"This Too Shall Pass" Is True. It's Really True.

I haven't written much lately, but it's not because I haven't had anything to write. The kids are constantly saying cute things that I'm pretty sure would be funny to people besides their parents and my parents. Like this one:

HUCK: What are we going to do when we get home?

ME: Daddy's going to be there to take care of you while I go to my office and work. I'll be all alone, which will be no fun.

HUCK: But it will be fun, because you'll be making money!

                                               ***

I've been volunteering in Annabella's kindergarten classroom, which I've really loved doing. It's amazing to watch as these kids just soak everything up. And they say cute things all the time too. And we all know what a fan I am of kids who say cute things.

The experience even made me spend some serious time thinking about dropping this whole freelance writing/podcasting career thing and going back to school to become a kindergarten teacher. Then I talked to my friend who also volunteers in the class and she said that I must just have a good group because in her group there was one kid who cried the whole time and another who kept trying to kiss her on the mouth.

                                               ***

The biggest change in our lives since I've last written is that the boys seem to have finally crossed over into a world where problems are not solved by biting and scratching and it is no longer amusing to push kids over at the playground and throw sand in their face. They've headed back to preschool where the teacher says they are "so calm!" One of their classmates is the little sister of one of Annabella's best friends and has had many encounters with them over the years. On their first day of school her mom reported that when she asked the little girl if she played with Milo and Huck, her answer was, "Yes, mommy. And Huck did not even roar at me."

So to those of you currently in the throes of threes or twos, I'm here to announce that kids can grow out of biting, hitting, scratching, clawing, pinching, pushing, and kicking. You'll survive it and the best part is that you'll forget that ever happened.

Unless, of course, you blogged about it.

First Day of Kindergarten Stats

4 - Number of cameras in my purse.

2 - Number of cameras in my purse that ran out of battery.

1 - Number of cameras in my purse that ran out of memory.

12 - Number of megapixels in the first camera that ran out of battery.

2 - Number of megapixels in the one camera that didn't run out of battery or memory.

6 - Number of times I tried to convince Annabella to stand in front of something special so we could take the same picture in the same place on every first day of school.

0 - Number of pictures Annabella would willingly pose for at school.

5 - Number of minutes after arrival before Annabella asked, "When are you going to leave?"

1 - Number of cell phones I accidentally left in the kindergarten classroom. (I did not go back and pick it up until I picked Annabella up so that the teachers wouldn't think I left it there on purpose.)

1 - Number of Morrone family members who cried at drop-off.

0 - Number of Morrone family members actually attending kindergarten who cried at drop-off.

Best line of the day: "Am I crying because she's getting so old?  Or because I am?" -- My friend Jen, who's daughter started kindergarten today too.

You can look at the rest of the photos and a few videos on my SmugMug.

Soccer Dropout

Adidas Soccer Balls
Originally uploaded by hyku

The only team sport I ever played was soccer. I remember my first team (The Fireballs) and my second (The Gum Drops). I was never any good. I always played fullback and I remember doing cartwheels in the grass while the other girls fought over the ball.

"Look alive!" the couch would shout when the ball got near me. I'd make some half-hearted effort to defend the goal. That wasn't the point. I remember my parents at all of my games. I remember drinking Gatorade at half time with my friends. And I remember having fun.

Annabella is five now, which means that we let her decide what activities she wants to do. Back in the Spring when it was time to sign up for soccer, I asked her if she was interested and she said yes. It wasn't an emphatic "yes" and I'm pretty sure she had very little idea of what soccer was, but she did say yes.

When it came time for the first practice last week, she wasn't interested. At first, I told her "too bad, you said you were interested in playing, so we're going." When we got there she wouldn't go onto the field no matter how hard those sweet dad couches tried to convince her. She's stubborn, just like her parents.

I know I'm not the only parent who has faced this dilemma. Do we force our kids to do activities to teach them not to be quitters (and because, let's be honest here, we've already shelled out the cash)? Or do we let them make their own decisions because forcing them to participate in any activity will suck all the fun right out of it?

Unhappy Camper

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

These are perhaps the eight most frightening words that a mother can hear at preschool pick-up.

I heard these words on Monday from the teacher at the week-long "camp" at a local preschool where we'd enrolled Milo and Huck. (Their regular preschool is closed in the summer.)

The camp goes from 9 AM until 2 PM, which is two hours longer than their regular preschool. And even though they've been much better around other kids lately, I was worried that my boys might get overtired and misbehave. I tried to explain this to the teacher when I had dropped them off, but things were a bit chaotic and as I talked to her I could see from her face that she saw me as just another mother who was giving her too much unecessary information about her children.

Huck said, "Mommy, go now," and ran off to play. I watched the group of children gathered around a pile of toys and suddenly I realized that there was a reason that Milo and Huck thrived in the ultra-organized Montessori school they attended. This was not their scene.

Against my better judgement, I turned and went home.

Thankfully, no one was hurt. The teacher reported that Milo put a hula hoop around another child and pulled him down. On the walk home, I asked Milo why he did this and Huck answered, "Milo didn't do that. I did!"

"I don't know what the rules are where they go to school," the teacher also said, "But here they have to listen to us. They can't run away when we're talking to them and if they do they'll get time outs. They both got a lot of time outs."

I realized later that the teacher was probably implying that lax rules at their school were to blame to avoid implying that it was my own parenting skills that were to blame. Still, it seemed like a strange thing to say. What preschool functions without those kinds of basic rules?

She went on to say that she would have to call me to pick them up if they continued to act that way, even though they'd "never" had to do that since the preschool opened.

The next day they returned and during drop off I assured the teacher that we'd had many discussions about listening to the teacher and following the rules. And when Marco picked them up in the afternoon, the teacher said nothing to him. Then on Wednesday I got a call about halfway through the day from the teacher asking me to come pick up Huck. He was having a "bad morning" and most recently had thrown sand in another boy's face and then run away from the teachers.

All day I felt a combination of sadness, embarrassment, failure, and most of all fear that there is something really wrong with my child, beyond just being three.

And then late that afternoon I stopped by the library to find that my copy of Raising Your Spirited Child by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka had finally come in. I'm only a few chapters in, but already I feel so much better. Kurcinka describes spirited children as "normal, but 'more'".  They have difficulty with transitions, are sensitive to light, and are often loud. Check. Check. Check.

If you've been following along, you know that I've already seen the temperament specialist. Kurcinka talks alot about how there's nothing that a parent can do to change a child's temperament, but there are things a parent can do to make things easier. In retrospect, camp probably wasn't a good idea for either of my boys. The environment was too unstable, the transition too abrupt.

Both boys went back to camp today and the teacher said that Huck had a "much better" today. We'll take them back tomorrow too and after that I think we'll all (especially the teachers) breathe a sigh of relief to know that we'll never be back there again.

Top 5 Near Misses

I feel like in my parenting life I've become an expert at "The Near Miss." And I worry sometimes that I've used up all of my close calls and the next thing that happens is going to be the real thing.

I thought I would make up a list of the near misses as a reminder to hug my kids tight and be thankful that they're still in one piece.

I don't think it's a coincidence that none of these happened when I was a new mom with only one child.

1. Quarter Past an Epiglottis, May 2008

Milo comes running up to me, crying. "I swallowed a penny." I freeze with no idea what to do. The penny isn't blocking his airway since he's speaking clearly and crying. He gags. He pukes. Out comes his lunch and a quarter. Either he doesn't know the difference between a quarter and a penny or he's a money-making machine. For future reference, the doctor tells us that if a quarter goes all the way down, we simply have to wait for it to pass.

2. Rolling Thunder, June 2005

My father is carrying Huck up the brick stairs in his car seat carrier. Having just gone for a ride in the stroller, Huck is not strapped in. The handle of the carrier is also not in the full upright position. Huck rolls out of the carrier and down the four stairs. After we spend the evening in ithe emergency room the doctors assure us that everything is OK and Huck received only a "glancing blow." The entire event causes a lot more pain to my father than to Huck.

3. On Pins and Needles, July 2006

We are staying with Marco's parents in Montana and we've set the boys up in porta cribs in their laundry room. I go to retrieve them after a nap and find that Milo's crib is full of straight pins. You read that right. Its full of straight pins. He's somehow managed to push the crib over to a drawer and pull out his grandmother's box of pins. Not only has he not swallowed one of them, he doesn't have a pin prick on him. He did not, however, manage to teach himself how to sew. 

3. Scar Face, February 2008

Milo is playing with a screw driver and gives Huck a giant hug. The screw driver scrapes the side of Huck's face, only narrowly missing his eye. There's still a scar and all of the kids' future careers as carpenters are over, as all screw drivers are now banned from the house.

4. The Easiest Way to Learn Not to Play Underneath the Car, January 2008

Marco has just returned home from work and the kids run out to greet him. As soon as Marco turns the car off, Huck decides that it would be hilarious if he crawled under it. Before we can tell him not to, we hear him howl. When he climbs out he is clutching his back. He's burned himself on the exhaust pipe, that's very, very, hot. He still has the scar on his back and our only consolation is that there are much, much harder ways to learn how dangerous it is to crawl under the car.

5. Sticker Shock, November 2005

It's just a regular day in the Morrone household when all of the sudden Huck starts to make a strange, cat-gagging-on-a-furball noise. We peer into his mouth and find a round black sticker stuck to the roof. We peel it off and wonder what it is. It's a day later when we notice that one of the black circle stickers that Annabella used for her construction paper turkey's eye is missing. We marvel at Huck's dexterity at such a young age.

Care to share your near misses?

Dermabond: Part Deux

You are drinking wine with new friends and your kids and their kids are running around the house like crazy. You are shocked at how well this evening is going. This might be the first time, ever, that you've been over at someone else's house and been able to let the kids play on their own and not worry about anyone getting bitten. Your husband actually says this aloud to your new friends, which makes you cringe just a little. Why worry them? But they don't seem worried.

"They're boys," the new mom friend says. "Let them be boys." You love her instantly.

All five kids run upstairs from the basement playroom and chase each other through the living room, around the corner, and down a hall. You hear a scream, which is most definitely the scream of your child. You and your husband's eyes meet in that silent "you or me?" look. He's up first and goes around the corner.

"Ooh," he says. "Uh oh," he says, a little louder this time. His voice is light-hearted, but there's something in his tone that tells you that everything is not OK. You get up and meet him as he turns the corner. There is blood on your son's head and pouring down his cheeks. It's all over his shirt already and your husband's shirt. You watch as it drips on your new friends' hardwood floor.

You take your son from his arms, maybe more for you than for your son. If you're the one holding him then it can be someone else's responsibility to find out where the blood is coming from and to make it stop. Have I mentioned that you don't do well in stressful situations like this?

"He hit the corner of the wall. It's a small cut over his eyebrow," your husband says. "It's not bad, but it will need to be stitched up."

"OK. I'll take him to the emergency room," you say.

And you're off to the emergency room where the doctor looks at the cut.

By that time you are calm. The blood has stopped.

"Can you seal it up with Dermabond?" you ask the doctor.

"Yes, probably," the doctor says.

"Are you in medicine?" he asks, wondering how you know about Dermabond.

"No," you say, "He has a twin brother, who did almost this exact same thing last year."

After your son has been glued you return home where your husband has already put both of your other children to sleep. Your son might have a scar, which people who can't tell him from brother will appreciate. Plus, he has a good story. Days later he will delight in telling people, "There was blood coming out of my eyes!"

You? You're exhausted. So you sleep. It is a deep sleep, the sleep of the thankful, the sleep of a mother who knows how to appreciate the near miss, who knows that every mother does not return home from a trip to the emergency room with simply a small scar and a story. 

You Are Stupid

Most parents (myself included) have had the uncomfortable experience of hearing their children repeat undesirable four-letter words that the parent has accidentally said in their presence.

And as the mother of three children who love to play the name game and considering the fact that one of those children is named Huck ("Huck, Huck, Bo-Buck Banana, Fanna Fo...), we've had our fair share of accidental cursing too. This might have been avoided if only the name "Huck"had been included in Wikipedia's list of names that will result in profanity in the Name Game.

Each time one of my children have cursed I've somehow managed to remain calm and not bring attention to the word and the kids have moved on without incident.

But then about a month ago Huck turned to me out of nowhere and said, "You are stupid."

If Huck was looking to get a reaction out of me, he got one. A big one.

I looked at him, shocked and said, "Where did you learn that? We don't say that word. That's not nice. We do not say stupid. We do not say stupid. Never. Ever."

Since then he has used this word every day, several times a day. According to him, not only am I stupid, but his brother is stupid, his father is stupid, and his sister is especially stupid. Grilled cheese sandwiches are stupid and so are pajamas. The mailman, the stroller, a sippy cup of milk, and the big toe on his left foot are all very, very stupid. Kids at the park are stupid. Kids at school are stupid.

He also invents different forms of the word, including (but not limited to):

• Stupidy
• Stupidish
• Stupy, Stupy, Stupy, Stu

I try to be calm when I repeat, "Stupid is not nice." I try to explain that it makes people feel bad when he tells them that they're stupid. I've tried to give him alternatives, insisting that it is way more fun to replace "stupid" with any of the following:

• Silly Willikins
• Stupendous
• Weirdo

The only thing that seems to work, even a little bit, is to ignore him and wait for this phase to pass. At least he's not biting anymore.

Anyone been in this situation and have some advice that worked?

Tiny Little Racist

We live in a town where not many African Americans live. In my opinion, that's the worst thing about living in most small towns. Our town is very white, but still the man who checked us out at Costco yesterday was not the first black person that nearly 5-year-old Annabella has ever seen.

It was, however, the first time she chose to loudly ask me, "Mommy, why does that man have brown skin?"

When she asked the question, I was already pushing the cart away and I didn't see if the checker heard and I didn't look back. But there were several people pushing their carts toward the exit with me and I could tell they were all listening intently to my somewhat fumbled response. Marco was pushing the boys in the other cart behind us and also letting me field this question on my own.

ME: He has brown skin for the same reason you have the color of skin that you have. Because you were born that way.

ANNABELLA: I would not want to be born with brown skin. Or black skin.

ME: Why not? Brown and black skin is pretty. Just like your skin is pretty.

(She thinks about this for a minute. This might have satisfied her, but it doesn't satisfy me so I continue for her benefit and maybe to convince the people walking next to us that I am not trying to raise a tiny little racist.)

ME: Next year you will probably have kids with brown skin in your kindergarten class. (Sadly, every member of her preschool class is now white.)

ANNABELLA: Really?

ME: Really?

ANNABELLA: Well, if that's true then I'm not going to be friends with them. Because I don't like people with brown skin.

ME: What?

(I think my mouth dropped open so wide that my bottom lip hit the grocery cart.)

ME: Why?

ANNABELLA: Because they have short hair.

ME: All people with brown skin don't have short hair. You know that book we have at home, Uncle Jed's Barbershop? The girl in that book has long hair. 

And that's about the time that Marco stopped laughing under his breath at my efforts to apply logic to what was clearly Annabella just being contrary for the sake of being contrary and stepped in to put his many years of school-sponsored diversity training to work. He explained that being friends with someone has nothing to do with what they look like. He pointed out that his skin was a lot darker than her skin and that her brothers' skin was even darker. Then he asked how she would feel if he didn't like her just because she had blue eyes.

Annabella considered this as we finished unloading the cart and strapped the kids into their car seats. 

I wanted an epiphany. I wanted her to announce, "You're so right. I love all people for who they are no matter what they look like." Instead we were in the car headed home and moving on to other things. 

Four Months Post Mortem Concepts

My grandfather died four months ago and very few days go by when I don't think about him. He left us a table that he made himself out of a tree that someone had cut down and was going to haul away. My mother grew up with the table and my aunt used to press so hard with her pencil that her homework is still inscribed in it.

The kids think about their great grandpa too. Last week I was in the car with Annabella and one of her friends. Her friend asked if we ever used the 6th seat in our minivan, which is usually folded down.

"We used to use it all the time," Annabella said, "when my great grandfather was alive. That's where he would always sit."

We often pass by my grandfather's house and whenever we do Milo or Huck will always say, "There's Great Grandpa's house!"

This morning when Huck said it, I asked, "Does Great Grandpa still live there?"

Huck said, "No. He's died. He's in the hospital. In a dentist's bed. He's having trouble breathing."

Well, that's almost all true.

Overheard at Preschool Drop-Off

A tired mom gently bounces up and down holding her screaming 3-month old.

Helpful Mom: You could try putting him up on the dryer.

Tired Mom: I'm going to try putting him up on Craig's List.