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Thursday, January 17, 2008From The Mouth Of a Five-Year-OldWell, I currently don't have a five-year-old. This is a piece I wrote three years ago, when Spencer was five. Yes, I'm recycling old "stuff" today. But we had so much fun listening to Eric read this aloud to our family last night (including Spencer) that I thought I'd post it today for those of you who weren't devoted, beloved readers back when I was publishing my E-zine. Without further ado: I'VE LEARNED IT ALL FROM MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD Spencer is an unusual child. I know what you're thinking -- how could I possibly raise anything but an unusual child? I can assure you, though, that my youngest has definitely broken the mold. And, of course, I absolutely love him this way.My hazel-eyed dream child with a vivid imagination has a tendency to state things -- all kinds of things -- as if they are indisputable, written-in-stone fact. Not his ideas; not his opinions; not even his suggestions -- but FACT. And since I have, over the past couple of years, been privileged to learn these essential pieces of information, I thought I might do my readers the service of sharing them, so that you, too, can ponder their depth.I am sure you will be as amazed and enlightened as I have been. "Jesus has very long legs." This statement begs for an explanation, and Spencer readily gave one: Jesus has long legs because he lives in heaven but he has to be able to reach down to us. Hence, the long legs. Forget the whole omnipresent, spiritual nature of Jesus -- it's all about those long legs! "It's not okay for parents to be angry with their children." Not ever. Angry parents make their children sad, and that is very, very bad. Of course, one must understand that Spencer's definition of "angry" includes "someone speaking in a firm tone of voice." What Spencer really means is that it's not okay for parents to correct their children's bad behavior. It is also not okay to say "no" to a child or to take away a child's privilege. Such behavior may easily lead to the child calling the police (so I've been told) and throwing the offending parent in jail. It might also lead to said child's never, never, never coming out of the van ever again. "Sometimes trucks smash into cars and that's not okay." Well, sure, that's true enough. I'm not quite sure what has given Spencer the idea that it's only trucks that do the smashing. Eric has done a fairly good job smashing other cars in parking lots with his little BMW over the past couple of months (leading to a doubling of our car insurance rate). Cars smash into trees sometimes, for that matter (as I can attest to), and into anything else that might be in the way. Spencer's main point, though, is that this car-smashing is most definitely "not okay." "When we see a police car we need to sit up really tall so they can see us in our carseats." Okay, I blame myself for this one. I think I went off a bit when Tennessee changed its carseat laws last year, and a certain, small boy was obviously listening with large ears. During the time or two that I discovered, much to my dismay, that Daddy had driven off with the carseat and left me with a carseat-less van, I am sure I lamented loudly over the fact that I would be in trouble if I got "caught" shuttling my five-year-old around in an old booster seat on top of a folded towel. (Come to think of it, according to Tennessee law, I should be in a carseat as well.) "When I grow old and die and go to heaven to live in a palace that looks like a castle, I am going to be a Real King." He's completely serious, too. To top it off, he has already declared that I will be his Queen (you mean I'm not a queen now?). My favorite part is Daddy's role in this afterlife fantasy: "You will be a REAL JESTER!" Spencer exclaimed to a less-than-amused Eric. I tried very hard not to smirk. Okay, I didn't try that hard. Actually, I didn't smirk at all -- I guffawed. "The night is too long." This is a serious issue for Spencer, and I think he's about to take it up with God himself. In fact, the other night he asked me if I would please pray that God would make the night only ten minutes long. I assured him that, while I certainly wasn't going to do that, the night would certainly FEEL like only ten minutes if he went right to sleep and stayed that way until morning. He claims that he feels lonely when he's in bed, and when I remind him that Jesus is always with him, he comes back with, "But I can't see Him." Must be those really long legs of His, keeping His face at a distance. "I am too old to be spanked." This has been unequivocally stated, and I'm sure that Spencer expects me to comply. Most assuredly, my three older children have passed beyond the age of "spankability," and I think that Spencer has assumed that he has been included in this group by default. I'm not even sure what led Spencer to this conclusion in the first place; I can't even remember the last time I had to spank his bottom. Perhaps he has concluded that he has passed out of the realms of spanking by default -- you know, six months of no spanking and you're home free. "Smarshmallows have chemicals. We need to buy organic smarshmallows." A "smarshmallow" is, of course, a marshmallow, and yes, they do have chemicals in them. I have not, however, been able to find the organic variety (okay, I've never even heard of an organic marshmallow), so Spencer is going to have to slum it when he enjoys his homemade hot chocolate (which isn't organic, either, but at least it doesn't have any chemicals in it). "Mommy, you have BEARD growing on your face!" Naturally, this was in reference to a few stray facial hairs that I had obviously missed. I'd rather not comment on this one. "Some people live to be a hundred, and then they are bigger than God." I had to set him straight on this one -- NOBODY is bigger than God. I can't seem to get Spencer to understand, though, that grown-ups don't keep growing taller as they age -- they just keep getting older. He remains convinced that I will one day be "as taller as Daddy." I don't think I'll tell him that my mother seems to have shrunk a couple of inches -- that would really confuse him. "I love you very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very much!" Can't dispute this one -- these are the words every mommy craves. This little guy makes me feel like the most beautiful, treasured star in the universe; and if he's a bit on the quirky side, I'll take him anyway! He brings laughter and joy to my life on a daily basis. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put on my crown, strap Spencer into his Tennessee-mandated carseat, avoid all madly swerving trucks, and go shopping for organic shmarshmallows (while refraining from becoming angry or spanking my five-year-old). Who, me? Charmed by my own son? You bet! Tuesday, November 06, 2007Claiming the BabyIt was bound to happen sooner or later. Jonathan, the girls, and I were leaving the church building via the side door. Maggie was holding Molly in her arms while I walked jauntily ahead of the gang toward our parked Sienna. The sun was shining, the baby was fed, and we were heading home early, sans Daddy and Spencer, so that Molly's next nap wouldn't be trashed. The extra-large man standing in the parking lot was no stranger to me, though I still don't know his name. He's a kindly soul, hanging out before and during the service to help with parking and general traffic-and-people directing in the church lot. I smiled a casual hello as I walked by, aware that he was watching us as we began to file across the macadam. That's when he said it: "Whose baby is that?" I stopped and turned around. Maggie had also stopped; being the baby-bearer, the question had been directed at her. It seemed, however, that she didn't quite know what to say. So I jumped right in. "It's mine!" I allowed a smile to spread across my face to make it seem like I enjoyed being questioned about my child's parentage. "It's my baby!" So. Whose baby did he think it was? The extra-large man, my children, and I were the only folks in the immediate vicinity. Maggie was obviously too young to be the mother, and I was obviously -- I can't say it. Now, to be somewhat fair, our church is overflowing with babies. Some say it's in the water (Eric won't let me drink it anymore). Some say it's a special blessing on our church family (Eric says we'll have to find a new church). And just about everybody in the fellowship can be seen holding a baby at one time or another, and it may or may not be their own. Still. If someone had handed me her baby, why would I be leaving the church building? At any rate, I continued the small-talk-about-my-baby with the Baby Patrol Officer for a minute or so, agreeing with him that it's easy to forget how tiny they are when you've got older ones of your own. "Mine's twenty," he explained. I half expected him to say, "I'll bet you have a twenty-year-old tucked away somewhere, too." Because, after all, this couldn't possibly be my baby. Why, I was herding a gaggle of teens-and-preteens out the side door. I was obviously their mother. I fit the profile of mom-with-children-of-two-digit-ages. And that diaper bag slung over my shoulder? Why, it must have looked like an attache case. Or maybe I was carrying it for the real mother. Honestly, I got over the "I'm too old for this" by the time I hit my second trimester. I don't feel "too old" anymore, and, unless you get way too close, I don't look too old. But I'm not delusional, either. I don't have the "spring chicken" look that first-time mommies have when they're in the midst of their twenty-somethings. And despite my refusal to look frumpy or middle-aged, I do have that "mom of older kids" look about me. How could I not? I've got a houseful of them. Indulge me just a little bit, though. I mean, even if you don't think the baby belongs to the mommy, don't say anything! Manners 101, you know? Okay. I feel a little better now. A little better. And the next time someone asks us whose baby Molly is, I'll just smile sweetly and say, "We bought her in the black market. You won't tell anyone, will you?" Whose baby, indeed. Monday, October 08, 2007A Writer's True Reward"Mommy," Spencer said in his Thoughtful Voice, "when your book is published, is it going to be like a real book with a cover?" "Yes, it will." "Well, when it's published, I want to read it." "You do?" And my universe danced with glee. "Well, you don't have to wait until then. I can print my manuscript out for you to read. Would you like me to do that?" His eyes lit up. "Really? Sure!" That was about two weeks ago. Yesterday I finally got around to printing out a copy of my latest novel, a young adult fantasy near and dear to my heart. Knowing that Spencer would do better with something bound (visions of cascading paper and mixed-up pages set me on the right path), I dutifully printed the novel on both sides of the page (which takes forever) and punched holes with my trusty three-hole punch (that only accommodates three pages at a time) and stuck the punched story into a plastic binder (which didn't hold the whole thing, so I had to staple the remaining chapters together). It was an administrative nightmare; it was a labor of love. And I placed the makeshift book, title stuck on the front with blue scrapbooking letters, on Spencer's pillow. When he discovered it, he ran pell-mell across the lawn (I was lounging in the hammock with a glass of Cabernet, well deserved after all that printing and punching), his face radiant, and threw his arms around me while expressing effusive thank-you's. Wow. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, my eight-year-old son has already read four chapters. And you know what? He loves it. Spencer wears his heart on his sleeve. Actually, it's beyond that: he's downright blunt. If he didn't like my story, he'd tell me (unlike my daughters who, despite having their own strong opinions about things, are more likely to sugar-coat in order to spare my feelings). But he loves it. It's already intrigued him (he asked me why I didn't call it a "mystery"). It's already made him laugh (my favorite character, no less). And the fourth chapter was proclaimed "awesome" just this morning. Suddenly, my entire life-of-writing has snapped into perspective. There are others in whose hands my work currently sits. Their opinions "mean something" (i.e., they will or will not wish to pursue a professional relationship with me). Then there are those through whose hands my work has already passed, only to be ultimately passed over, each time for a completely different reason -- or no reason at all. But every time my son mentions something new that he likes about my story, all the frustrations and rejections and endless bouts of silence fade away. Because I never began this journey to impress the Publishing World, though that wouldn't be a bad thing. I write because I have stories to tell; I write because I love children. I especially write because I love my children, and if they don't love my stories, it hardly matters if anyone else does. Oh, the joy of capturing a child's imagination! The delight of watching a young person fall in love with my characters, my world. The satisfaction of watching that excitement for a story turn into inspiration to create a story of one's own. Which is exactly what Spencer has been doing. That's right. He's writing. My eight-year-old is writing chapter books. True, they're a little on the violent side. I'll make allowances for the testosterone coursing through his body. But you should hear the drama and expression when he reads them out loud to me. A mama couldn't be prouder. And so I write. Yes, being a published author, beloved by the children who read me, continues to be a burning desire. But when all is said and done (or written and done, as the case may be), there is no joy in writing like the one I'm experiencing right now. My little boy loves my book. And today, that's all that matters. Saturday, September 01, 2007She Has Arrived At Last!It is with great joy and thankfulness that I announce the arrival of our new daughter! Molly Rebekah was born at 2:20 this morning. She weighs 7 pounds, 8 ounces, and is 19 1/4 inches long. We are home now, and I'm going to take a nap while Molly is sleeping. I will post pictures and the story of her birth as soon as I can. Here's one wonderful tidbit that I must share right away: Eric CAUGHT her! A wonderful, amazing moment for Daddy Boehme, and I'm sure he'll be blogging about it in his own time. I'm off to be pampered by my loving family. Oh, what a precious day! Labels: baby, family, life, parenting, pregnancy Wednesday, August 01, 2007Casual BarfingJust an ordinary day in the life of an eight-year-old boy -- playing, eating, barfing. I spent yesterday morning running errands and arrived home after the children had already eaten lunch (okay, so maybe I planned it that way). I hadn't been home long when Spencer started complaining about a "gas pain." His description and the location of the pain, however, led me to believe that it was some sort of tummy distress. He didn't seem overly put out by it, so I let him be. "If the pain comes again, try to poop," I said. Ancient Motherly Wisdom, that. Later, the come-and-go pain had become enough of a bother that I found him lounging on his bed. Not a good sign. Still, he wasn't acting particularly ill. I invited him to come snuggle with me for a while in the living room (for we all know that tired, pregnant mamas are always up for a good snuggle). He was bright-eyed and chatty, and after a while said he'd like to watch Milo and Otis. He happily set about getting the DVD, and I slipped into the laundry room to play catch-up on my ironing. Moments later, Spencer called out, rather casually, "Oh. I feel like I have to barf." "Well, hurry up," I said. "Run to the bathroom." He did. Upon his return, he announced, "Yep. I barfed! It came out three times." Then he ran into the family room and popped in his DVD as though he had simply gone pee. And that was that. I didn't allow him to eat supper, which didn't seem to bother him. Before bed, I offered him a banana to keep his blood sugar from plummeting overnight. He wasn't hungry. Not a good sign, but again, he was completely nonchalant about the whole thing, and claimed he felt okay. Around 10:30, Eric checked on him. Not being the kind of daddy who can resist smooching on a sleeping boy, Eric ended up waking Spencer. Spencer, Eric informed me, was pleasant, chipper, and took some sips of water from his cup upon Daddy's recommendation. A few minutes later, Eric heard him coughing in the bathroom. "I barfed again!" Spencer told him when it was all over. He crawled into bed, fell asleep, and that was the end of it. I'm not quite sure what happened yesterday. Was my son actually sick? Or did something aggravate his belly for a little while and work itself out quickly? All I know is, that was one of the easiest barfing bouts I've ever dealt with. I guess I've never placed throwing up on the list of things-I-announce-casually-to-my-parents. "I rode my bike around Carphilly Circle." "I found a female cricket." "I finished cleaning my room." "I barfed." Whatever! I'll take it. Spencer has always been decidedly the most unusual child I've ever known. I love him this way. If he wants to barf casually, that's fine with me. Isn't motherhood the grandest of callings? Friday, July 27, 2007Baby In a Gross LiquidMy brief lessons on life in utero mustn't be getting across too clearly. Naturally I simplify things quite a bit when discussing the pregnancy with eight-year-old Spencer, but still. To give him credit, he is by far the most enthusiastic and excited sibling. He talks to Baby Girl daily, and gives her good-night kisses. He gasps with delight when he feels her kicking. And he's told me that he loves her already. Very cool. Spencer's an unusual little dude, though, with his own perceptions and ideas about life. So I wasn't completely surprised when he came up with his own description of amniotic fluid. "It smells awful." "Um, Spencer, it doesn't smell awful. It's a clean liquid that keeps replenishing itself." "No, it's really gross and it tastes awful." It tastes awful? "Well, the baby doesn't think it tastes awful." And have you noticed that Spencer doesn't ask questions? It's not, "Does the amniotic fluid smell awful?" or "Does it taste awful?" No. It's, "The amniotic fluid smells and tastes awful." Period. A declaration without debate. Once Spencer has decided that something is true, there's no telling him otherwise. (Someone please tell me he's not going to grow up to be one of those types of people.) So now, no matter how hard I try, I cannot convince Spencer that his sister isn't going to come into this world bathed in a smelly, nauseating liquid. That's what I get for trying to educate my children. Give them a little bit of knowledge and their vast supply of creativity kicks in and has its way with it. Especially Spencer. I don't even want to think about what's going to come out of his mouth when he finally has the Birds and Bees talk with his dad. Fortunately I won't be there to hear it. It's "all boys together" and "all girls together" in our house for the Biggest Prepubescent Discussion Of Them All. Lucky Eric. Monday, June 11, 2007Okay, Tell Me If I'm OverreactingThis is one of those posts-that-need-reader-comments, so I'm counting on you. The other night, my fifteen-year-old mentioned that the lady at the Walgreen's counter had annoyed him earlier that day. When I asked him the reason, he told me the following: Jonathan rode his bike to Walgreens like he often does. After shopping around for a little while, he didn't find what he wanted. As he was walking toward the exit, which is right next to the check-out counter, the woman behind the counter (we'll call her Suki) called out to him, "Not buying anything today?" "No, not today," Jonathan answered. Not satisfied, Suki called Jonathan back into the store. Perplexed, Jonathan came back. "Empty your pockets," Suki said. Jonathan pulled his cell phone out of his front pocket and showed it to Suki. There wasn't anything else in his pockets, so Suki told him he could leave. So I ask you: Is this right?? I find myself feeling fairly irate over this. Weren't his rights just trampled on? Wasn't he just profiled? Jonathan spends a lot of his pocket money at Walgreens. You could call him a "regular customer." The way he was treated the other day is, in my opinion, a slap in the face. There was no evidence that my son had taken something without having paid for it. Frankly, that's something he'd never do. He's not The Perfect Kid, but he has a strong sense of justice, and stealing something from a store wouldn't cross his mind. He's a good boy. And he was practically accused of having stolen something simply because.....well, because why? Because he didn't buy anything? Because he's a boy? Because he's a teenager? Because he wears his hair a little long? I'm annoyed. And I'm not sure if I should do something or let it go. So if I'm responding out of the raging storm of Pregnancy Hormones, please tell me. If Suki was well within her rights to ask my son to empty his pockets before leaving the store, tell me so. I need to hear it. Shoot it to me straight. Because I'm ready to march down there and smile sweetly while asking to see the manager. And I don't want to embarrass myself. My son has already been embarrassed enough for the two of us. Grrr. Friday, June 08, 2007Comfort"I'm going to miss you until I get to heaven," Spencer wistfully announced the other day. "Because when I'm old, you'll be dead." Well. Comforting to know that I'll be missed, at any rate. Also to know that my demise is foreseen as taking place when Spencer is old. That's a good thing. I can't look into his comment too deeply. His mind, after all, is an endlessly spinning vortex of bottomless thought. I can never be sure what he's thinking or what's going to pop out of his mouth at any given moment. And I'm not sure why he was pondering Life After Mommy. In all, I'm sure it's healthy. I want my children to grow into mature, confident, kind-hearted adults, completely free of tangled "mommy strings" around their hearts. And, frankly, it's my job to see that those "mommy strings" don't exist -- by letting my children go. Ouch. A step-by-step process, to be sure. So there's my dose of comfort for the weekend: Spencer will miss me when I'm in heaven. Well, there's my brand new pair of Crocs flip-flops, too. "Comfort," as least where my feet are concerned, has been permanently redefined. Have a comfortable weekend. Monday, May 28, 2007Every Little Girl Needs a Prince Charming
 I wish you could see the love affair in action. For as much as I love my own daddy, I can honestly say that our relationship was never like the one that Eric and Maggie have. Theirs is a beautiful example of what God had in mind when he gave little girls to daddies, and daddies to little girls. Maggie was invited to a birthday sleepover party last Friday. These are her best buddies -- her ballet counterparts. But Maggie had another priority in mind. For you see, her daddy was due to come home after having been out of town all week long. She couldn't bear the thought of not spending time with him that night. So she worked out a plan with her friends. She'd meet them at 5:30 for the swimming part of the party -- and then she'd come home. Because nothing -- no, nothing -- was more important to her than snuggling on the screened-in porch with her beloved daddy. And you know what? That's just the way it should be. Childhood is fleeting, life is precious. And one day, way too soon, Maggie's heart will belong to a new Prince Charming, who will love her and cherish her just the way she needs to be loved and cherished. Because her daddy has taught her what it means to be loved and cherished. And she'll never settle for anything less. Monday, May 21, 2007Toes and TutusAnd once again I am awed by the grace and beauty of my daughters. The performance was a shortened, narrated version of The Sleeping Beauty. The first half of the show was a collection of pieces from the Modern, Jazz, and Hip Hop classes. Maggie is a student in Modern I. And both Maggie and Rachel danced in The Sleeping Beauty. I'll let the photos speak for themselves.      Monday, May 14, 2007Tender HeartA couple of weeks ago, Jonathan caught a toad. This isn't anything new around here. What's cool about it this time is that he caught the toad specifically for Maggie. So the latest addition to our ever-expanding family is the cute-n-spotted Bufo (which is Latin for "toad," in case you were wondering). When he presented us with Bufo at the "fishin' hole," Jonathan informed me that there were rows and rows of toad eggs right near the spot where Bufo had been...ur, kidnapped. It was fairly clear that Bufo was on "daddy duty," guarding these wee egglets from natural predators. It bothered me that Jonathan had stolen a toad who had such an obvious duty in life -- protecting his offspring. Still, Jonathan was so sweet to think of his sister. I didn't want to sound like some sort of wacky, I-love-the-animals sort, so I bit my tongue. Later that day, Jonathan arrived home with a large plastic bag. Inside the bag were rows and rows of toad eggs. Bufo's babies, if you will. "There was a snake skin floating in the water right near the eggs," Jonathan said. "I couldn't just let Bufo's eggs there." Oh my goodness. My son, Savior of Baby Toads. So now there's a plastic container on our front porch, complete with water, algae, rocks, air pump, and hundreds of week-or-so-old tadpoles. Bufo's private nursery service (of which he is blissfully unaware). The plan? Raise the tadpoles until they start growing legs and breathing oxygen, and then release them back to the wild as microtoads. And yes, they really do start out as microtoads. I've seen them. They are the tiniest, most perfectly formed little creatures I've ever laid eyes on. Unfortunately, they're hard to care for at home, so our previous experiences with microtoads have always ended tragically. Not this time. Bufo's babies are going to have a chance at Grown-up Toad Life on the banks of the Harpeth River. And that's the most recent outpouring of Jonathan's tender heart. He may not see it that way; in his pragmatism, I'm sure he sees it as "what I had to do." But I see more. I see a young man who cares enough about something small and helpless to go the extra mile. I see a young man giving back to the nature he loves so dearly. And I see a young man who is developing his daddy's heart more and more every day -- even through the care of tiny, orphaned tadpoles. I don't even wrinkle my nose when I look at the tadpoles. I love them. They signify so much that is beautiful and noble and endearing about my firstborn son. I've definitely evolved in my role as Mother To Male Children. And that's a good thing. I love you, my Jonathan. Monday, May 07, 2007I Just Don't Wanna Do ItI've always been a devoted ballet mom. You all know this because I've waxed poetic about my daughters' dancing and my burning passion and support for it in the past (hopefully not ad nauseum). But I've snapped. You crafty types won't understand, but what I've been asked to do this time is so outside of my natural ability and temperament that I'm seriously unable to approach it without severe angst and resentment. I have to glue one hundred gemstones onto Maggie's tutu. No, really, that's it. One hundred gemstones. A mere drop in the bucket for seasoned seamstresses and costume-makers, but for me? Chinese water torture. Unfair and inhumane treatment. Just plain Wrong. Because I. Don't. Glue. Things. Not even when they break. Not even when it would only take a second. I've had the dang gemstones for over a week. The dress rehearsal is on May 17. And I haven't glued a single thing. Not one. Everything in me writhes whenever I think about it. I look at my daughter's beautiful costume, all smashed inside its plastic bag like so much commercial cotton candy, and I snarl. I seriously can't get over my anti-glue hurdle, and I'm running out of time. "It will make a wonderful mother-daughter activity!" the Ballet Mom In Charge piped. I have a better idea -- how about a wonderful daughter-and-her-sister activity? Because even if I sit down with Maggie and make her help me with the glue job, the fact remains that I still have to sit there and glue the other half, not to mention run out and buy a bottle of tacky glue in the first place -- yeah, the stuff that folks who actually know how to make things buy. "What really works," said the lady at the dance store the other day, "is a toothpick. You just put the tiniest dab of glue on the end of the toothpick and it will be just enough to hold the gemstone on the fabric." Lady, that's well and good, but I don't do tiny dabs of anything on the end of a toothpick. Unless it's a particularly delicate hors d'oeuvre making its way to my mouth. This is killing me. I'd rather clean the urinals in a public bathroom. For no pay. Please don't give me any advice on how to do this stupid project. If you really love me, send me a self-addressed, stamped envelope via private courier, and I will send you the tutu and the cursed gemstones, and you can do the gluing for me. I will be forever in your debt. I'll even send you a free ticket to the performance. I know. All for the sake of art. They're doing a scaled-down version of Sleeping Beauty after all, and my very small contribution pales in comparison to the amount of work that others are putting in. Still. I think that moms who are required to glue things should get a discount on the monthly tuition. Or at least a box of chocolate at the end of the season. A very large box. Okay, I'm done. For now. Friday, March 30, 2007To Infinity And BeyondGo ahead. Ask me how many times I've heard that phrase uttered in the past twenty-four hours. Yesterday my sweet Spencer turned eight. And his special gifts on this occasion? The original, 1995, new-in-the-box, Disney-produced Woody and Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story. What was I thinking? Well, yes, I was thinking that my son, who is obsessed with Pixar in all its glory, whose party theme was The Incredibles and whose wish list included a remote control Lightning McQueen from Cars, would love his very own Woody and Buzz. Because Toy Story 2 is his favorite of all the Pixar gems. Because his imagination is beyond anything I've yet experienced in a child. And because I absolutely adore him. So, I enlisted the help of Eric the Snipe King and snagged a good deal on the dolls on Ebay. Spencer hasn't stopped playing with them. Which is a good thing, really. If I hear the words, "I'm bored" even once after yesterday's outpouring of nifty presents (including the remote control McQueen), it will not be pretty. Know what's cool, though? Spencer wants to produce CG movies when he grows up. I'm not surprised, really. When he was only three years old, he used to hold his hands in front of his face, fingers spread, and raise them slowly above his head while singing various sound-tracky melodies. Yep, he was doing the "credits" for a movie. (Took me a while to figure that one out -- at first it was looking a bit autistic to me.) So I keep telling myself that I've invested in my child's creativity, in his future. His ability to make up stories and act them out with dolls, stuffed animals, or himself, is endless. All right, it's almost scary. I guess I can handle the constant Buzz Lightyear chatter. After all, "To infinity and beyond" isn't such a bad motto. Happy birthday, little guy. Friday, March 09, 2007Dumbed-Down SpellingI was driving the down the road with Spencer, on our way home from dropping the girls off at ballet. Spencer must have been busy reading signs as we passed them, because he suddenly said, "Bar -- B -- Q." Pause. "Bar--B--Q? I thought it was BARBARA Q." I choked back the giggle in my throat. "Barbara Q?" "Yeah, that sign says Bar-B-Q instead of Barbara Q." "Spencer, it's BARBECUE. They just spell it that silly way." "Ohhhhhhhhhh." Pause. "What's barbecue?" "It's that stuff you eat, you know, like pork barbecue?" Okay, so it's been a while since I've made pork barbecue. I'm not sure where "Barbara Q" fits into this picture. Spencer has trouble with the "Drive Thru" sign at the Walgreen pharmacy, too. He insists that "thru" is pronounced with a short "u" sound. "Thruh." "That says DRIVE THRUH." (For the hundredth time.) "No, it says DRIVE THRU." "That's not how you spell 'through.'" "Yes, I know that. They just spell it that way. It's slang. You still say DRIVE THROUGH." "No, it's DRIVE THRUH." Whatever. I'm not even going to explain "doughnut" versus "donut." Even Eric has trouble with that one. I wonder what it feels like to live in a society that actually spells words the right way. And I don't care what anyone says. It's dumbing down, plain and simple. "Qwik." "Nite." "Lite." "Draft" beer. Try raising an extremely literal child in the midst of all this word slaughtering. It's maddening. Of course, I still have no idea where Barbara Q came from. Maybe she's the one who thought up all these ridiculous spellings in the first place. She might be on to something. "Jill Bome" is a lot easier to pronounce. I'll have to ask Spencer what he thinks about that. Labels: parenting Tuesday, February 20, 2007Up, Up and Away
  Can you believe that the hot air balloons in the above photographs are made out of garbage bags and masking tape? Jonathan, my fourteen-year-old aeronautic genius, has been perfecting the craft of model hot air balloon making for a few years now. I would venture to say that he's finally mastered his technique. How do I know this? Well, a few days ago, one of his balloons traveled 230 miles -- all the way to North Carolina. Seriously! Every couple of weeks, Jonathan releases a balloon tagged with his web site information and a request to please email him with the date, time, and location of the discovery of the balloon. Sometimes he never hears anything, the balloon having found its untimely end in an empty field or high in the branches of an ancient tree. But sometimes he receives an email from an enthusiastic passerby who has found a balloon at the ends of its travels. It fascinates me. I mean, these are solar balloons, which means that, once you inflate them, they are powered by the heat of the sun, which is easily absorbed through their black surfaces. I've watched them sail quietly into the stratosphere until they become tiny dots against the bright sky. Then, they're gone. Until somebody writes from 230 miles away and says, "We found your balloon." Want to read more about it? Visit Jonathan's Balloon Web Site! You can learn how to MAKE YOUR OWN BALLOON, or you can PURCHASE A PRE-MADE BALLOON. Okay, so I'm a little proud of him. I'm just glad that I'm raising a kid who's way cooler than I was at his age. Take a minute -- visit his web site. And let me know what you think. Monday, February 12, 2007And I Was Worried About Math and Grammar??Lots of homeschooling parents worry that they will leave inadvertent "holes" in their children's education. You know...accidentally leave out something important, like the Declaration of Independence or the first moon landing in 1969. Not that sending your child to a public school ensures that they'll learn these things, anyway, but you get my point. Homeschooling puts a special kind of "pressure" on parents that doesn't really need to be there. Anyway, I've never been one of those homeschooling moms who worries a whole lot about it. Most of the subjects in school are artificially contrived, anyway ("Social Studies?" "Health?"). It all goes back to this: If a child can read fluently, he will have the capacity to learn anything about anything -- for his entire life. That, and a strong understanding of basic math, will give any child a firm educational foundation in life. Well, I've always thought so, anyway. Until this afternoon, when I made a horrifying discovery. My daughters didn't know what pickles were. Well, I mean, they knew what they were -- sour things in jars that you eat. Things called "pickles." "These are cucumbers," I said as I munched on my bread-and-butter pickle slices at lunch today. "Huh?" Rachel said. "I thought they were pickles." I tried not to gape at her. "Rachel, they are pickled cucumbers." "They're cucumbers?" It was Maggie's turn to look incredulous. "How can they be cucumbers?" "Maggie, what did you think they were?" "Pickles." Okay, this was too much. "You thought they were just pickles? Look at the ingredients -- it says CUCUMBERS." "I don't read ingredients." "I can't believe you didn't know these were pickled cucumbers. Pickling is just preserving something in brine. You can pickle lots of different things -- green tomatoes, pig's feet --" "Ears," Rachel piped. (Don't worry; that was in reference to a story we read in our history book about a British merchant who lost his ear by the sword of a Spanish sailor, and consequently pickled it in a jar to show it to Parliament. At least she was listening.) Maggie looked exasperated. "Well, I just thought these were pickles and that everything else was a pickled something else." Now there's a good dose of logic. So all this time I've been exposing my children to fine music and good literature, making sure they write well, testing them in math to be sure they've mastered the last unit, and reminding them daily that reading will expand their minds, vocabularies, and the beauty of life. I wasn't worried about contrived subjects or standardized tests or memorizing useless dates. I was confident that my children were turning out fairly well-rounded, thank you very much. Then my world was shattered by a jar of pickles. What else might I have missed? Do they know that coconuts grow on trees? That applesauce is made from apples? That the turkey on their plate used to have two feet, a beak, and a body full of feathers? Maybe we need to spend the next year on a farm. We are either way too urban or way too technological. Either that, or I simply never thought to mention that pickles are cucumbers. And now I'm wondering how old I was when I made that discovery myself. Probably around thirty or so. Do you think there will be any questions about pickles on the S.A.T.'s? Labels: homeschooling, parenting Thursday, February 08, 2007Eau du BoySpencer knocked at my office door. "Mommy. Jonathan just went poop in the children's bathroom and it really stinks in there. May I use your bathroom?" "Sure, honey." A short while later I went into my bathroom to put away some freshly folded sheets. In addition to the swath of toilet paper all over the floor (what is it about my children and swaths of toilet paper on the floor??), there was a distinct, post-poop aroma hanging in the air. Which begs the question, how fair is that? He didn't want to smell the leftover fumes from his brother's offering, so he happily perfumed my bathroom instead. I didn't think that one through. Next time, I'll hand him a clothespin. Monday, January 29, 2007On Young Girls and ViolenceIt was a long time coming. Maggie finished reading the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy when she was ten. (Yeah, yeah, I know it's not really a trilogy.) I promised her back then that we'd rent the movies and she could watch them. I've got a hard-and-fast rule, you see, about reading books before watching movies. Somehow, it's a sign of a great mind, and I want my children to have great minds. (I, on the other hand, did not grow up reading the books first. Most of the time, I didn't even realize that there was a book.) So Maggie waited patiently as months turned into years. I'm not sure why we kept putting off the movies; Eric and I both love them. Maybe they're just a bit too long-and-intense to watch over and over. Or maybe it's because I was afraid the flying Orc heads would freak my daughter out. We talked about it a lot ahead of time. I explained the violent nature of the battle scenes, and how Maggie should plan on closing her eyes whenever necessary. True, she's already read every minute detail, but let's face it -- there's something about the cinematography of severed limbs and squirting blood that leaves a different impression. Maggie assured me that she would be okay -- and that she would close her eyes whenever necessary. This weekend, we finally watched The Fellowship of the Ring. All almost-four hours of it. All at once. My daughter unabashedly, unreservedly loved it, and is now rereading the book (ostensibly to check for inconsistencies -- like mother, like daughter). But the highlight of the entire experience came unexpectedly at the close of the final battle scene, after Boromir has been shot with three arrows and is finally succumbing to his wounds. Aragorn leaps from the trees and attacks the one remaining Uruk-hai who is getting ready to deal Boromir his death blow. Aragorn and the Uruk-hai battle fiercely. Then, in a final, victorious swipe, Aragorn slices off the Uruk-hai's head. "YES!" came the jubilant shout from my twelve-year-old daughter. "I'm so glad he KILLED him!" There you have it. My daughter, about whom I was so concerned, gave a whoop of victory as the Uruk-hai's head flew off camera. Those little eyelids hadn't fluttered shut for a second. Either Maggie is extremely well-balanced and was able to translate the fiction she'd already read to the graphic representation on the screen -- or she's completely warped. I'll opt for the former. Labels: family, life, parenting Monday, January 15, 2007AffirmationWhen I was twelve, I didn't have any "real" friends. Well, I take that back. There was my sister. If it weren't for the tearing-up of sibling relationships that so often happens when children attend public schools, our relationship with each other might have lasted the storms of peer pressure and "you're too young for me now" (poor Jamie; she was faithful to end). So yes, I had a friend in my sister. But outside in the ruthless world of age-segregated others, I did not truly "fit." I wasn't into sports (the national pastime in our tiny, depressed town), I wasn't interested in cheerleading, I preferred playing the piano and writing stories over running around the neighborhood playing brainless games. I was even ridiculed for my extensive vocabulary (fancy that; I actually read books with two-and-more-syllable words in them). There was one friendship I made that I thought was a "forever and best" friendship, but it wasn't meant to be. In eleventh grade, you see, I landed the lead role in the high school musical. My "best friend," who adored the theatre as passionately as I did, wasn't cast in the supporting role she'd auditioned for. It was such a devastating blow for her that our friendship crumbled. I remember walking to school with her in complete silence. She never once asked me, "So, how was practice last night?" It was too painful. And I was too immature to deal with it. Once again, I was alone in the crowd. All this is irrelevant today, except for the fact that I'm seeing such a different scenario unfolding in my own daughter's life. Just yesterday, she sent me an email containing something that one of her ballet buddies wrote for her. The words are so affirming, the sentiment so beautiful, that I asked her permission to post the piece here on my blog. Without further ado: M eans everthing she says A loyal friend to God and everybody R ighteous and beautiful in God's eyes and my own G reat personality and smile A ttractive face R eally fun to be with (cuz you make me laugh) E veryone feels welcome around you T ruthful and honest and does everything in excellence Wow. Naturally, I see my daughter in much the same light. But I'm her mother. These words were penned by a peer -- a fellow ballerina who sees Maggie through God's eyes. I am blown away. What more can a mother want for her daughter, than to see beautiful character traits blossom in such a way that others embrace and affirm them? Knowing that Maggie exudes truthfulness, warmth, and inner beauty when I'm not around to see her is a measure of comfort not yet experienced. I'm loving it. And I'm loving the heart of the young girl who took the time to write these words for Maggie. That's my Mom Moment for today. Thanks for indulging me! Wednesday, December 06, 2006The Littlest Elf Needs a Bigger Allowance"Oooo, we have to go Christmas shopping!" Spencer's enthusiasm lights his face like Charlie Brown's tree. His thoughts? What to give Daddy for Christmas. "I know! I can give him a video i-Pod!" How I hate to squelch that enthusiasm. "Ur...those are kind of expensive. Really expensive." "Oh." Pause. "I can give him chocolate." There you have it -- a five-second downgrade from technology to chocolate. Sorry, Eric... Labels: parenting Monday, November 06, 2006Pointe To the Stars
   For six years, my daughter Maggie has dreamed of dancing en pointe. Last week, she was fitted for her first pair of pointe shoes.This is no small thing. In fact, it's a rather Big Thing in the life of a young dancer. Buying pointe shoes isn't like buying flip-flops or a pair of sneakers. It's a fine art in and of itself -- so fine, in fact, that Maggie's ballet instructor met Maggie and four other ballerinas at the dance store in order to personally fit each pair of shoes. As for me? I just stood there gaping, camera in hand. You know that "stupid" feeling that comes over you when you're watching somebody do something you don't understand on even the broadest level? No? Okay, it must be me. Anyway, I'm definitely "stupid" when it comes to pointe shoes. I stood there marveling at Mrs. Cadle's adept pinching and squeezing and eyeballing. I tried to decipher the Pointe Shoe Language that she and the saleswoman were fluently speaking. Nope. It escaped me. So I beamed at my beautiful daughter instead, welling up with the mother-pride that goes hand in hand with moments like this. The beauty of my daughter's feet in a pair of pointe shoes is, for me, a slice of heaven. The Cloud Nine upon which Maggie was drifting, however, dissipated rapidly when she discovered that she would have to wait for her actual pair of shoes. The store didn't have the "B" width in stock. Talk about a Crushed Twelve-year-old. Oy! Still, the shoes were ready to be picked up two days later. Of course, when she tried them on, they were too small. And this time, Mrs. Cadle wasn't there to pinch and squeeze and nod her head. Fortunately, a very helpful woman got Maggie just what she needed (same width, a half-size up), and she came home glowing and sparkling with her pointe shoes and satin ribbons in a bright pink bag. I still felt stupid. But at least Maggie had her pointe shoes. Lest your curiosity by piqued, I'll confirm that, yes, pointe shoes are expensive. This First Pair, however, is a gift from the Very Best Granmom In The World (a.k.a. my mother), who herself danced en pointe years ago. What a beautiful gift for one's granddaughter! Not to mention a beautiful gift for one's daughter and son-in-law, who are sort of breaking out in hives over the potential cost of pointe shoes during the next several years. Times two. Rachel is only a year or two behind her sister. Still. I couldn't be more pleased. I'm almost as excited, I think, as Maggie. Of course, I'm not the one who will be dealing with bloody toes and aching arches. Being a Ballet Mom is far less painful than being a dancer. My beautiful daughter. How I love her! Labels: parenting Thursday, November 02, 2006Shark BoyHave you ever seen a new tooth grow right in front of a baby tooth? It's...um...interesting. Spencer has been sporting a "double tooth" for months, right in the front of his little mouth. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, so I didn't say much. But...ugh, you know? Recently, he announced that he was actually a shark. (Sharks have more than one row of teeth, in case you didn't know that.) Today we had our regular check-up at the dentist. Spencer was nervous because he was afraid that Dr. Gilliam would yank the tooth, amidst great pain. I tried to downplay it, told Spencer it would be fine. Of course, I went to the Dentist From Hell as a child, so maybe I didn't sound too convincing. When I was only eight, an abscess appeared on my upper gum, right in the front. Instead of taking an X-ray, my dentist opted for four shots of Novacaine (one of them underneath my tongue) and a wee scissors that snip-snipped the abscess right off of the gum. There was a lot of blood. My mother ran out of the room (to be sick in the restroom). And I bled for over six hours and had to return to the dentist at midnight, still bleeding. That is my dental history. I am not the best support system for those in dental distress. The good news is that Spencer's stubborn baby tooth came out so easily that he didn't even know what Dr. Gilliam was up to. It was an astounding moment; I applauded. The relief and wonder on Spencer's face was...well, priceless. And now he's wearing his dead tooth around his neck inside a plastic molar with a lid. Mission accomplished. No nasty shots, no vomiting mother, no need for behavioral therapy. Tooth in a box, prize in pocket, shark boy no more. That sums up the crux of my day. Excitement beyond measure. Here's hoping your day held a bit more romance and intrigue than mine. Labels: parenting Monday, October 30, 2006Grape Nuts With a Serving SpoonThat's how my morning began. It wasn't me eating the Grape Nuts. (Nasty things, those.) It was Eric. And "eating" isn't the right word. It was more like "pulverizing rock-like particles of soluble fiber at a decibel level inconsistent with normal human consumption." I can't believe the boy has any teeth left. Mind you, Eric is one of those Weird People who refuses to pour milk on his cereal. He eats it bone dry -- and usually with his fingers. Not this morning, though. Grape Nuts are too small to effectively pick up with one's fingers. So he stepped outside of the box and used a spoon. Not any old spoon, though. A serving spoon. I didn't notice at first. I was too busy wincing at each crunch of his teeth. But then I saw it -- the serving spoon. And I asked him why he felt compelled to eat his Grape Nuts with a way-too-large-for-the-average-mouth spoon. "It was the only spoon out there." Is that a Man Response or what? I have a perfectly good set of eight spoons that I keep in a separate drawer (since most of my other spoons mysteriously disappear via Children Using Them For Unlawful Outdoor Activities). Eric knows this. I've told him a dozen times about my secret spoon drawer. So this morning, I reminded him once again where I keep the spoons. "Oh. Yeah. I forgot about those." So. Grape Nuts with a serving spoon. I wonder how he'll deal with his macaroni and cheese tonight. Labels: parenting Thursday, October 19, 2006Prince Charming in TrainingIt was almost 10:00 p.m. Eric had just returned from picking up Maggie and Jonathan from Youth Group. At the top of the stairs I greeted Jonathan with a whispered, "Hello," in an attempt to keep the mood hushed (siblings-in-bed and whatnot). My son looked at me and his eyes grew gentle. "Aw, you look pretty." Understand me. I was wearing a long, floral nightgown and my hair was wet from the shower. And my fourteen-year-old son told me that I looked pretty. They were the first words out of his mouth. "Thank you," I said. What else could I say? Rolling my eyes and saying, "Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm in my pajamas!" would have wounded his loving spirit. Wrinkling my nose and saying, "Ugh, I look absolutely horrible and my hair is wet," would have taught him the fine art of self-loathing. No. I thanked him. And I felt like the most beautiful woman on the planet. Lithe, graceful, floating on the warm air of his compliment. I don't want to hear about how horrible teenagers are. Don't whine at me about their moods, their attitudes, their inability to act like human beings. Sure, it's tough being a teen. And yes, Jonathan has his moments of Ultimate Butt-head. Sometimes I could kick him. But you know what? That's not the "real" Jonathan. That's just junk, and we're working on it. My Jonathan is a sensitive, witty, bright young man who thinks his mother is pretty in her nightgown. He is a treasure; he's going to be an incredible Prince Charming for a lucky bride some day (if she survives my hazing). Today I am beautiful. And it's all because of a fourteen-year-old who wasn't afraid to speak his heart. Labels: parenting Monday, October 02, 2006Watching My Baby Fly
 Last Tuesday, I threw Spencer's bike into the back of the van and made my way to church, where I dropped the girls off for their ballet classes. Then I brought my Little Guy to the lower parking lot, unloaded the bike, and let him go to town. The poor kid sold his training wheels last autumn, but never had a chance to learn to ride without them. And, well, we live on a hill. I'm not about to let my wee dude test his biking prowess on an incline. Thing is, he turned seven in March. The bike was a sixth birthday present. How sorry is that? Eric spent some time with him a few days before our Tuesday riding date. They went to a park and did the dad-holding-onto-Spencer's-neck-and-running-alongside-the-wobbling-bike thing. It was definitely what Spencer needed. By the time I took him out on Tuesday, he was ready to roll. "I'll hold your neck and run with you," I said. I was serious -- I had my sneakers on. I was prepared to be a Super Mom. We did one, brief pass with the neck-hold, and it wasn't too successful. Then Spencer exclaimed, "I'm just going to do it by myself!" And he did. He just sort of...took off. Wow. There went my "baby." The exhuberance on his face was beyond description. My son was riding his bike, all by himself. After an initial round of cheering, applauding, and shouting instructions, I did what any self-respecting mom would do. I grabbed my Nikon. In a couple of years, I'll be dealing with Firstborn Holding Car Keys syndrome. Somehow, the bike riding seems easier, less threatening. Oh, how quickly our little birdies fly from the nest! It's a good thing I have post-fulltime-mom plans -- like traveling to Italy, learning to speak French, and publishing bestselling novels up until I'm a doddering old woman. Still. A five-minute trip to the past, just so I could cuddle a six-month-old Spencer or a two-year-old Jonathan one more time, would be equally thrilling. Motherhood. Ain't nothing like it. Labels: parenting Friday, June 23, 2006Pool Mom
  I can't deny it. I look like a total Pool Mom. It's funny the roles we take on when we're standing on the sidelines of our children's lives. I've been a Ballet Mom, a Baby-in-the-church-nursery Mom, an Art Student Mom, and, yes, a Pool Mom. The pool in question is a lovely, private pool in the backyard of our swimming instructors' parents' home. I've been taking the children to these two phenomenal women since 1997, minus a year here and there. It's a long drive. On my very first trip, I got lost and we never made it. That seems ages ago. At this point, I feel like I could make the drive blindfolded. So, yes, I've been very committed to making sure my children have received the best swimming instruction possible. It's just that I never meant to look like such a...sigh...Pool Mom. Look at me. Sunglasses. Video camera. Totally suburban posture. In past years, it was even worse. I had to drag all four children to the pool with me, regardless of which ones were actually engaging in swimming lessons. I toted along lunch bags, diaper bag, the occasional homeschooling materials, and a half-gallon water jug, in addition to the requisite beach towel and sun screen. I wasn't usually the one being photographed back then. In fact, I was the only one with a camera. Now that my older children are slowly turning into rabid shutterbugs, they tend to show up -- everywhere -- with their own cameras. Lucky me. I get to be included in the photo line-up. Eric doesn't look like a Pool Dad. He looks like all the other daddies who show up on their lunch breaks -- khaki pants, dress shirts, cell phones. I guess you could call them Corporate Daddies Visiting Swimming Lessons. Come to think of it, I'd rather be a Pool Mom. Spencer wins the Cute Award, though. Orange popsicle and all. (Hey, I'm a Pool Mom. How could I say "no" to the orange popsicle on the last day of swimming lessons?) Pool Moms don't wear bathing suits, though. So my Pool Mom status does not translate into weekends of swimming with my family. I just wanted to clear that one up for you. Have a glorious weekend! Labels: parenting Tuesday, May 23, 2006Southeastern Chorus FrogsHave you ever heard of them? Actually, you may have heard them singing without realizing what they were. In the quiet of early evening, these little boogers sit by the hundreds and thousands in fields and meadows, chirping to their froggy hearts' content. The collective sound is ethereal, mystical. I never would have paid attention to it, if it weren't for my close-second-to-Steve-Irwin son. He has this wondrous way of revealing nature's wonders to me -- quite a feat, considering the fact that I am a complete bug-and-critter freak. So, the southeastern chorus frog became a part of my Tennessee Nature repertoire. And as of yesterday, our relationship has become even more intimate. Jonathan brought four of them home. Don't ask me how he found them. They are tiny, shy creatures, not easily spotted. The kid has this Dr. Doolittle effect on wildlife, I swear. So he comes in the house with four southeastern chorus frogs and several million tadpoles. (Okay, he says there are sixteen. I swear there were more.) The frogs are precious, each one no more than an inch long, with smooth, yellowy-green bodies and sweetly bulging eyes. And their song -- oy! How something that tiny produces such a loud sound is beyond me. Except there's a wee problem. Two of them have gone missing. Now, it's bad enough feeling guilty about the fate of a minute creature who never wanted to visit in the first place. What's really creeping me out, though, is thoughts of Dead Frog. I have smelled Dead Frog. It is as putrid and gag-inducing as Dead Toad, Dead Fish, and Dead Nightcrawler. You know as well as I do that the two missing froggies are going to crawl into crevices and die. It may have happened already. Then, in a day or two, my house will be appropriately perfumed. If I appear out of sorts over the next couple of days, you'll know why. Heaven help the next child who brings a living creature into this house. Nature Schmature. I'm nothing but a Girl Scout drop-out, anyway. Ugh. Labels: parenting Tuesday, May 16, 2006Things Mom Never Hears About....So, I was microwaving a bit of leftover broccoli in cheese sauce. Fairly mundane, except for the fact that the food was in a non-microwaveable bowl. Gold-edged china, to be exact. You know the type -- cheap, gaudy, and entertaining in the microwave. Because the gold edging sparks. I was oo-ing and ah-ing by the microwave, and of course my children wondered what in the world was so exciting about broccoli and cheese on a turntable. "It's got gold edges," I said. "It's arcing!" Zip. Zap. I am so hard up for entertainment these days. Rachel is the only one who matched my excitement level. "Oh, yes," she said. "That's exactly what happened when I put my Barbie in the microwave." Huh? "Um, Rachel...? You put a Barbie in the microwave?" "Yeah (giggle), well, it was ages ago...you know, when my ballerina Barbie was still brand new? Anyway, I put her in the microwave, and she was wearing this dress with, like, metallic thread in it, you know? And it started to spark." "This may sound like a silly question, but...why did you put your Barbie in the microwave?" Rachel didn't have an answer. This is almost the stuff of urban legend, is it not? Girl microwaves Barbie; family sues Mattel for damages from explosion. I'm just glad that Barbie didn't lose any of her "parts" after her microwave exposure. That would have freaked me out when I went to heat up my coffee the next morning. So, who needs counseling here? Me? Or my daughter? Then again, Barbie probably needs it more than either of us do. Poor Barbie... Labels: parenting Monday, May 01, 2006Jonnie's Brides
 That's my son in a wig.Let me explain. Jonathan's been taking drum lessons at World Music for about ten months. His teacher felt like he was ready to play in a band. (I concur; the kid's a natural.) The band that needed a drummer, however, happened to be an all-girl band. At first, Jonathan was just a sit-in. He was good, though, and there wasn't a girl drummer stepping forward to take his place. So the plan became, "Play with the girls and wear a dress." Jonathan is so secure. How many not-quite-fourteen-year-old boys would get on stage wearing a dress? My sister-in-law saved us seats in the second row for the performance last Thursday evening. I'm not exactly the rock concert type, so I was a bit...stretched. When you sit in the front at these things, you've got to clap a lot. And look interested. And not cringe when a sixteen-year-old guitar-playing Pink-Floyd-wannabe sings "Another Brick in the Wall" so off-key that you start to wonder if his vocal chords are working properly. Still, it was worth it. When it was time for Jonathan's band to perform, the announcer introduced them as "Jonnie's Brides." My son walked onto the platform from the opposite side, in his dress and wig. Deadpan. The crowd loved it. And his drumming rocked. There he was, on stage with four girls (all but one of them older by several years), drumming his heart out. Man. The kid is good. At the end, he stepped out of the dress -- right on stage. "Jonathan!" someone yelled from the audience. Someone female. "Jonathan!" A different voice this time. Oh my gosh. My son has groupies. Hold me back. My son may be gorgeous, talented, and self-assured, but he's not available. Oy! I tried not to feel old around all these teenagers. I don't want to look (or feel) like your typical mom-of-a-teen: boring hair, a bit stiff, slight frown lines, unfashionable. Well, I can't do much about the frown lines. They're genetic. But I can do something about the rest of it. The "frump look" doesn't really work at a rock concert. My son. I like the way he stretches me. And I'm ever so proud of him. Thanks for indulging me. Labels: parenting Thursday, April 27, 2006Birthday Kiss
 I'm a sucker for this little guy.It's funny. When Jonathan was seven, he was my "big guy;" the oldest of four. Spencer, at seven, is my "little guy." There is quite a bit of truth to the "baby of the family" thing. I call him "Big Dude" and "Pirate Boy." I praise him for having given up his thumb and blankie two weeks before his seventh birthday -- cold turkey. (No visible withdrawal symptoms, either.) Still, he just seems so...little. He's got way too much power for a person his size, too. And he knows it. I may have sermonized for twenty minutes straight about my need for no interruptions during the afternoon so that I can Finish That Chapter. But when Spencer comes creeping through my office door an hour later and climbs up into my chair, sliding into the space behind my back -- he knows I'm a goner. Especially when he starts rubbing my back with his little hands. "You are sooooooo sweet," he says in his high, pre-testoneronic voice. "You are my precious Wawwy." That's what he calls me. Wawwy. It's supposed to be "Mommy" with the M's turned upside-down; except, he spells it with an "a." Would you be able to say "no" to a little kid who is rubbing your back and calling you "Wawwy?" Well, yeah, okay. I do say "no" to him. I just wait until he's finished rubbing my back. And if he starts whining about anything -- anything -- he's outta here. I can't stand whining. Usually he's too busy saying funny things to whine much. Like the morning he was warming himself by the space heater in the bathroom while Daddy was getting dressed. "Ooo, this heater smells like POOP!" Spencer said. "Like poop?" Eric asked. "Yeah, like poop." "Why does it smell like poop?" "I don't know," Spencer replied. "I guess you must've farted." That's my Spencer. He's especially good at pointing out bad breath, too. You can imagine how encouraging that is when I'm kissing him goodnight. "Ewww! Your breath is disgusting." Thank you, dear. It's moments like these that make motherhood worthwhile. No matter. He's an absolutely heart-stopper and he knows it. Now if you'll excuse me...it's time for my back rub. Labels: parenting Saturday, January 28, 2006Genetic StrangenessThere's no doubt that they're all Eric's children. All of 'em. Down to the last gene. This morning, Spencer came running into our bathroom with his clothing in his arms. He's a smart lil' guy -- he wanted to get dressed in front of the space heater. He dropped his clothing, made a peculiar face, pinched his nose shut, and ran out of the bathroom, slapping the pocket door shut behind him. "What was that all about?" Eric called from the shower. Really, I had no idea. I hadn't been paying too much attention, since I was busy blow-drying my hair. Four minutes later, Spencer returned. There was a folded-up paper towel Scotch-taped over his nose and mouth. The tape was attached to his chin, his eyebrows, and the bridge of his nose. He looked -- weird. "I had to put this on so I could breathe," Spencer explained. "It really stinks in here." "Oh, does it?" Honestly, things like this don't really shock me anymore. "What does it smell like?" "I don't know. It's just really reeky." Reeky? I peered at Eric through the glass shower door. He was laughing silently into his hands. "It smells worse than vomit," Spencer continued. It was hard to take him seriously behind the paper-towel gas mask. Okay, now before you get any weird ideas about the state of my bathroom -- it's clean. And in spite of the "reekiness" in there, I was perfectly clean, and Eric was in the process of getting clean. No one had recently left an offensive deposit in the toilet. And there wasn't any vomit lying around. I have no idea what prompted the gas mask. So I'm just chalking it up to "Boehme genes." Eric will balk, but he can't deny his own strangeness, so his words will have a hollow ring. Why, just the other morning I walked into our bathroom to put something in the cabinet, and Eric was standing in front of his sink -- staring at it. He wasn't moving; he wasn't brushing his teeth; he wasn't waiting for the water to run hot. No, he was just...staring. "What are you staring at?" I asked. He laughed nervously. He had no good answer. "I'm not a morning person" only works for so long. There you have it. My children are weird because my husband is weird. As for me -- I choose to be weird. That's different than being born that way. I think... (Read Eric's response HERE.) Labels: parenting Monday, January 16, 2006Parenting 101: Things You Don't Think About Having to ExplainLike the meaning of the word "eunuch." Not that it's a big deal, really. I mean, I don't think there's a sizable chance that one of my children is actually going to run into a eunuch at Walgreen or in the park any time soon. It's just one of those strange things that you never practice explaining ahead of time. Jonathan and I were watching the bonus features on my Pirates of the Caribbean DVD. There's an extended, improvised scene with Jack Sparrow and the pirates in the cave, and Jack makes the comment that all French are "eunuchs," while making a cutting motion in the air with his fingers. I'm sure the moment would have been completely lost on Jonathan, but I felt compelled to enlighten him. Jack Sparrow actually uses the word "eunuch" twice in the movie itself, and, well, I guess I don't want my children to be culturally illiterate. So I said to Jonathan, "Do you know what a eunuch is?" "No." I'm going to spare you my stumbling explanation. Suffice it to say that, when I got to the "snip snip" part, Jonathan's expression became rather incredulous. "You know, they used to do it to little boys, too, if they sang really well when they were sopranos," I continued (obviously I was much more comfortable talking about this in the context of music history). "Because, you know, that's where all your 'man hormones' are, and if you cut them off, your voice won't ever get deeper." "Oh." I'm sure my son is infinitely relieved that he's not a prize-winning boy soprano. The next time something floats right over Jonathan's head, I'm going to let it go. I really don't think he'd be any worse off right now if he didn't know what a eunuch was. Come to think of it, I'd better hide all the scissors. Because I can just hear it now: "Hey Spencer, you wanna be a eunuch?" Labels: parenting Wednesday, November 30, 2005Four Calling Birds, Three Sharp Knives, Two Rusty Nails...Jonathan and I were driving down the road and he said, "Know what you can put in my Christmas stocking?" I was all ears; the kid hardly ever gives me stocking suggestions. "What?" I said. "Razor blades." "Razor blades?" Surely I hadn't heard him correctly. "What do you need razor blades for?" "They have really sharp edges for cutting things," Jonathan said. "I'm not putting razor blades in your stocking, Jonathan. I could get arrested." I defy anyone to come up with a weirder request. Actually, it's not as bad as it sounds. He's always making things -- things with motors, things with wires, things with small parts and moving parts and the ocassional smoking part. Razor blades would be a helpful tool. I'm not buying him any. I have to draw the line somewhere on "all things for the sake of creativity." Speaking of which -- have you written your Seuss poem yet? I'm dying to read more! Labels: parenting Tuesday, November 08, 2005Too Tall, Too Beautiful, Too Fast
 Yes, it's true -- Maggie is only three-and-a-quarter inches behind me. We can walk side by side and I don't have to look way down to have a conversation with her. She is the essence of pre-woman. And I'm not quite sure when it happened. How did I birth something so beautiful? When did I stop wiping her bottom and start asking her if she needs new bras? Oh, that I could capture moments the way an image is captured, and take them out to re-live at will. I could re-tie her tiny, first ballet slippers; re-brush her "I'm trying to grow it long" hair; re-wipe the tears from her sweet face after she's fallen; re-hold her small, pudgy hand while crossing a parking lot; re-kiss the dimples in her still-baby-fatted cheeks. But that's what hearts are for; aside from loving, they are for holding memories. I can't remember when I became "old enough" to have children with two-digit ages and shoes bigger than my own. Wasn't it just yesterday when that pregnancy test was brilliantly pink? I guess I'll just keep shopping at The Gap until they start laughing at me when I walk in. There's something about Gap clothing that makes me feel younger. (I must be falling for someone's insidious marketing scheme.) Thanks for wading through my sentimental ooze. Jill Schafer Boehme Eric Boehme literary agents fantasy author Beat Your Own Drum Labels: parenting Saturday, October 22, 2005My Lovely Ballerina
 That an inveterate clutz could give birth to a lithe, graceful child is proof of God's sense of humor -- and His mercy. My daughter Maggie (pictured) is a genetic wonder -- the offspring of two people who trip over their own shadows. Watching her dance is like listening to the waves break upon the shore -- it lifts me out of myself. It's one of the "joy places" in my life. This past Thursday, Eric picked her up from her ballet class, added me to the party, and then the three of us went out for supper at our favorite Irish pub (Americans don't know what "chips" are, I tell ya). Our sweet Maggie sparkled and bubbled and glowed the entire time. Face it -- as one of four children, she doesn't get intense "Mommy and Daddy" time very often. None of them do. It's just a fact of life in a larger family. After the meal, we walked down the street to The Cocoa Tree, a wondrous gourmet/organic chocolate shop without which I don't know how I've survived all these years. Maggie, who was feeling rather "teenager-ish," decided to sit outside and wait for us while she chatted with her sister on my cell phone. After having placed my order, I walked outside to make sure Maggie was okay. She wasn't in the seat where I had left her, so I stood there for a few seconds, looking down the dark street to see where she had flitted off to. I soon spied her just a few yards away, still chatting happily. "Are you looking for your daughter?" said a woman in a party of several at an outside table. "The dancer?" I smiled. "What gave it away?" "Oh, it isn't just the dance clothes," she went on. "She looks like a dancer! I mean, her body and everything..." That gave me just the opportunity I needed to gush for a few moments about my born-to-dance daughter. I might point out that I, in contrast, looked a complete frump in my black racer-stripe sweats and V-neck shirt. "I can't believe that she actually came out of my body," I said. (Yes, I really do talk this way to complete strangers.) "She really made us laugh," the woman then said. "She was talking on the phone, and we heard her say, 'Well, I'm sitting here outside The Cocoa Tree. Daddy is inside, spoiling Mommy.'" That's my Maggie. Little did she know that Daddy was spoiling her, too. The reason this is all so big -- so meaningful -- is that just a year ago, my little ballerina wasn't able to dance at all. She was suffering from a mixture of social and separation anxiety that was triggered by an unfortunate incident at the school of dance she was enrolled in at the time. She wasn't even able to enter a ballet classroom. It was heartbreaking. Prayer, therapy, and a lot of encouragement and support have brought our beautiful daughter to where she is today. She was able to begin studying dance again in February; she was able to perform on stage in June; and just this past week she was able to enroll in a brand new dance school -- new classmates, new teacher, new leotard color. And she made the transition beautifully, flawlessly. We have our Maggie back. The social butterfly is unfurling her once-hidden wings. The warm, genuine smile that causes her dimples to absolutely explode is back. Our ballerina is doing what she was born to do -- she's dancing. And we're ever so proud of her. I'm compelled to add, bursting with pride as I am, that she is also a burdgeoning writer. I'm not talking Haiku or paragraphs about birds -- I'm talking novels. She sits at the keyboard and clickety-clicks away (she's typing close to 30 WMP, I think). I may not have given her the grace and poise that comes so naturally to her, but I must have passed on the writing gene. In that vein, at least, I can claim her as my own. There's nothing quite like watching your child blossom before your eyes. Thanks for indulging me! Labels: parenting Monday, October 17, 2005From the Mouth of My Six-Year-Old......comes yet another zinger. This one happened at the supper table tonight, in the middle of my gourmet baked macaroni and cheese. "Mommy," said Spencer. "I don't remember when you were young." And there you have it. I am officially "old." Or something. I'm going to go have a nice glass of white wine. See you in the morning (when I will write something a bit more substantial -- after I take my Geritol and a morning nap). Jill Schafer Boehme Labels: parenting | |
