saying teeth are clean when they are not) and reading and tucking in and laundry putting-away.

It was not until after the girls were snuggled into their beds and my laundry basket had been emptied and the lunches had been packed that I realized just how damn much glitter was in the living room. It was everywhere: spread across both rugs, on the coffee table, on the reclining chair, wrapped up in a blanket (which I didn’t know contained glitter until I picked it up to refold it and flung microscopic shimmer across the couch). It was as though a unicorn had thrown up violently all over the room. An angry, particularly sparkle-tastic unicorn.

Because the dogs had been stuck in the kitchen for most of the day (see above: Jenga-busy), I had wanted to let them out and have the run of the living room for the rest of the evening, but there was no way I could do that with the amount of glitter on the floor. Indeed, there was so much glitter, I couldn’t walk across the floor without dragging pieces of it with me. There was absolutely no choice: I’d have to vacuum.

Jenga tower: down.

As I ran the vacuum over… and over… and over every square inch of the living room, I contemplated my Darling’s insistence that she had nothing to do with this mess. On the one hand, it seemed absolutely impossible that the glitter found its way into every corner of the living room without some kind of divine intervention. And yet… She had looked me in the eye — more than once — and stated in the strongest possible terms that she was not responsible for the explosion. Could she really lie that deliberately? MY Darling?

After a good twenty minutes or so of vacuuming, I was satisfied that I’d picked up the vast majority of the glitter. Crossing the room to unplug the machine, however, I was nearly blinded by the light reflecting off the floor: glitter – still! – everywhere.

And then I saw what was happening: the pieces of glitter were so small, they were not being adequately picked up by the vacuum. Compounding the problem was the fact that what makes glitter, well, glittery is that it shimmers only some of the time, depending on how the light hits it. So, while vacuuming, the floor looked like this:

Clean. Shimmer-free. Lovely.

But when the light hit the floor from another angle, it looked like this:

UNICORN VOMIT EVERYWHERE.
And this is AFTER twenty minutes of vacuuming.

After twenty more minutes, I was through. Yes, it still looks like a Pride parade went through, but we’re pretty strong gay marriage supporters in this house, so I guess that comes with the territory. After putting my Jenga tower back together and completing the rest of my 493 To-Do items, I crashed, not giving the sparkle a second thought.

In the morning, there was the usual mad rush to get off to school, so I didn’t have the opportunity to ask my Darling if, perhaps, there was anything more she’d like to tell me about the abundance of glitter in the living room – if, perhaps, her memory had failed her just the teensiest of bits. It wasn’t until the kids were due home from school that I was tidying up another area of the living room – one that was seemingly untouched by the shimmer explosion – that I found them: the caps to two vials of glitter.

Exhibit C: the evidence. Shiny, impossible-to-vacuum evidence.

My friends, Jambi may be an awesome service dog-in-training, but I can assure you that none of us has ever taught her how to pry open the lids of glitter bottles, toss the contents all over the living room, and then leave the caps lying on a table that’s taller than she is. No, this had to have been done by a human, and the most likely suspect was the aforementioned, I-swear-it-wasn’t-me Darling. And to think I’d spent all that time cleaning… It seems they can take away my dignity, damn it, Whitney.

At bedtime, I sat her down, prepared to have a really difficult conversation about the glitter, fully prepared for her to push back with all her might and continue to insist she had nothing to do with it. Or, as Nick put it, to do what it took to “break her.” I opened by asking her if she had anything more to tell me about the glitter in the living room. Before she could even answer, I decided to pull out the big guns: I told her that I’d found the caps, and would she care to change her story?

Well, little Miss may have been able to lie straight to my face when I had nothing tying her to the crime, but when faced with cold, hard facts, she crumbled faster than my Jenga tower. After ‘fessing up and apologizing for lying (I’ll take my therapy money back, thanks), she still seemed unsure as to why flinging glitter around the living room was such a big deal. My spending the better portion of an hour cleaning it up didn’t seem to bother her, nor did the fact that we’ll be discovering glitter in our food for the next two months. Actually, that may have made the whole episode seem more appealing. Explaining to her that it was bad for the dogs – dangerous, even – to have that much glitter around also did not seem to move her.

And so I did what any noble parent would do: I lied.

You know why else it’s a problem?

“Why?”

Because if you continue spilling glitter all over the floor, magicians won’t have any left for their acts.

*long pause, followed by a statement made in a wide-eyed whisper*
“I’ve never seen a magician use glitter.”

That’s probably because you and your friends are using it all up.

*solemn nodding* “You’re right. I won’t ever do that again.”

I’m glad we can agree on this.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, may truly be the greatest love of all.
On second thought, maybe I shouldn’t throw away the therapy money just yet.

You just never know; count them

Posted on January 9, 2014 by missemtoo

My phone vibrates with the receipt of a new text; I receive an email and a phone call as well. A member of our school community has died unexpectedly – a man who is only forty years old, who is our high school’s Cross Country coach, a teacher, and the father of three little girls, two of whom attend our daughters’ school. I pause momentarily to take this in, and then realize that I know his wife. We have only met a few times, and casually, sure, but I know her. Ella and Annie know their oldest daughter, who is in second grade, sandwiched between them.

It seems surreal. Forty years old and otherwise healthy? The father of young children? The husband of a woman I know, a woman who lives just down the street from us, and whose life has now been forever upended? I am crushed for her, for her daughters.

And I am terrified, too: it could be us. It could be any of us.

We receive word the following day that the second-grade teacher did a wonderful job of shepherding the class through a discussion about their classmate who had just lost her father. I read the email in the bathroom, and I cry – big, huge sobs. Eight year-olds shouldn’t even know that it’s possible to lose a parent just like that, much less have to navigate their way through grief and fear and questions with unknown answers. None of our children should. It breaks my heart.

We tell our girls that if they can absolutely speak to this second-grader who has lost her father, to not be afraid to talk to her, to just say “hi” and let her know they see that she’s there, she’s not invisible. But also that if they don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay, too. We don’t have to dwell on it: what’s most important is that we be so grateful right now for what we have, and that includes each other.

And so we are. So, so tremendously grateful.

But I am dwelling on it. Not consciously; I can’t seem to help it. It invades my thoughts. Just like that. How can it be? Is everything we know really as fragile as that?

I join the Lotsa Helping Hands community that’s immediately been established for this family, and sign up to bring snacks for the little girls. It’s such a little thing, but it somehow makes me feel better, knowing that at least no one has to worry that they’re out of Goldfish. Maybe they don’t like Goldfish. I don’t really even know them.

But I simply cannot imagine… I don’t want to imagine. But if I do allow myself to imagine, even for a moment, before the horror of it comes washing over me, I realize that it would probably feel good to have the support of our neighbors, even if they didn’t really know me. And so I will bring Goldfish and Cheddar Bunnies and granola bars.

And I will continue to try to count my blessings, to give my girls an extra hug. Annie is obviously feeling under the weather and doesn’t want dinner; in fact, she’s crying because she thinks she’s going to throw up, and she just keeps saying, “Mommy, MOMMY! Help me! PLEASE HELP ME!” And I cannot help her, I cannot make the pain in her stomach or the nausea go away… But I can sit with her and rub her back, and so I do, and I don’t look at my phone or do anything else but be with her for a solid hour on the couch, just us two, until she falls asleep with her head on the coffee table.

We tuck her in night, grateful that she has yet to vomit, that she doesn’t have a fever, and say a small prayer that sleep helps her to feel better. It’s such a little thing in the scheme of it all, a child with a potential tummy bug, but still I cross my fingers and offer up a prayer – please, let her stay healthy.

I cannot fall asleep, even though I’m exhausted, even though I have a cold and I desperately need the rest. At long last, I drift off, but I’m up at least eight times in the night, and each time, my first thought is of this family, even though I hardly know them – of how inconceivable their lives are right now. Nick is snoring; I nudge him.

Wouldn’t this other woman give anything to have her husband snoring next to her again? I’m being selfish. So he snores. So I’m awake. At least he’s still here. Blessings; count them.

It’s early morning when it dawns on me: perhaps that’s why I keep waking up. The snoring. Or maybe it’s just my own stuffed-up nose. Either way, I can’t sleep.

Should I move to the guest room?
And leave my husband alone in the bed? The husband I am so very lucky and grateful to have?

At last, exhaustion takes over: Yes. I’m moving. I can be grateful but still need my sleep. I move to the guest room bed.

On my way, Annie meets me in the hall. “Mommy! It’s morning!” I inform her that although it may, technically, be morning, I am still sleeping. “No, you’re not! You’re in the bathroom!” I let her know that, despite appearances to the contrary, I am, in fact, still sleeping… But that I am so glad she’s feeling well this morning.

Thank you.

I am tired, my cold is raging, but Ella has a rough morning and needs some extra attention. Usually, there is no time for this. Today, there is. She uses my scarf to dry her tears and then holds my hand as I walk her all the way into the school building, despite saying – back at the house – that she wanted to be alone.

I’m glad I didn’t listen to her.

I’m glad for all of it, every last damn thing.

But I’m still dwelling. I can’t help it.

It’s beautiful today. The sun is shining (finally), the temperatures are rising (finally). Blessings; count them.

* this post is unread and un-edited. Apologies for glaring errors or run-on sentences.

Found it!

Posted on January 8, 2014 by missemtoo

So, yeah. It’s winter here. Same for you, too?

Rochester is known for its snow, and its lack of sunshine for, oh,49 months of the year, but it’s not really known for being absolutely frigid. We get loads of the white stuff but almost never a true Snow Day (where the kids are home from school due to, you know, snow preventing them from attending). Last year, when Hurricane/Superstorm/ Generally Badass Sandy came roaring up the east coast, school was called for a totally random Hurricane Day, but that’s one of very few weather-related delays or cancellations I can remember.

Until today.

They didn’t even call it a Snow Day – no, school was cancelled due to “extreme temperatures,” which basically meant that they were worried that the wind chills would cause everyone to freeze to death if they attempted to enter the school buildings. While that seemed a bit nutty, I will say that, as I walked the girls to school yesterday morning when the temperatures were in the single digits, I promised that if they had school today, I’d drive them… but then I realized that our beloved crossing guard, Mrs. H, would still be at the corner, no matter what the weather. Death by Polar Vortex seems like a really poor way to go, so I’m awfully glad that Mrs. H didn’t have to brave the elements today.

Plus also, if school had been in session today, you know there’d have been those yahoos who would have pulled the fire alarm, just ~~’cause they think it’s funny~~ to be asshats.

So, anyway, no school today. I won’t go on about the cold – half of you can hardly read this anyway because you’re shaking uncontrollably in an effort to generate a little body heat and keep your blood flowing. You get it. I know.

Nick was supposed to be on a business trip all week, but after spending seven hours at the Rochester airport yesterday (given that there is not enough to do in the Rochester airport to entertain oneself for even thirty minutes, Nick deserves a medal for surviving seven hours), he was unable to board a plane to anywhere. Today proved just as difficult, so his trip was cancelled, and as such, he volunteered to take the girls to the office with him this morning. At first, I was hesitant – oddly enough, after several discussions last night of the fun ways we’d attempt to fill a no-one-is-sick-but-we-can’t-go-outside-because-we’ll-freeze-to-death day, I’d sort of looked forward to having the kids home with me, and thought that their being gone for several hours might screw up the plans.

I can hear you laughing from here.
I’ll wait.

When Annie and Ella jumped at the chance to join Daddy at work (it’s hard to beat lots of iPad time, unlimited Post-Its, free multicolored folders, and food from the vending machines), I reasoned that I could spend the time while they were gone crossing a few items off of my To-Do book. Specifically, I thought I’d change all of our sheets, wash our towels, take down the Christmas tree and put it outside (the ornaments had been taken off yesterday; all that remained were the lights), exercise, answer some emails, and finish putting away the Christmas decorations. And then I’d figure out how to fill the third hour, because, naturally, all of the above would take only 90 minutes or so.

Again with the laughing.
I’ll still wait.

See, here’s the thing about the ADHD mind: you always think that you can accomplish way more than is actually possible within a given period of time. I know this about myself, and yet it’s still very difficult to accurately gauge what’s realistic and what’s not. Assuming that it would take, oh, thirty minutes to take the lights off of the tree, wrap ’em up, jauntily remove the tree from its base, and cart it outside (in frigid temperatures) to the curb was a grave error on my part. The base was still entirely full of water, meaning that if the tree tipped to the side, the water would slosh over the floor (bad), so that meant I’d need to lift the tree straight up into the air… but that meant that I’d need to unscrew the bolt-like-thingies that were holding the tree in place in the stand, and unscrewing the bolts meant that the tree would be, um, tippy… So it was a whole exercise in physics and geometry and towels and gating the dogs in the kitchen and swearing out loud to myself.

And that was just removing the lights.

Plus also it was, like, cold out, and, given that I was doing this alone, I had to prop open the front door to drag the tree through it. In reality, de-lighting the tree and getting it to the street probably took twenty minutes or so… but cleaning up the detritus took another forty-five. I don’t even know how the tree on the corner still looks like a Douglas Fir, because I’m certain that it dropped at least half of its needles between our living room and front hall. It was like Hansel and Gretel leaving entire loaves of bread with every step, this shedding tree, and the sheer effort it took to sweep and vacuum and corral the needles off of every surface in the house was nothing short of Herculean. Zero to hero, baby.

So, the tree-removal underestimate was my own fault. Changing the sheets, however, should have been predictable; it’s not like today was the first time I’ve done it. I’ve got it down to a science, and even though it sucks every time (because the girls each have a bunk bed that’s pushed up against the wall, making it difficult to access the sheets; also, they are very specific about how they like to sleep, and one wrong move can spell a meltdown later in the day), I know what to expect.

Except… Annie.

Annie is – how do I say it? – a hoarder. There is nothing, and I do mean nothing, that she feels is unworthy of holding onto, especially if it is an actual item that might have been used by someone at some time. I know this about her… but I didn’t know that, over the past couple of weeks, she’d decided to hoard everything on and in her bed.

As I pulled off the comforter, I found a few stray pencils between it and the duvet. Between the duvet and the top sheet, a couple of stuffed animals and a pair of underwear. But it was in the space between the bed and the wall and in the actual sheets – you know, the area where she sleeps – that I found the motherlode.

Normally, when I make the girls’ beds, I just toss back the pillows and stuffed animals and allow Ella and Annie to do the dirty work of actually putting them away. Today, however, it became apparent that Annie would require yet another Cold Day off of school to accomplish such a feat, so I decided to put things into logical piles for her.

Plenty of room for a seven year-old to squeeze in, don’t you think?

In case you can’t quite make it out, the above photo contains the things that were found on and IN Annie’s bed, including (but certainly not limited to):

1 pair of pants
3 pairs of pajama pants
1 sweater
2 shirts
3 pull-ups
4 pairs of underwear
9 socks (only four of which matched one another)
4 blankets
1 box of Amber Brown books
3 library books
11 of her own books
3 journals/drawing pads
5 pens and pencils
1 eraser
1 new package of colored pencils
1 wooden letter E
1 poofy Candy Corn Fairy wand from Halloween
1 construction paper Nimbus 2000 Harry Potter broom
1 orange beaded bracelet
8 doll outfits/shoes/accoutrements
19 stuffed animals
2 stuffed animal pillows
4 decorative pillows
and 1 American Girl doll

In other words, Annie’s bed could singlehandedly have outfitted a small coop preschool; maybe she’s found her calling.

Which meant that a simple, predictable changing-of-the-sheets suddenly turned into a 90-minute re-stocking, which meant that my morning to “get things done” disappeared in an instant – and this part had to do with my ADHD, thank you very much. By the time I’d managed to disentangle everything and pick up the Christmas tree needles, it was time to meet Nick and the girls for lunch.

In case you’re keeping track, the exercising and email-answering never were accomplished. I did manage to wash the towels, however, and damn, do we ever have nice clean sheets to sleep on tonight.

Tomorrow, the temperatures are on their way back to normal, which means the girls will be back in school – and none too soon; I need a day to recover from this Cold Day. I wonder how much I can accomplish in the two hours before my first appointment of the morning? Not sure, but if I can’t find my To-Do book, at least I know where to look: inside Annie’s bed.

All Together in a Scattered Sort of Way

Finding humor in even the most inappropriate places

Tag Archives: Annie