Simsek Strikes

A Couple of Laughs While We Settle In

As I struggled into consciousness this morning, one of Ellie's warm, solid feet on my cheek, it took a moment before I realized that I was not curled on her narrow camp bed surrounded by other sleeping children, but home in my own big bed for the first time in a week.  It was a bittersweet realization, full of the temporary stillness and peace of a house with only one child (the others stayed with my parents at camp to return on Tuesday) and the lingering sadness that my time at camp was over for another year.  

The week was amazing, and, in spite of widespread reports of dangerous storms and tornadoes touching down all around us in Southern Maine, we enjoyed the best weather we've had at camp in a few years. The storms that took out power to 22,000 residents and brought trees down on houses in several nearby towns merely grazed the lake, bringing a passing thunderstorm and leaving in its wake a breath-taking double rainbow.

So, before I get down to the business of sorting, culling, and cropping my pictures I thought I'd share a couple of the funnier things the kids said this week.

Spencer on Storms

The morning after the storms broke clear and calm and we took the kids out in the canoe to see the loons and maybe some other wildlife.  The lake was a polished mirror and the day was just warming.  As we pushed off from the dock, Spencer noticed the little puddles of water remaining in the bottom of the boat. Dad had bailed out most of the rainwater but little bits remained to evaporate as the day wore on.  

Spencer:  Look!  There's water IN the boat!

Paulo:  Oh no!  We've sprung a leak--we're going down!  Every man for themselves!  You'd better jump out and swim to shore now!

Spencer (laughing):  No, Daddy, there's no hole.

Me: How do you think the water got in, then?

Spencer:  I don't know.

Me:  Do you remember what happened last night?  Do you remember all the big booms outside?

Spencer:  Yes.

Me:  What was that?

Spencer: Thunder.

Me:  Right!  And what comes with thunder?

Spencer:  Lightning.

Me:  True, but what happens when there's thunder and lightning?

Spencer:  We lose power?

Me (laughing):  Yes, sometimes we do, but what falls from the sky when there's thunder and lightning?

Spencer: Trees!

Lexi on Switzerland

A favorite water game at camp has been dubbed "Noodle War."  The rules are simple:  everyone floats around with water noodles and, after filling the hole in one end with water, blows into the other end effectively "firing" the water out at whoever is in range.  There is much splashing, squealing, and laughter.

Lexi:  Come on, Grampa, come play Noodle War on our team!

Grampa:  I'm not playing this time.  I'm neutral:  I'm Switzerland.  I don't take sides I just hold all your money.

Lexi:  Oh, so you're the bad guy!

A Moment From Our Day

There are so many moments I wish that I could capture each day.  Some of them are sweet, like when Ellie held my face in her hands and pressed her nose and forehead to mine while falling asleep the other night.  I swear, that girl's sweetness is the reason I have a cavity for the first time in my life!

And some of them are chaotic and funny.

Yesterday afternoon my mother called.  She and Paulo plan out our menus and shopping lists for camp each year, and it was time to have the grand list reckoning.  While they were talking, I got up from my snack of peanutbutter-covered cookies to separate Lexi and Spencer from yet another altercation.  Lexi wanted to read and Spencer wanted to play.  Spencer needed to be removed and redirected, so I offered to read to him.  No, he said, he'd rather play Uno and headed full-tilt (his default speed) toward the bookcase where the cards were.

Just before reaching the bookcase, he tripped and sent his mouth and nose straight into its unforgiving edge.  Immediately, the room was filled with muffled howls as he covered his injured lips and cried in shock and pain.  Trying not to shake my head at the predictability of it all, I scooped him up and carried him to the kitchen while simultaneously trying to soothe and hush him.  Spencer has a huge voice at any time, but when he's crying it's hard to believe that one so small could be capable of such volume.  

After a few minutes the howling down-graded to sniffles and he accepted some ice for his two fatted lips. Once he was settled, I returned to the dining room to retrieve my one remaining peanutbutter cookie. Instead, I found several of Ellie's plastic animals lined up in front of my plate and a suspicious smudge of peanutbutter on the edge of the laptop.  I wiped it off and inspected more closely.  There was more peanutbutter on the table in a couple of spots.  I began picking up animals and discovered a sizable deposit of peanutbutter on the bottom of the Beluga whale.  

With a sigh, I popped the violated cookie into my mouth and carried the whale to the kitchen sink to be washed.  Having refreshed Spencer's ice, I was standing at the sink working on mission clean-up-the-whale when I felt a tug on my shirt.  I looked down absent-mindedly, expecting Ellie to want me to play. Her sweet face was upturned and her hand reaching out to me held her toy shark.  

"What is it, Ellie?"  I asked, almost out of habit.

"Shark!"  Ellie declared, and turning it over she pointed to the glob of peanutbutter on the shark's mouth. "Washcloth!"

Yes, indeed. Even sharks need their faces cleaned after snacking on peanutbutter!

Weaned at Last: How I Finally (and mostly painlessly) Convinced Ellie to Give Up the Milk

Yes, this is a breastfeeding post.  An EXTENDED breastfeeding post.  And yes,  I know my readers.  Some of you are thinking "Ewww - nursing a toddler!  Get out!"  If this is you then please, read no further, this isn't for you.  I know that some of you have nursed your own toddlers to three and beyond, and this might be a yawn for you. And others are childless (child free?) and couldn't care less. 

But I have to believe that there are plenty of folks out there like me who have no problem with extended breastfeeding and YET might like some idea of how to stop the milk train at some point. If you have a typically developing toddler, you can get plenty of weaning advice on line.  But what if your toddler ISN'T typical?  What if you can't really reason with them?  What if they aren't verbal enough to understand a sour milk story, or social enough to care about being a 'big boy' or 'big girl'? Are you to simply keep nursing until they're in grade school?  Shun them mercilessly until they give up? For all the wonders of the internet it seems to be lacking good advice for those in my particular position.  So, this post is for the other moms out there who are being let down in their Google searches for 'how to wean a nonverbal toddler" or some such.  This is really for them.

(Of course, I’m personally pretty excited about this discovery, too!)

You see, I have loved nursing my kids.  It's been a sweet, amazing experience, and I wouldn't have traded it for anything.  I was lucky:  nursing came easily and I had the luxury of being able to stay home and nurse them all.  I may not have been built to birth them (Sorry, Bradley - I really tried, but without modern medicine I wouldn't be here right now, and neither would they) but I was born to nurse!  Milk from here to forever, I tell you.  I could have fed triplets. If they'd been a little more coordinated I could have fed them from across the room. I seriously considered milk donation until I discovered that they pasteurize it.  Seriously?  What's the point?  But it’s been wonderful and precious and convenient. (Well, except for the restricted diet parts.  And the teething.  I could have done without that.)  In short, I would recommend it to anyone.  Anyone with breasts and babies, that is.

Anyway, each child comes with their own unique set of challenges.  While Lexi and Spencer had happily taken pacifiers (making weaning much simpler), Ellie wasn't so impressed.  I'd worked hard to convince her that they were the cool thing--all the babies were doing them!--and for a few months she'd tried to like them.  But at about a year she simply began to spit them out and never looked back.  Whatever those things were, she didn't want them in her mouth--only Mommy would do.   

At the time, I had foolishly thought that this was great!  (I remembered how long Spencer had wanted his paci and how relieved we had been when we finally weaned him from it at 3 and a half.)  What I didn't know at the time was that Ellie would reject not only the pacifier, but also any lovie altogether--no blanket or stuffed animal would ever soothe her.  Only Mommy.

So, the months ticked by and she continued to nurse.  As she approached the two year mark I tried to teach her to go to sleep without nursing, but failed.  After several weeks of effort she would still panic and vomit if denied her precious milk.  At two she still had not demonstrated even basic verbal comprehension, was not speaking at all, and behaved emotionally like a one year old.  She was not ready to wean.

Shortly after her second birthday we began speech therapy, and then she was diagnosed ASD. We began therapy.  I asked the behavioral therapists for advice about weaning her without making her panic and they recommended trying to get her to attach to something else.  We began to systematically attempt to teach her how to self-soothe with a blanket.  I carried the blanket everywhere with us and followed all their advice.  It was a colossal failure. Several moms, including a couple of doctors and Ellie's GI Specialist, supported the idea of just letting her nurse until she was done.  (I find I am surrounded by secret extended nursers, many of whom were happy to tell me that they nursed one or more of their kids until they were 3 or 4 years old!  Heroic!)

It was fine, sound advice, but I was getting tired.  I was tired of standing all the time because being seated was like an invitation to nurse.  I was tired of having her hot, heavy body on top of me for half the night.  As much as I enjoyed the cuddle time that it afforded, I was tired of feeling tied to the house every night because no one else could put her to sleep.  I was tired of feeling touched out at the end of each day. In short, I was ready to move on.

I tried simply denying her during the day, but she was crushed and couldn't understand why I was rejecting her.  She would spend the day crying and clawing at my shirt, inconsolable.  I tried painting myself with things that might taste bad to her: vinegar, lemon juice, Dijon mustard. They made me smell a little funky and she wrinkled her nose, but they were no deterrent. The oh-so-not helpful internet suggested that I try cayenne pepper, but that sounded just plain mean.  I wanted to discourage her, not burn her little mouth. 

There had to be something else, so I took it upon myself to innovate.  I began to investigate other things that tasted bad.  The most promising product was called Control-It and it was marketed as a bitter-tasting cream that was used to help people stop chewing their cuticles and nails.  Reviews said that it was very bitter and lasted all day.  Perfect. I added it to my earlier Amazon order and figured that when I'd had enough, I'd try it.

It arrived as promised, and for a week or two it sat on the counter and looked at me.  Finally, after a particularly pesky morning when Ellie seemed to be after me every five minutes to sit down for some milky time, I decided it was time.  I tasted the stuff.  It was terrible--shockingly bitter and make-you-gag nasty, but not painful.  Also, it lingered.  Just a hint of the stuff and I'd had enough.  So after my shower I cautiously put a tiny bit on with a Q-tip.

When Ellie finished with school, she predictably came to me for a little touch of the milk bar. "Ellie,"  I warned her, "the milk is yucky!"  Undeterred, she again pointed to her eye, belly and then my chest saying slowly "I-I-I waant milk!"

One taste and she pulled off, grabbing at her tongue, appalled.  I tried not to laugh as we headed to the kitchen for some juice and Jelly Beans to chase away the yucky taste.  "Yucky milk!"  I said.  She was convinced, but an hour later she thought maybe the catastrophe had passed.  Tapping the other side she asked "ucky?"  

"Yes", I said, "it's yucky, too."  Unconvinced, she took a cautious taste and then we were back to the kitchen for some better-tasting remedies.

Several times that day she'd ask if milk was still yucky, but she never tasted it again.  By nightfall we'd gone all day for the first time and I was feeling brave.  Maybe it was time to try to go all night, too.  Nervously, I took her upstairs and lay down in bed.  We read Goodnight Moon and Polar Bear, Polar Bear.  We said good night to everything in her room.  As she got sleepier and there was still no milk, she decided to try to leave the room and I had to resort to holding her in bed with me.  There was about 30 minutes of crying and struggling, but no panic and no vomit, and eventually she fell asleep.

I braced myself for a long night, but miraculously she slept straight through until 6am in her own bed!  I was shocked and thrilled!  Once that morning she asked if I was still yucky, but was quick to head for a sippy cup when I assured her that the yucky was still there.  All day she kept her distance from the yuckies, and that night there was a just a little fuss before she settled down for sleep.  At five am the next morning she came into bed, but to my amazement she simply lay down beside me and went back to sleep.  

And so it's over.  Each successive night she's gone to sleep with less fuss--last night she simply rolled to the wall after stories and went to sleep--and she's sleeping longer, too.  Occasionally she still comes up to me and touches my chest asking "yucky?" but she's not really sad anymore, she's just checking.  You know, in case a miracle has returned her sweet milk.  This morning she actually brought me a dish towel and tried to convince me to wipe her milk clean (too funny) but all in all it's been amazingly simple.

In the end, I think that we were both ready, but didn't know it yet. What I did know, and I was right, was that she had to decide she didn’t want it for some reason, instead of having me push her away. All it took was finding the right thing to convince her.

For a moment after she fell asleep last night I felt a twinge of nostalgia--afterall, I've nursed my last babe for the last time, and there were a lot of sweet moments to look back on--but then I thought about all the coffee I've been missing for the last 3 years and suddenly it was all okay.  

I kissed her impossibly sweet cheek, and turned out the light.

 

 

All Choked Up: I Think My Vacuum Cleaner Wants a Divorce

There are things that they didn't tell me about vacuum ownership when when I went out to buy our vacuum cleaner.  Oh, I heard all about about power-heads and Hepa filters and and high-powered suction.  They covered pet-hair pick up and the six zillion attachments designed to suck the dust out of my curtains, upholstery, and household crevices. It all sounded great! This bright, shiny machine would make my house dirt-free and dust-free and sparkling!  It would be a tireless partner in the battle against household grunge! I DO!  Sign me up!

(In fairness,  I might not have been paying reeally close attention because of the three little kids who were running around the shop trying to climb or test-drive the wares, but I'm pretty sure it was a great pitch!)

Anyway, blushing with excitement, I brought home a bright red Eureka BOSS. It sounds smart, right?  I know! And tough! It sounds like it's going to kick dirt butt all over the place!  And for a while, it seemed to do just that.  It was love.  I'd wheel him out and he'd roar to life, pulling all the sand out of the carpet and the dust from the floors, the power head rumbling and the Hepa filter filling the air with the smell of clean.  Yes, those were the salad days when just the sight of Vacuum's shiny red canister made me smile with satisfaction.

Mostly.

There were warning signs, as there often are in relationships bound for ruin, but I chose to ignore them. Vacuum only wanted to make right turns.  Vacuum didn't like to have his bag changed. And sadly, since the bag was minuscule and held only a few dust bunnies at a time, it had to be changed often. Sometimes the bag compartment refused to close at all and I found myself getting a little irritated with my darling.  I found myself treating him with, well, a little less care and respect.  And sometimes taking him out began to feel, well, like a chore again.

But I was determined to make the relationship work in spite of these hiccups.  So we cleaned through the first year, and into the second before the real troubles began.  Vacuum would probably say that it was my fault that our relationship began to, well, STINK, but I blame Vacuum.  After all, he'd said nothing about hairstyles when we met.

You see, Vacuum doesn't like my hair now that it's gotten long.  I wasn't planning to grow it so long--there just isn't any time for fancy haircuts and hairstyling in my life right now--but none of that matters to Vacuum.  He hates it. I catch him shooting me dirty looks when he thinks I'm not looking, like he thinks I've let myself go.  So, to please him, I keep it up most of the time in a braid or a clip or something. Still, long strands tend to escape and litter his floor with their nearly invisible nets. He pulls them up in that fancy power head of his and pouts.  For a while, he pouts silently, leading me to think that everything is just fine.  I check his rollers when we're done and they look clear, so I continue about my business.

But actually, he's not fine.  Not fine at all.  He's just biding his time until the next time I'm doing some last minute cleaning before company comes to let me know about it.  Then he'll throw a wad of that hair he's been saving under the drive belt and let it smoke. In mere moments the smell will fill the air. And let me tell you, there's nothing like the smell of burnt hair to let guests know they're in a freshly cleaned home!

Once he's perfumed the air with his anger, Vacuum goes on strike.  It's not enough to apologize, or to open him up and clean out the charred remains of hair or clean out whatever else might be caught there.  No, he insists on a brand new drive belt before he'll even consider continuing our relationship. This seems like a HUGE breach of our relationship agreement to me--there was no mention of his fetish for short-haired partners when I signed on the dotted line.  But here we are. 

I don't think we're speaking at the moment.  He hasn't come out and said it, but I'm pretty sure that Vacuum wants a divorce.  He refused to open for the latest bag change, and when I finally managed to get my way his latch fell apart in protest.  He resists coiling his cord when asked.  He's found a way to burn up a drive belt every second or third time I run him.  He's sullen, and even with a fresh drive belt he mutters and rattles complaints under his roaring breath.

As for me, I'm not giving up just yet.  Vacuum divorce is expensive, not to mention messy, and there are the children to think about. They make a lot of dirt, crumbs, and debris and I can't clean it all up by myself. Plus, Ellie has gotten used to riding on his shiny back, her hair blowing in his exhaust. She'll be heart-broken if he has to go.  Besides, I'm gun-shy about getting back out in the market again;  about trusting my heart and home to another vacuum with a shiny body and secret fashion fetishes.  It's so easy to get burned.  Just ask my hair.  

What Happened in May?

Apparently, my writing brain took a vacation.  Countless times I sat down in front of this lovely laptop, staring at the keys.  Nothing.  Stared at the screen.  Nothing. Flipped through pictures, looked out the window, thought about the days.  Nothing. Oh, lots of things were happening, but they refused to iron themselves out into words.  And sadly, typing random streams of letters with glee is really only acceptable if you are too young to read or write.  So, I walked away.  Again and again.

I'm still not sure that I'm up to the task, and I'm pretty sure that there's no way I can catch up on everything, so I'll just do my best to toss out some of the basics, and then (hopefully) go back to my usual blather as though nothing ever happened.  Because, let's face it, for the last few weeks nothing HAS happened on here.

So.  Brace yourself:  this may be a bit long-winded.

Updates!

Service Dog:

Ellie was turned down for the service dog that we applied for in March due to Paulo's allergies.  I'm not going to get into the details since it would appear to be a big miscommunication.  With any luck he will get the thumbs up from the allergist in the next year or two and we'll try again.  I must admit that the day the letter came I cried, shook, and basically needed to be talked off the ledge, but I'm much better now.  I think I'm getting better at this whole disappointment thing.

Getting Ready for Developmental Preschool: A Mixed Bag

It is now time to begin the process of transitioning Ellie.  At age three, she "ages out" of Early Intervention, through which she currently receives speech therapy and ABA.  At at point, the public school system becomes responsible for her therapy.  So we began by having our first meeting with the coordinator and one of the teachers here at the house.  They both seemed like very nice, very experienced people and I've heard only good things about the program here. 

Then, earlier this week, I went to visit the school itself to see the classroom and iron out Ellie's IEP--that's an Individual Education Plan, for those of you outside the special needs loop.  Lucky you.

Here's the thing:  in spite of the fact that IEP's are supposed to design a program that is best-suited to meet the needs of each child, it's clear that in truth they are designed to help each individual child best fit the available program .  If your three-year-old would be best-suited to a home-based program, well, you're out of luck.  If your three-year-old has a hard time in closed-in spaces, staying with non-family members, or focusing amidst a lot of noise or distractions, you'd best be independently wealthy because your IEPis not going to service your child in the environment that suits them best.  It will service them in a classroom with other kids and teachers. Period.

So, I went into the IEP meeting fighting back my fears about what this year will mean for Ellie, and hoping that she has some amazing, miraculous developmental leap between now and September and decides to love going to school.  I was praying that going to 'school' won't trigger all the anxiety and panic that we've worked so hard to eliminate, because as far as I can see, it is our only option for her services--a realization that makes me equal parts hopeful and desperate.

After well over an hour with the woman who will be her primary teacher, I came away from the IEP meeting feeling really hopeful.  Miss J-- seems to be all the things you'd want in a special needs teacher--experienced, caring, engaged, and willing to work with me as a parent.  She listened, made adjustments to the plan as appropriate, and offered solutions to the issues I brought up in the meeting.   

When we left the meeting room I was feeling positive and even optimistic.  As we walked through the halls towards Ellie's future room, we passed walls brightly painted and decorated with children's artwork.  We walked through a bookfairand past open doors leading into brightly lit classrooms with neatly stocked shelves of books and construction paper and crayons.  And then we came to the preschool room.  

She opened the door and my heart sank.

The room was felt small, and cluttered.  A few children and their teachers sat staring at us from the table in the middle where they were eating--it was unclear whether it was lunch or snack time.  One boy asked curiously where Miss J-- had been all this time, but the rest were quiet.  The shades were drawn to keep the room cool as it was an exceptionally hot May day.  It was working, but it seemed to intensify the closed-in feeling I got from the room.

Where I had imagined a bright room lined with activity stations carefully organized and visually clear (like the classroom at the Parent-2-Child program) there were instead a few child-sized cubicles with materials stacked, (?) piled (?) shelved (?) at the backs and, in some cases, on or next to the tables themselves.  Where I had imagined a cozy respite area for a "break corner," there was a partially walled-off corner with one squishy foam chair and a few hard chairs, presumably for circle time. The coat cubbies protruded into the room next to us, and, like many of the flat surfaces visible, their tops were covered with random objects--juice pouches, notes, toys, bits of paper and assorted odds and ends.  The play station featured a play kitchen and a table (I think) and was similarly cluttered.  The much-anticipated touch-screen computer was crammed into the back side of the “independent work station,” which was one of the cubicle-type spaces with another pair of small, cluttered tables.  In the open space on the work-alone side was a simple Velcro-strip schedule like the ones I’ve become familiar with in all of Ellie’s therapies.

The "gross motor room" that I'd heard so much about was not actually a room at all.  I had pictured an open room with several play structures, but instead, it was roughly one-third of the adjoining classroom, divided on two sides by more cubicle-type dividers.  The floor was the same tiles floor as any classroom without mats or padding of any kind.  There was one small balance beam, and arched bridge, and a hanging cloth swing.  Behind one divider were piled lots of other equipment which protruded around the edges and the top in a haphazard manner. More equipment was stored along the other end wall from floor to ceiling.  I was told that there were a variety of swings that could be hung in the space, and that all the children took turns on the equipment every day.  I'm glad that they have so much equipment and that they change it daily, but the visual effect was startling even to me.  I knew looking at it that this was not the fun and exciting area I had imagined Ellie gravitating towards each morning.  I’d be surprised if she so much as paused in this space on the way towards the door.

Behind the room-long divider in the same room were a series of office-type cubicles again.  These were the spaces where kids went to meet one-on-one with speech and occupational therapists as often as indicated on their IEPs.  The service sounds good, but the environment?  It felt more like an office building in communist Russia than a learning room for special needs kids.

I came home and cried. 

Paulo thinks I’m over-reacting, and maybe I am.  Apparently kids come through this program and do well.  Certainly, the teacher seems to be competent and dedicated—she must be doing something right.  Probably a lot of things right.  But I wanted to come home feeling positive and enthusiastic about the place where I would be leaving Ellie for the next two years, but instead I felt defeated and depressed.  I wished like hell that there was a way for her to continue to get services at home, or at least in a cheerful environment.  I am hoping that I feel differently after spending the morning there with her next month.  Cross your fingers and say a prayer that she surprises me and loves the place, OK?

Ellie’s Gut:

But it's not all frustration and disappointment around here.  In fact, we've made an unexpected break-through! A while back, I wrote about my frustrations dealing with Ellie's gut.  Shortly after writing that post, I took Ellie off theMiralax completely.  I determinedly packed each meal with every stool-softening remedy I could find--Fruit-Eze, fiber, magnesium, extra probiotics, aloe juice--if it was natural and poop-inducing I snuck it into her food.  

She’s crafty.  Sometimes she sniffed it out and it didn’t get into her.  But it was hard to turn down doctored ice cream and pineapple juice, and flaxseed pancakes became a big hit with everyone, too.

Ellie started feeling better, napping better, and talking more. But after 8 days she still hadn't pooped.  It was time for more drastic measures.

So one afternoon on the way home from Spencer’s preschool, with all the kids in the car, I stopped at the grocery store for glycerin suppositories. Let's be honest:  no one likes the idea of suppositories.  But after all that we've been through it just couldn't be worse.  I wasn't risking a bowel impaction.  And I wasn't going back to the Miralax.

She wasn't thrilled, but worked like a charm.  I decided that one day probably wasn't enough.  She had a weeks' worth of poo to flush out, so I decided to give her one each night.  And that has made all the difference.  Not only did it end the withholding, the diarrhea, and the diaper rash, but for the first time IN HER LIFE Ellie slept through the night.  The bloating went away and her stomach returned to a normal size and shape.  She wasn't thrilled with the process, but she wasn't distressed, either. And after a couple of weeks she began to get braver about trying new foods, too.

She doesn't sleep all night every night now, but since stopping the Miralax she typically sleeps a 4 to 6 hour stretch in the  beginning of each night (as opposed to 1.5 to 2 hours) and then comes into my room to sleep instead of crying for me to go to her.  And every once in a while she sleeps right through to 6 am.  

It's a miracle I'd given up hoping to see.

Best of all, according to the GI (who we were finally able to see this month) we can continue to do this right straight through potty training without fear of dependency or side effects.  I only wish we'd discovered this solution earlier!

Taekwondo

Lexi and Spencer had some great news too:  they were named Students of the Month for the month of April at Taekwondo.  They had their pictures taken with weapons (such fun) and I had to write a blurb about them to go on the poster that was hung in the Dojang.  At the end of this month, we will get to bring the poster home.  With a little luck, I’ll remember to take a picture to post here—they were SO proud!  Now they are each well on their way to earning their next belts.  I can’t believe how far they’ve come this year!

Preschool and Home School

In May, Spencer’s class held the traditional Ladybug Tea in honor of the mothers on Mothers’ Day.  They began by serenading us with several songs in the chapel above the school, which was absolutely adorable.  Even Spencer, who struggles to memorize lyrics on the best of days, did a great job of belting out song after song with all the movements.  I’m beginning to think that little kids just sing better in motion!

After the songs the mothers were escorted downstairs to the gathering space where there were tables and chairs set out for tea.  In each place was aplacemat decorated by the child, a potted pansy (in a plastic cup, naturally) and a card written and decorated by the child.  Mine had a lovely drawing of me (I think I rather resembled a slightly disheveled cartoon M&M with a bouffant and a goatee, but you can judge for yourself) and a little essay:

Mommy

My mom has black, long, straight hair.

Her eyes are brown.  She likes to wear a brown shirt.

My mom likes to sew everything with big holes in it. 

She likes to play with me.  She doesn’t like to do

chores for me so I can do it for me. 

My favorite thing to do with her is hug.

I really like it when she hugs me.  I like

when Mom cooks me an omelet for breakfast.

My mom can read in cursive. 

We have moms to take care of us.  (Great answer! He said)

I love you, Mom!

Spencer

Then all the moms had tea together, although I have to say that I would have preferred to have Spencer join me for tea.  It’s not often that we get one-on-one time anymore.

In a couple of weeks’ time we were all back at his school for his graduation.  It was a mercifully brief ceremony in the parking lot of the school under a vicious sun on an almost 90-degree day.  Paulo’s parents, my mother, and Paulo’s godmother all attended, and afterward we feasted on Portuguese food courtesy of my mother-in-law.  It was lovely.

Meanwhile, Lexi is still finishing up her school year here at home.  She took her first-ever CAT tests this month and I am proud to say that she got all but one answer correct.  This week I will send the results to the school superintendent, and although she will not yet be done with all her lessons, she will officially have passed the first grade in the eyes of the state.  She’s reading at a third or fourth grade level and has had a great year in general, in spite of all the adjustments we have had to make along the way.

Personally, I am hoping that our more relaxed schedule will leave us extra time for all the field trips, art projects, and little experiments that got pre-emptedthis year by Ellie’s diagnosis and therapy sessions.

*****

 

There’s a lot more—the rest of Mother’s Day (my new ipod!), Dad’s birthday, Paulo’s afternoon at Fenway—but  but in the interest of time, and because if you’ve read this far you deserve a little thank you, here’s a gem from Spencer from this week:

 

Spencer:  There was a grackle on the feeder!

Lexi:  That was a good sentence, Spencer!  Mommy, did you hear that?  Spencer made a really good sentence!

Me:  Yes, you’re right, Lexi!  That was a great sentence, Spencer!  Good job!

Spencer (grinning proudly): I have my moments.

PS.  Apologies about the formatting.  I am way too lazy, unmotivated, busy, to do all that's necessary to fix its weird behaviors today!

 

Penguin Love

When Spencer was about two years old he fell for his first stuffed animal.  Until then, he'd had no interest in the fuzzy animals that littered the house and lined the shelves of various stores.  But that all changed as we were walking through WalMart one day.  There, on the two bottom shelves right at his eye level, was a display full of fuzzy baby emperor penguins.  It was Mumble, the penguin from the movie Happy Feet, and Spencer was in love.  He pulled one giant baby penguin off the shelf and hugged it to his little body.  He didn't want to let it go, and, because this was a totally unexpected (and let's face it, ridiculously cute) reaction, we made an uncharacteristic decision to let him keep it.

For weeks afterwards, he was devoted to Mumble.  He lugged it up and down stairs with him, and, in spite of the fact that the penguin was nearly as big as he was, he insisted on carrying it himself, his little arms wrapped around the penguin's generous middle.  

Of course, eventually he out-grew his infatuation and Mumble became just another in the hoard of stuffed animals we've amassed.  He is taken out and played with occasionally, but spends much of his time tucked into a toy chest in the basement.  

It was after one of his brief excursions back to Spencer's room that Ellie discovered him recently. I was sitting in the diningroom at the laptop when she began down the stairs, humming.  I looked up to see her proudly descending with the penguin seemingly stuck to the front of her.  It took a moment for me to figure out her innovation for hands-free penguin transport, and when I did, I had to get the camera. 

(Oh, and for those unfamiliar with the movie, Mumble is a tap-dancing penguin, so the sound he plays at the end is a tap number.)

The Things They Say: Lexi on Adulthood

Lexi hates to tie her sneakers.  I'll admit, they are not as easy as velcro, or her old lacing sneakers even, but I still believe that it's important for her to practice.  This doesn't stop her from complaining and looking for help when it's time to go out.

Earlier this week my mom was here visiting and helping me, and we had all decided it was time to go out and play. As usual, Lexi protested putting on her sneakers and, much to her delight, her Nana offered to help her get them on.

Once she was laced-up and ready to go, my mom picked up her own sneakers and, pretending to cry, asked Lexi who was going to help Nana get her sneakers on.

Nana:  Boohooo....oh, Lexi, won't you help me get MY sneakers on, too?

Lexi: (Grinning) No, Nana, you can do your sneakers yourself!

Nana:  But why?  You got help with your sneakers, why shouldn't I get help, too?

Lexi:  Kids need help with their shoes, but adults don't.  You can do your own shoes, Nana.  Your days of being a kid are all done.

A Clean Sweep

I have come to the conclusion that those '50s era moms with their spotless houses must have locked their kids outside all day every day.  I mean, seriously.  How is it possible to spend time with your kids each day (the thing that they need the most, in my opinion), cook three meals, clean up from three meals, host play-dates, do the seven million loads of laundry that they generate weekly, take them back and forth from sports and activities, bath them, dress them, nap them, etc AND keep a spotless house? I don't know.  I'm not even factoring in home school here. I do know that I am not capable of (or even particularly motivated to attempt) that kind of up-keep.  I did sign on for this domestic role, but I can't say that being home has made me an enthusiastic house keeper.  If you know me, you are not surprised by this.

We have what we like to call a lived-in house.  The floors are swept, mopped, or vacuumed regularly, the dishes are clean, the children are clean and groomed, the clothes are clean, and we typically know where to find everything.  It's not a sty.  We don't hoard things like those poor people you see on TV. But I do not dust religiously.  There are usually toys under the furniture. It's not always as orderly and tidy as I would like, but the children seem to think that it is their responsibility to take the time I spend tidying one area trashing another.  It is the way of things.

And before I hear stories about making the children clean up after themselves, I should point out that I do enforce regular pick up by the older two, but it only scratches the surface.  Even if they picked up all of their own messes each day, roughly 80% of the kid-mess would remain untouched.  Yes, Ellie is that good.  I have also exploited their young enthusiasm for work, and now Lexi is in charge of trash and recycling once a week and Spencer vacuums the living room (with a bit of guidance) at the same time. I dream of the day that they're old enough to do their own laundry.

So, in addition to the regular clean-ups, a couple of times a year I decide that it's time for "a big one". This bizarre impulse is typically prompted by the imminent arrival of guests who will be viewing our lived-in look.  Because let's be honest:  it's easier to clean for guests than it is for the five of us.  The kids like things neat but are determined to make any clean, open space into their next fortress, complete with six thousand small toys and books.  And Paulo likes it as well but, being wonderfully laissez-fare and famously unobservant, he is not bothered by the child-induced chaos and only notices obvious reorganization or obviously missing items.  It's all about function for him.  The rest has to be pointed out to him, as in "Honey, did you notice that the entire kitchen is sparkling today and you could shave in your reflection off the floor?" Probably not, although he'll be quick to compliment my labor if it's pointed out to him.

Next weekend we are having 20 people to the house to celebrate Easter and birthdays for Lexi and Spencer.  Paulo likes to call this annual party our Two-from-the-Womb-One-from-the-Tomb Party.  Has a nice ring to it, no?  Anyway, we are expecting the whole family plus a couple of foreign dignitaries from Paulo's side, and it promises to be great weather and lots of fun.  Paulo has ordered cakes, balloons, and a mess of BBQ large enough to feed a small medieval army.

As for me?  You guessed it. It's time for "a big one". I've been cleaning and reorganizing for almost a week already.  I set a goal of one to two rooms a day give-or-take.  That means the full scrub--moving the other-wise immovable pieces of furniture, digging out the cleaning toothbrushes, and going through about a case of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. ( Whoever invented those things was a genius.  If only they came with a few spare arms for the scrubbing.  Having a sore shoulder from spending the afternoon skeet-shooting with a 12-gauge, or rowing a canoe, or climbing a mountain is cool, but getting sore from scrubbing your sink, walls, and stove-top?  Well that's just sad.)

In any event, I am creeping steadily closer to my goal.  With a little (ok, maybe MORE than a little) help from my mom yesterday, we have reached an impressive level of clean on two floors, leaving only the bedrooms (and another week's worth of laundry) to go.  I've gone so far as to promise $2 a piece to Lexi and Spencer if they help to keep it this way until Sunday.  Yes, it's true, I am not above bribery for a good cause.

Sadly, all this cleaning and scrubbing has raised a virtual storm of dust which, in the interest of efficiency, I have dutifully inhaled and stored in my sinuses.  This isn't generally a  good idea for me.  When getting tested for allergies years ago the welt marked "dust mites" threatened to swallow half my back all by itself.  I should probably remember this and wear a mask or something while cleaning, but no, I like to live dangerously.  I take a little Zyrtec and attack.  

After several days of this kamikaze approach to cleanliness my sinuses are striking back.  They've upgraded  my minor cold-with-sore-throat to a full-fledged case of the yuckies.  Last night I found myself being asphyxiated by my own nose at around 3a.m.  For the next two hours I was up and down, tossing and turning.  This, of course, disturbed Ellie who attempted to solve the problem by pinning me to the bed with her body.  When I finally gave up and lay there, breathing raggedly through my mouth and willing her to go to sleep again, she actually clapped.  I couldn't make this stuff up.

Needless to say, we were both exhausted when the alarm woke us at 6:15.  We stumbled downstairs (almost literally) into my sparkling clean living room where I deposited  Ellie on the couch and went in search of the coffee pot in my gleaming kitchen.  As I fumbled with the pot and basket, Ellie wandered in and started to pull insistently on my shirt, trying to get me to follow her.  Grumpy but wanting to avert loud protestations, I followed her back into the living room where she pointed out that she'd like me to sit on the floor and assemble puzzles with her.

"Not right now, Ellie.  Mommy needs coffee.  First coffee, then puzzles, OK?"  I tried to mollify her with some Dora the Explorer on TV, kissed her and marched back to the coffee maker.

Nothing doing.  Two seconds later as I'm digging the coffee out of the freezer she's at my elbow again, pulling and grunting.  I try the "one minute" trick, but she's just getting more frustrated.  I follow her again, and again she insists that 6:20a.m. is PUZZLE TIME and I MEAN IT!  And again, I explain that she has to wait and offer some other toys and a different episode of Dora.  I return to the kitchen.  

As I spoon the second scoop of grounds into the filter I hear it.  Not the sounds of her stomping, crying, or protesting.  No, not that.  The girl has got my number.  If I wouldn't play right now she would show me just how she felt.  Without so much as a fuss she had opened the games-and-puzzles cabinet and was unceremoniously emptying all the bags of puzzle pieces, all the game pieces, and every other small item directly onto my clean, bare floor.  She wasn't playing with them.  No, she was pushing them around and under the couch and entertainment cabinet as if to say "There.  That, Mommy, is what i think of your clean house!"  It may be a long 18 years.  

The Things They Say: The Kid is One of a Kind

There's so much to catch up on and so little time: five days without power, an injured Cooper's Hawk, Ellie and her new therapist, an afternoon with horses....but first a laugh courtesy of Lexi:

ME:  (looking at the shape of Lexi's mouth and not seeing any family resemblance) Lexi, where did you get that mouth?

LEXI:  (without missing a beat) It's not available in stores.

The Things They Say: Let's Pretend...

Spencer has a special knack for harassing Lexi, as only little brothers can. In exasperation the other morning, she finally tried the following approach:

Lexi:  I know, Spencer, why don't you pretend to be nice now?