Not exactly according to plan

Today I went on a field trip with Big Dog's class.  He's been complaining that I spend a lot of time with Little Dog's class and not much time with his class.  And if I was seeing things from his perspective, he'd be absolutely right, so I needed to fix that.  Today's field trip was a half day trip to the Seattle Tilth to learn about gardening.  Not far from work, not a full day and on a day where my schedule was pretty easily rearranged, it sounded just about perfect.  I dropped the boys off at school in the morning, went to work for a few hours, then headed over the the school to meet up with the class.

With several other parent chaperons and a teacher, who I believe is among the finest teachers I have ever had the pleasure of meeting (he's truly amazing!) we managed to herd 23 eight-year-olds from school, to the bus stop, on and off of the Seattle Metro bus and into the playground near the Good Shepherd Center where the Seattle Tilth is located.  Upon our arrival, the kids were told to find a seat at the picnic tables and eat their lunches after which they would have a little time to play before heading to our class.  They had barely cracked into their lunches when a man approached the group and asked us to please collect up our lunches and follow him.  To the adults he mentioned that he was the principal of the Meridian school, a private school in the same center as the Seattle Tilth, and that the school was currently under lockdown at the request of the Seattle police.  He asked us to come with him quickly to the gym where our group would be safe and would be able to observe the lockdown as guests of their school.

The children packed up with amazing speed despite having no idea (or anxiety because they had no details) about what was going on.  We ushered them into the gym in an orderly line and we locked the doors behind us.  We settled in to finish our lunches and as we waited the principal asked for a few of the adults to come into the hallway so he could explain the situation without upsetting the children.  If you were in Seattle today, you probably already know what happened.  A man entered a local cafe and opened fire, killing two people on the scene and injuring three more.  He then fled, still armed, into the neighborhood, which was not terribly far from where we were standing.  The public schools in the area were all on lockdown, the police were conducting a door to door search of the area, and we were here in the gym of a private school waiting for more information.

I don't know if you've even been through a lock down or even a lockdown drill, I sure hadn't.  In a lockdown, you just sit quietly and wait with the doors locked, windows closed and a furious anxiety raging through all of the adults.  You can't play, you can't make noise, you can't even talk.  You just wait.  Quietly.  Until they tell you that you can stop.  The kids managed it exceptionally well.  Someone brought in books for them to read and others played silent games of Rock, Scissors, Paper while the parents all sat, focused on their smartphones either texting our spouses about our safety or constantly hitting reload trying to get new details from the outside that would help us feel safer.  I don't know about the other parents, but whenever someone knocked on the door, I jumped.  I couldn't help but obsess over what would happen if someone did get into the school, how would I keep my child safe and how would Dave and Little Dog handle the situation if something did happen.  I looked for things that we could hide behind and considered the safety of our position relative to the windows should shots be fired from outside.  And I waited. Needless to say, the waiting was excruciating.

After a while, someone from the Seattle Tilth came to into the gym and started a very quiet introduction to the gardening program to help pass the waiting time.  The children were all exceptionally well focused  and gave polite but enthusiastic answers to his questions.  A few minutes into the presentation, we were given the all clear.  The police had lifted the lockdown in this area and we were able to resume our regular schedule.  The children, who had all behaved so well, were allowed to have 10 minutes on the playground and then we all learned a bit about gardening and worms.

The shooter was found much later in an entirely different neighborhood, the dead were identified and the life for the rest of Seattle went on.  I'm still shaking.

Don't Stop Believing (They're trying to drive you crazy!)

Anyone who hates Journey, as I do, should be given the opportunity to listen to your kids belt out "Don't Stop Believing" in the back seat of the car on a sunny day in Seattle.  It won't make you love Steve Perry, but the little voices singing about the "small town girl, living in a lonely world" is overwhelmingly sweet and the sunshine is making you giddy as you drive near the water watching the boats.  It might even make you comply with their demands to turn it up.  And if it is a summer day in Seattle, you'll probably have the windows down.  You might turn it up a bit to appease your tiny singers, but soon they'll demand again, "Turn it up, mama!" and maybe, if you're like me, you'll say something like, "Hey, the windows are down and I don't want people to get the wrong idea.  I'm way too cool for Journey.  This is your thing."  But they'll persist and maybe you'll be sucked into turning it up a bit more.  And then that last demand will come, in my case, from Little Dog, "Turn it up, really crank it up, mama!"  And you'll ask, "Why?  Do you really love Journey so much?"  to which he'll reply, "No!  I want to humiliate you!  They'll all think you love it!"  followed by a wicked cackle.  Or maybe that's just my kids.  Hard to know.

Life on a treadmill

Lately the boys have both been mildly obsessed with fitness.  While sitting in a waiting room, Little Dog picked up a copy of Men's Health and told me he wanted to look like one of the guys photographed shirtless to show off his bulging muscles.  "I want to be a muscle man.  I'm going to need some weights," he told me.  And this has been mentioned several times since.  Big Dog has been similarly interested in hitting the gym and getting in his exercise as part of a new fitness points system his gym teacher introduced.  It is all kind of amusing, and I hope that if they express this interest now they'll be better at establishing more lasting fitness practices than I have as grew up.  Setting new healthier lifestyle practices gets a lot harder as you get older.  Or so I have discovered.

See, recently I've been trying to get myself on a better track.  While I was on sabbatical this fall, I doing Pilates at a local studio.  It has become an obsession.  At the same time, I reintroduced running to my routine.  I've made several attempts to get back into running over the past year, but have never been 100% successful.  The thing is that I don't like to run outside.  I prefer a treadmill.  And if I restrict myself to a treadmill, I have to find time to hit the gym.  That isn't quite as easy as it should be.  If I try to use the gym at work, I have to shower and get dressed before returning to work, and that paired with my busy meeting schedule and the fact that some of my co-workers don't have any issues with scheduling meetings right over the traditional lunch hour makes it pretty easy to put off.  If I try to use the treadmills at the YMCA, I have to go when the kids can go the the childcare area and depending on the mood of my more tempestuous younger son, that doesn't always work out.  It also means that we are limited to weekends since trying to get to and from the gym after work makes for a crazy day.  And let's not forget that I don't actually love running.  It is just an efficient method to get some exercise.  I don't get the runner's high and I don't run for the pure joy of running, so if it isn't convenient, I don't find myself properly motivated to make it happen. 

The solution was easy.  Get a treadmill at home.  If it is right here more or less staring at me, I'll be more likely to use it.  And it has been true more or less.  What I didn't bank on was the boys catching treadmill fever.  Last weekend as the boys watched TV, I slipped downstairs for a run.  I had almost finished when Little Dog came into the bedroom.  
"Can I have a turn?" he asked.
"Sure, just let me finish," I said, expecting that he'd give it a minute, get bored and that would be that.

I was wrong.  He got on and ran. And ran and ran.  He'd occasionally switch from running into a glee-filled skipping and hopping pattern.  He worked up a little sweat and when he finally decided to stop, I told him he could Big Dog and let him have a turn if he wanted.  And boy did he ever. 
Big Dog chose a more traditional running gait, but he kept demanding that I push up the speed.  Then it became competitive.  They wanted to be the faster runner of the two.  They wanted to run longer than the other.  They were loving it.

Last night after listening to the boys beat each other senseless as brothers often do, Mr. Dog suggested they go for a run on the treadmill.  They were giddy.  Again, the joyful running and brotherly competition kept they busy and tired them right out.  They may have the goal of getting "super fit" and having "lots and lots of muscles" but my goal is simply to tire them out.  If they happen to get all muscled up in the process, I'll count that as a happy byproduct.  And maybe a tiny bit of their excited running enthusiasm can rub off on their old mom.

Big Brother

And by Big Brother, I don't mean the kind that watches over you, just the kind that tortures you if you happen to be the younger child.  In our house, that's Big Dog.  But in this house, Big Dog is at a bit of a disadvantage.  Both Mr. Dog and I have older siblings so we have repeatedly warned Big Dog that we are familiar with the special kind of abuse younger siblings receive  from older siblings.  It may not be physical, but usually it ends up with someone getting thumped.  Thinking back on my childhood, I remember vividly long series of irritations that pushed me to my limit and ended up with me punching my sister then getting punished for hitting while she, as the victim of my brutality, sat smugly by watching her plan come cleanly together.  I have promised as a mother that, while I will not support the thumping of an annoying older sibling, when it comes time for punishment, the annoyer will be treated with the same level of seriousness as the annoyee.  Last night I realized that the era of torment is in full swing in our house.

See, last night we had dinner with friends at their house.  While they have moved since last time we'd visited, their household is known for having cats.  Cute, furry, lovable cats.  It made it easy to motivate the boys to get their shoes on and get out the door for an on time arrival.
"Little Dog, come put on your shoes."
"No!"
"Don't you want to see the kitties?"
And suddenly there he was slipping on his boots.

"Let's go to the car."
"Wait, I just want to do one more thing..."
"Don't you wand to see the kitties?"
And there both boys were, ready to rush out the door.

We had dinner, and later the boys played with their new DS games while the adults sat at the table talking.  It was so civilized (well, apart from the technology related meltdowns and a few sibling issues, but let's ignore those and pretend it was all perfect loveliness since our hosts didn't seem at all upset by the outbursts.)  At one point, Little Dog's DS ran out of batteries, so I let him play games on my iPhone to keep him happy.

As they started to get cranky, we decided it was time to take the beasts boys home and said  our thanks for the dinner and conversation.  In our somewhat disorganized effort to get out of the house, Little Dog left his DS on the floor.

We were no more than 5 minutes away when Big Dog called it out.  "Where is Little Dog's DS?"
I looked in my pockets, Mr. Dog did the same and we realized that it was left behind. 
"I'll call them tomorrow and pick it up for you.  Don't worry." I assured him, but clearly that was not enough.  Little Dog, who was already tired and overly emotional, started to wail.  Tomorrow was too long.  Why couldn't I just get it now?  He couldn't possibly spend the rest of the evening, which mostly consisted of going to sleep, without it.  And he started to spin up into a bit of a tantrum.  Back in the world of reality, by the time I got home, I'd already received an email from our friends saying they had the DS and we could come pick it up in the morning, no problem.

Once we were home and my efforts to soothe Little Dog were showing some positive effect, Big Dog stepped in. 

"I sure hope the cats don't eat your DS, Little Dog."  Little Dog wails.
"The cats won't eat a DS. Stop it," I warned.
A pause, then another jab.

"I hope the cats won't scratch your DS up, Little Dog."  Another wail from Little Dog.
"The cats have no interest in the DS.  Mike has the DS.  I'm sure it's safe.  I'll get it in the morning."
A pause, then a new approach.

"I sure hope they didn't knock out the game cartridge.  It sure would be a bummer if you lost your game, Little Dog."
"Stop it.  Be quiet.  One more word about the possible demise of the DS and I'll give him yours."
"But he still wouldn't have his game.  Would you Little Dog?"
Now I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't just messing with Little Dog this time.  And I'm not even his younger sibling.

Family, our way

This time of year my Facebook feed is filled with photos of families doing holiday appropriate activities.  Children dressed up for the annual trip to the ballet, in mud boots for the great Christmas tree hunt, in aprons baking up holiday cookies and bundled up in the snow or on ice skates savoring the winter sports.  A lot of family portraits are being posted with everyone spiffed up and smiling.  Some are professionally taken, other are snapshots of everyone gathered around the tree wishing us all a Merry Christmas.  Seeing this constant stream of holiday perfection can make me feel like maybe I don't take this whole family thing seriously enough.  Maybe we aren't really making an effort to have all of those picture perfect family moments or maybe it's just that frequently our moments are more frenzied and less photo ready.

Sometimes I look at these photos and start to worry that we aren't doing enough, then I stop and remember that I actually know the people in these photos and for every Christmas card quality photo they post, there was probably at least one child meltdown or sibling battle that wasn't documented for mass consumption.  I can pretty safely assume the trip to the ballet was preceded by a long period of maternal nagging to brush hair or put on shoes and there is a good chance there was a fair amount of cussing as the family, immortalized as perfect in the photo, cruised the parking lot looking for a place to stow the car in time to rush to the performance before the curtain went up.  This smiling child on skis was probably up at the crack of dawn disturbing the parents' slumber long before any sane person is ready to rise and possibly refused to eat any of the breakfast that they requested but then rejected because the edges of the pancakes were too brown or the egg yolks were too runny.

As deceptive as the photos can be, there are no perfect families. Trust me.  That revelation is liberating. As soon as I let that go, I can more easily appreciate the oddness and chaos of my own kith and kin. We may have some photo perfect moments, but those are frequently surrounded by Little Dog decorating his body with bold designs drawn in marker probably predicting some future disposition to tattoos.  The best smiles in our snapshots were often achieved not by saying "cheese" but "underpants," the word that seems to constantly amuse these little men.  There is no trip to the ballet for our boys, yet, but the exuberant dancing to grandpa's choice of Christmas music is really more our speed, even if we are told "Don't look at us!"as soon as we start watching the performance, (but we do, just more covertly).

Some of our best family bonding may be centered around the new batch of apps grandpa downloaded for the boys, including the one that makes giant fart noises that were followed by the squealing laughter of my small monsters.  We may not have made holiday cookies, but the boys did have some sort of competitive crafting event going in the kitchen at grandma's house. Each time a family member was given a finished item from one boy, the other would rush back to the work table to furiously create another item for the same person. By the end of the first evening, I was the proud owner of about a half dozen book marks and a small zoo of pom pom animals with a varying number of eyes.

We have Santa photos, but how many other families have the special holiday memory of their 5 year-old poking Santa's belly to "see how jolly he was".  Well we do.  And trust me, I'll cherish that memory for years to come, even is Santa was somewhat less enthusiastic about the event.  We'll also remember Big Dog's impassioned lobbying that perhaps this year, instead of opening presents on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, we could open all of the presents on Christmas Eve morning.  Though he was unsuccessful in attaining his goal, we may well have a future lawyer on our hands. Let's just hope he uses his powers for good, not evil.

We'll weather the sibling battles, the potty talk, the occasional yelling and in the end the memories that float to the top, the ones that persist, will be nearly as picture perfect as those in my Facebook feed.

Indoctrination

If you start planting the seeds when the kids are young, you can control their minds.  Ok, not often, but sometimes it works out.  Either that or I am simply taking credit for my child's excellent taste.  Let me explain.

Today I took the boys to get their hair cut at Rudy's.  While waiting for Big Dog to finish up, they started playing The Clash.  Should I Stay or Should I Go to be precise.  At which point Little Dog demanded my attention.  "It's my favorite song!" he said enthusiastically, then started singing along.  Next up was Rock the Casbah which he mistakenly called "Rock the Jazz bah" but still enthusiastically approved.  He's been a fan of the Clash for a while now, so I'm not really surprised. 

The other day on the way home from school, I asked Little Dog if he wanted to listen to some music.  He did.  He asked for a specific song, Blitzkrieg Bop by the Ramones.  As we talked about the music and and listened to a few other songs, Little Dog told me that was his favorite band.  Who can blame him?  The Ramones are awesome.  But thinking back I believe I may have laid the early groundwork for his very classic punk taste in music with his first Halloween costume.   You decide.

My very own, punk rock baby circa 2006

Eight

What did the zero say to the eight?  Nice belt.  Get it? (joke as told by Big Dog)

As of today I am the mother of an eight-year old.  Unbelievable.  You'd think year after year I'd get used to the seemingly breakneck speed with which these birthday arrive, but each new age seems to come up faster than the last.  I wonder if I'll ever feel prepared when the birthdays arrive, and somehow I doubt it.

Happy birthday, Big Dog.  It's been an amazing 8 years.  I look at you now and I see such a big kid. You are always game to try new things and never shy to share your opinions.   You are compassionate, fair-minded and kind, but you like to see things turn out in your favor and will sometimes take steps to manipulate the outcome to your advantage.  Many times, because you are so sweet and charming, people don't even see it coming which leads your grandma to suggest you will either earn a living as a lawyer or a con man, and the more I see you in action, the more I tend to agree.

As you get older I am enjoying watching you learn about the world.  Our conversations in the car on the way to school show me how your mind works and it makes me so proud.  The other day our discussion about homelessness nearly brought me to tears.  You care so deeply about others it moves me.

I love your sense of humor and I know you pride yourself on the ability to make people laugh.  You love telling jokes, even if they don't always make sense, quoting lines from TV or movies and physical humor is a big part of your routine.  In fact, it has become almost impossible to get a photo of you without making a face or rocking some kind of ridiculous pose.  I guess it is payback from all of those years I did the same thing to my poor dad.

This year has not been all easy for you.  You've been moodier and more easily frustrated.  It's like you're beginning to understand that the world doesn't revolve around you and you aren't so happy about it.  Your temper is quick, just like mine, but you don't seem to hold grudges long. I've had a chance to see glimpses what awaits me in your teenage years, and I am bracing myself.

The past year you've discovered your love of math, chess and soccer.  You still love school and have surrounded yourself with a good group of friends.  I'm so happy you seem to choose the nicest kids to be your buddies.  Bey Blades and your DS seem to be your favorite toys, in fact you're obsessed with them.  Makes me wonder what it will be next year.

You still love your pets, your parents and your brother, though you two seem to fight more now than in the past.  As he tries to take control more often you seem to try to override him which seems to lead to more blow ups than before.  I'm sure this will work itself out in time, but I still see you being gentle and caring enough with him that I don't worry too much about you two.

I love you big guy.  I'm so proud of you and can't wait to see where this next year takes you.
Happy birthday, I love you like crazy.

Rude Awakenings or The Case Against Bunk Beds

Yesterday was pretty action packed, so that might have been the cause.  We started with Big Dog's soccer match, then a trip to Toys R Us where Grandma bought Big Dog his birthday present and Little Dog got a microphone (not sure this was a great idea in retrospect, but he seems to be enjoying it...a bit too much perhaps).  After that it was off to Costco where we stocked up on pajamas and the boys had hot dogs for a late lunch.  By the time we got home, there was a little time to play with the new toys before we headed off to the Seattle Sounders match.    That's a lot for two little men, and for their mom.

We made it through the game and back home.  When got back home they were even tired enough to fall asleep quickly.  Or at least that's why we thought they fell asleep.  We were proven wrong about 45 minutes later when Little Dog woke up crying.  And then we heard the splash sound.  And another.  Yep, he was awake and vomiting.

Mr. Dog and I sprung into action, I got Little Dog out of his dirty shirt and into the bathroom, poised near the toilet just in case there were more stomach contents that were waiting to escape.  I started to strip the sheets while trying not to lose any of the already lost chunks.  If you've ever tried to change the sheets on an upper bunk in the dark without waking a sleeping child on the lower bunk, you'll understand the acrobatics involved.  I was just getting the first sick-spattered pillow off the bed and into the washer when Mr. Dog was working on cleaning the splatter up off the floor.  That's when he discovered the mess was worse than expected. 

Not only had he filled his sheets and dosed the floor in vomit, he'd also given his brother a vomit hat.  We're still not sure how he managed to vomit so precisely on his brother's head and pillow on the lower bunk, but there are larger questions here to ponder.  How did his brother manage to sleep through it?

And the eye rolling begins

I tend to think of young school age children as still being part of the parental fan club. It's not supposed to be until they reach the teen or at lest tween years before they no longer believe we are cool. Or at least that is what I've been fooled into believing. I think this may come sooner than we had anticipated.

This week after one of his ever multiplying number of soccer practices (that's a whole other topic I should write about, but just not right now) Big Dog was excitedly telling Mr. Dog about the drills they ran. In one of the games, Big Dog was explaining that each of the boys involved had balls and that he would kick the other guy's balls then the other guy would kick his balls. (I think you see where this is going, right? If not, you are a better person that either o the so-called adults in this family.) Mr. Dog listened attentively but I can only imagine the grin that was working the way across his face. Finally after listening to the mutual ball-kicking explanation for longer than any man with a slightly absurd sense of humor should be asked to endure without comment, Mr. Dog said, "Wow, that sounds painful!"

Big Dog paused, and in his best exasperated with the nonsense of the adults he is forced to live with voice said, "Papa, what kind of balls do you think I'm talking about? Soccer balls!" Then rolled his eyes in a way that silently but effectively conveyed  "You are a buffoon, your joke isn't funny and I can't believe you have once again dragged me down to this level. Your humor is beneath me."

Between that and the recent spate of dramatic tantrums, I think we have a glimpse of what's to come.  And let me tell you, at least the annoying your own kid part of it is kind of addictive.

First days

Wednesday marked the first day of Seattle Public Schools for the 2011-12 school year.  We'd been counting down for a while, but those last couple of weeks seemed to fly by at an accelerated rate leaving me running around the house looking for the school supplies I'd purchased over the summer early that morning instead of my more usually uptight routine of getting everything prepared and organized the night before.  Despite my lack of order, I did start the morning with the tradition of homemade cinnamon rolls, so the boys awoke to a house that smelled of yeast and spices instead of the sound of an alarm.  I figure that's always a good way to start a new adventure.

Big Dog was up and dressed first.  He loves school and his countdown to the first day was more of an excited exercise in patience.  He looks forward to returning to the classroom the way most kids look forward to the first day of summer, and while I may not have had the same experience in my education, it is a joy as a parent to have your child up, dressed and geared up to go with plenty of extra time with no coercion or nagging required.  Granted, he didn't decide to dress himself in the picture-ready outfit I'd selected, opting instead for his KEXP t-shirt with the "I power KEXP" engine drawing and a pair of grey shorts, so he could look like his favorite Mario Karts character, Robotio.  But I guess when they get old enough to care about what they wear you have to let them choose, even if it isn't quite what you'd choose for them.

Little Dog was not quite as excited.  Despite spending the previous morning at the school volunteering with the PTSA to help him warm up, he was nervous.  He did get up and dressed once the time came, but it was with some apprehension that he prepared for his day.  The night before we'd had a talk about school and he once again told me emphatically that he hated school.  I tried to remind him that kindergarten was very different from his preschool, that kindergarten was a place for big kids to learn and grow and that his preschool just wasn't ready for a kid who wanted to learn so much.  I asked him to keep an open mind and try to think of kindergarten as a new thing, something exciting and fun.  He promised he would after his brother piped in reminding him that his teacher, Mr. Z was "really cool and funny". 

I packed the boys and their bags of school supplies, their lunches and their backpacks into the station wagon and Mr. Dog followed us in his car.  Once we arrived we decided to head to the classrooms and drop off the heavy loads of supplies straightaway then hit the playground before first bell rang.  When the bell rang, it was time to drop the kids at their classrooms.  Since one classroom was on the 1st floor and the other on the 3rd, this was a situation that required us to divide and conquer.  Mr. Dog asked Little Dog which parent he'd like to have drop him at his classroom and to both of our surprise he opted for Mr. Dog.  I handed the camera to Mr. Dog and took Big Dog upstairs where after getting into his seat and allowing me to take a couple of photos with my phone, Big Dog told me it was time for me to go.  He was all settled and I should leave.  Talk about feeling useless. 

I got one more peek at Little Dog in his classroom before I headed off, feeling slightly sad that I was now a mother of two school aged boys.  There was something more substantial about the drop off for my baby than I remember about Big Dog starting school, but I can't really say why.

At lunch I volunteered in the lunchroom.  Those first weeks for kindergartners are challenging.  Even just opening all of the things found in a typical lunch can be a struggle, so I opened juice boxes, string cheese and fruit leather packages.  I took lids off of lunch containers that were tricky for little hands and I fetched forks, spoons and napkins for those who needed them.  Little Dog only asked once to go home with me, but after I explained the he still had more school he accepted it and I left as he headed out to the playground.  On my way out of the building, I crossed paths with his teacher who told me that Little Dog had been testing the rules a little, not always listening and sometimes doing just the opposite of what he was asked to do.  I told him that sounded a lot like Little Dog and gave him some suggestions on what works best for our little challenge.  I also crossed paths with Big Dog's teacher who gave him a glowing review.  He's so cooperative and works very hard!  Not surprising there either.  Teachers love Big Dog, he's a teacher-pleaser by nature, but it is still nice to hear.

When I picked the boys up from their after-school program I talked to the director who I have grown to know pretty well over the past few years.  He told me that Little Dog had a bit of a meltdown when he first arrived, but it passed quickly.  They weren't really sure what had caused it but he was fine now.

I collected him up and told him we were going home and that he could just sit quietly and watch a cartoon if he wanted.  He gave me a GIANT hug and told me I was the best mommy ever (something that always makes my heart swell- in a good way, not a needs-antibiotics way).

On the way home I asked how he liked school, half expecting a poor report, a lack of desire to return and a plea to stay home with me instead.  You can imagine my surprise when he said, "Best day ever.  I'm happy this is my new school!"  Just as Big Dog did, he talked a lot about Mr. D, the PE teacher (remind me to do something nice for this man who has made both of my boys so happy on their first day of kindergarten!) but when pressed for specifics of the day in his classroom also couldn't remember the details.  Apparently the drinking water at this school contains some sort of powerful amnestic that causes children to be unable to provide satisfying color commentary on their days away from their parents.  Or at least that's my theory.

We had two more days this week, each day received a similar rating, though there was a bit more of a fight getting out of the car for morning drop off on Friday.  It has been refreshing considering my assumptions that this would be a similar battle to our old preschool days.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the new challenges and more structured learning will continue to keep him engaged and happy.  I've also decided to make a change in my approach to school.  I'm not going to be the mom who digs for insight from their teachers.  I'll be there to support the boys, I'll volunteer and if asked, I'll help solve issues that arise for either boy, but I'm not going to be the mom who is constantly mining for issues either.  I'm going to assume that Little Dog is somewhere in the range of normal when it comes to adapting to kindergarten and also assume that his teacher is skilled in managing that adjustment.  I won't let myself worry that he is going to be difficult or be traumatized by his experiences.  In other words, I'm going to stop looking for trouble.  I think it might be the healthiest thing I've decided in ages.

Anxious

I'm counting down the days to the first day of school.  Next Wednesday Little Dog starts kindergarten and Big Dog starts 2nd grade.  And while this is stressful enough on its own, I'm also starting an adventure of my own.  My sabbatical, during which I plan on finally writing the book I've been talking about for a few years now.  Not for any reason other than I want to do it, but it's still anxiety inducing.  See, I'm not always good at finishing what I start and in this case I'm a little worried that I might give up in favor of laying around enjoying the freedom to do nothing.  To ensure I don't choose the path of ultimate slack, I've been telling people my plans.  I figure if everyone who knows I'm taking a sabbatical also knows that I'm supposed to be writing a book on this sabbatical, I'll feel the pressure to produce a book.
So I'm counting down.  And next week, next Wednesday I'll be dusting off my long abandoned first chapters and getting down to work.  Wish me luck.  Oh, and wish me a little luck with the first day of school stuff too.  Little Dog has a tendency to make this sort of thing a little more "interesting" for me.

Well I'm not eating THAT for dinner

In Big Dog's after school program they bribe the kids into their best behavior.  I'm not opposed to it, with that many kids I think you use whatever tactics work.  Hell, with two kids I resort to bribery more than I care to admit.  But that's not what this post is about.  At any rate, in the after school program, kids who behave are rewarded with "Club Bucks" (also known as buttons) and at the end of the week they can buy prizes from the Club Store.  One week when I picked Big Dog up he was clutching his newest prize.  He held it out for me to see, excited about the green tube. 
"Oh!  It's a water weenie!" I exclaimed, reminded of toys from my youth.
"Mama!  That's so inappropriate!" I was immediately scolded.
"No, really, that's what we called them!" I tried. Turns out that's not what they call them now.  In our more modern world, they're called water snakes (which just sounds like a euphemism if you ask me).  But Big Dog was having none of my explanation.  I even got the Director of the after school program over to back me up on this.  Which thankfully he did or Big Dog would continue to think I'm even more twisted than I actually am.

Fast forward a couple of months.  Last night for dinner I served homemade maple baked beans with chicken sausages (at least for the boys, I passed on the sausage being a vegetarian and all).  Kind of a modern, slightly upscale version of beenie weenies from when I was a kid.  As I was serving up the plates I decided to shock and horrify Big Dog all over again.
"When I was a kid we had a special name for hot dogs and baked beans served together," I said. "Can you guess what we called them?"
He thought for a moment, looked me right in the eye and said, "Penises?"
Um no.  But that shut me right up.  And anything I could say after that kind of lost its impact.

The Great Northwest

Although he was born in San Francisco, Big Dog has spent the vast majority of his life living in Seattle.  Little Dog was "Born in Ballard" as the billboards for the hospital where he entered the world proclaim.
While I seem to have left my heart in San Francisco and still consider it home after living apart for the past six years, I guess I need to come to terms with raising little Seattelites.

Because we live in the Northwest, my kids take vitamin D supplements in the dark winters since the sun just isn't going to cover it.  My kids get warm easily and don't complain when the house reaches what I consider deeply unacceptable temperatures.

Earlier this week, when the sun just peeked out for the first time in ages, the boys both demanded to be dressed in shorts.  When I dropped him off at a school the following, significantly less sunny day, Big Dog bemoaned his coat being way too warm and voiced his strident demand for a spring weather coat. 

Yesterday, when I picked Big Dog up from an after school playdate with a friend, I found him jumping into the backyard wading pool fully clothed.  The temperature at the time was in the low 60s, but the sun was out so I guess it is to be expected.  I can't say I understand this entirely, but the playdate host's own child was in a swimsuit and had initiated the pool being filled in the first place.

While I can't understand this and have no need to strip to my summer gear as soon as the lightest ray of sun appears, I can be a mother who allows her Northwestern children to follow their primal needs.  I will not be jumping in the wading pool with them any time soon, but if they have that urge, as long as it won't leave them sick or injured, I guess I can enable that.  If they long for shorts even on spring days, as long as they don't complain about being cold, I'll allow them to dress as though they're on vacation in Hawaii.

There is one thing that I cannot allow.  One thing I must prohibit.  One thing I find morally objectionable despite their Seattle influence.  I cannot let them wear socks with their sandals.
(though technically the past two days I have)

What the future holds

This morning when I went upstairs to get the boys dressed, they were having a big career talk.  As soon as they saw me they couldn't wait to tell me their plans.
"We're going to be super spies, mama!" said Little Dog.
"With handcuffs and flashlights and magnifying glasses," added Big Dog.
With some sense of despair in his voice, Little Dog then added, "There are so many things I want to be when I grow up, but I'm going to have to pick being a spy."
"I want to be different things too," said Big Dog.  "I mean, it's my dream to be a spy, but it's also my life long dream to be a PE teacher."
"That is a dilemma," I agreed with as much compassion as a mother can have when her son says he might have to back down from his career aspiration of becoming a gym teacher.
"But I guess I have to pick," he says.
"Well, now most people have more than one career over the span of their working life," I offered.  "Maybe you'll have time to do both."
"Or maybe I can do them at the same time!" he said with more enthusiasm.
"Sure, I'll bet there are a lot of PE teachers who are spies in their off hours," I agreed.
And the boys were back to their big talk of spy necessities in no time.  Thank heavens I'm not paid to be a career counselor.

Big Dog and the report

A few weeks ago, Big Dog came home from school with his weekly homework.  This time, on top of the homework there was an additional sheet of instructions.  Their first report.  Each child had to write a report on a topic of their choosing.  In keeping with this being a first grade report, the work was outlined clearly and put into a format a compatible with a younger kid's style.  The report will consist of 6 pages, a cover sheet (decorated), a title page with the title and the author's name, a one page creative story using facts about the topic, a one page fact sheet, an illustration and a page of references used to learn about their topic.  Pretty simple, not much hard work to it. Or so I thought.
I'll be the first to admit that I lost track of the assignment sheet and put off working on this project until what may be considered the very last moment.  That said, given the scope of the work it was completely do-able in the short time I left for it.
Big Dog picked a topic, red-eyed tree frogs.  He got a book from the library at school and together we got a couple of additional books from the public library.  He enjoyed that part of the work.  He enjoyed reading about tree frogs.  He enjoyed reading to us about tree frogs.  He enjoyed spouting newly learned facts about tree frogs. However when it came to sitting down and putting this work into a report, it was like pulling teeth.
First we did the cover page.  He used his best writing to title the cover and even embellished it with a dramatic tree.  One page down.  The title page was also completed quickly.  Two pages down, four to go.
And there we stalled.  I asked him to write a story, he stalled.  We brainstormed things that he knew about tree frogs.  We talked about what things might happen to a tree frog on any given day.  Finally, he was ready to tell me his story.  And the story was great.  It used lots of facts about tree frogs, he had a snake attack and an escape.  Since he was stalling so much at getting it on paper, I let him dictate to me.  I had him sound out the difficult words and tell me what punctuation was needed, so if you wanted to get all technical, I didn't really give him any of the work that needed to be done.  His task was to transcribe this copy into his own writing after we'd completed the fact sheet.
We followed the same format for the fact sheet, and he'd quickly filled a page with interesting tidbits about tree frogs.  Then came the references.  At this point, it should be simple.  While it may not be fun, he only needed to sit down and copy.  And we've been stalled at this stage for about an hour.  My head may explode if he doesn't complete it soon.
In classic staller form, he has been too tired, too hungry, too distracted to complete his work.  Then came my favorite excuse.  His hands were too itchy.  I'm sure we'll get this done by the end of the evening, but what should have been the least taxing part of the exercise is not testing my sanity.  I can hardly wait for the next 11 years of reports that await him.

Compassionate

The other day when I was driving Big Dog to school, he asked me a question. For whatever reason he'd asked "How old are you mommy?" Since it didn't make sense in the discussion we were having I was  not sure I'd heard him correctly, so I said "What?"
Without missing a beat, he asked again, with a slight modification, "How young are you mommy?"
What a sweet kid.

How low can you go?

Though it wasn't the original floor plan, our house was a duplex when we bought it. In the process of making the house back into a single family home, the living room has ended up on the upper floor.  At the top of the stairs there is a glass-paned door that opens onto the room. For some reason the boys love to play right inside the door. What this means on a very practical level is that when I enter the living room I usually step on small plastic objects that hurt like nothin' else when trod upon. I'm sure this is some kind of payback from the days when my father claimed my Fisher Price people procreated during the night then spread themselves around the house just to injure him. But I digress. I have learned to enter the room carefully. I suspiciously survey my passing before I take the first step off the stairs. And still I frequently fall prey to the ninja-like toys waiting to fell me.

Today, after making multiple trips up and down the stairs to bring the boys beverages, refreshments and accompany them to the restroom, I finally did what I should have done earlier. I asked them to pick up their toys out of this specific location. It really wasn't an unreasonable request.  See, they weren't using them. The boys were on the sofa on the other side of the room. I also had some leverage to ensure compliance with my request. I was on the way downstairs to get fresh hot slices of homemade banana bread.

It was not surprising when I returned that the toys were picked up. I thanked the boys and distributed the baked goods. My feet were no longer in peril.  Not long later I made another trip downstairs. When I came back up, Big Dog was building his Darda track. Guess where. Yep, right in front of the stairs.

On my next trip downstairs, I carefully stepped over the abandoned track then paused, "Hey, Big Dog, could this find another home? Can you move it over there?" I asked, indicating a free spot on the floor several feet from the door.
"Why?" he asked, naturally inquisitive and also not inclined to move things if I don't have a good reason.
"Because I just asked you to pick up your toys so I could go up and downstairs to fulfill your every food and drink related requirement, and you did.  But then you just go ahead and set a booby trap!" I say as I head down the stairs.

I think I'm about five steps down when I hear the snickering. I immediately know what he's thinking.
"You know that doesn't mean it has anything to do with boobies!" I shout back up the stairs. And the snicker turns to laughing. I'm pretty sure he doesn't believe me.

My week in bullets

Too lazy to write an introspective or even entertaining post, thought I'd just resort to summarizing my week in a sentence fragments preceded by bullet points.  It's kind of lazy but it gets me putting words on the page. So here it goes.

• Spent the weekend recovering from strep. Hadn't had strep in years, rediscovered just how much it sucked.  It really really hurts.  Took the better parts of three days to feel better even with the antibiotics.

• Recovered just in time to fly to San Jose to participate in a management training program.  Downside, training covered stuff I already knew and wasn't really all that good at covering it.  Upside, met another sarcastic, dog loving manager who helped me cope.  Now I'm even looking forward to the next session.

•  Grandma was able to come up and stay with the boys while I was out of town because Mr. Dog is working crazy person hours this week.  Really, he's getting home at about 1am every night.  Thanks Grandma!

• Came back to a massive backlog of email and stacked up work.  And emails from Little Dog's preschool teacher requesting a conference.  Apparently all is not well in shorty-ville.

•  Put the boys to bed at night while Mr. Dog was at work and played single mom in the mornings so he could get a little sleep after his long nights.  I'm exhausted.  I have no idea how real single parents do it.  I think they all deserve some kind of award. 

• Had the teacher conference at preschool and now wonder if I have made a massive mistake leaving Little Dog there all this time.  Not sure they get my little guy at all.  Trying to decide whether I pull him out now and put him someplace else until summer or if that would be worse than trying to cope until we can move on to summer camp before kindergarten starts.

• Got the call that Big Dog was sick at school, picked him up with a stomach ache.  He ended up vomiting when we got home.

• Picked Little Dog up to find out he'd had diarrhea during the day.  Worried that he was getting sick, I fed them both a mild dinner and hoped I wouldn't be revisiting the meal later that evening.

•  Kept the boys home despite the fact that they both were acting well.  I figured better safe than sorry.  Worked from home as the boys caused a general ruckus in the background during every phone call and ran me ragged with demands any time I wasn't on the phone. 

•  Was fooled into thinking they were both well, then Big Dog started complaining of stomach pains again.  Then threw up.  Multiple times.  He's still not feeling well.

•  Looking forward to tomorrow when Mr. Dog won't be going back to work in the evening and maybe I can be allowed to sleep in.  This week was kind of a suckfest, I hope the next one is better.

And yes, I'm kind of a whiner.

Happy Campers

As summer approaches I have to start thinking about what the boys will be up to while I'm at work.  Since Little Dog will be starting kindergarten in fall, and since he so desperately wants to be done with his current preschool, we won't be using the easy way out of having Big Dog join the summer program at Little Dog's school like we did last year.  Instead, I'm working out an elaborate schedule of week-long summer "camps."  Day camps, they aren't quite ready for overnights.  I'm also planning a few weeks in which I'll stay home and at least one that they'll spend with Grandma and Grandpa (because Grandma has asked, not because I'm forcing them.  Just want to be clear on that.)
I'm looking at the YMCA, the program that runs Big Dog's after school program, a fancy private school nearby, a local soccer program, the zoo, and just about any other place I can find that might interest the boys.
On the way to school one day while I was just beginning to think about summer, Big Dog was complaining about his Writer's Workshop program at school.  Turns out that he hates writing.  HATES writing.  While I personally don't understand how someone can hate writing, I tried to explain that while he may not enjoy it, writing can be fun.  I tried to tell him that no matter what he decides to do later in life, being able to write well will help him in ways he can't imagine.  He didn't seem to buy it, but he tolerated my motherly wisdom as much as you can expect an 7 year old to do.
I suggested that maybe we could find a summer camp that would help him love writing.  Like a drama camp where he could write plays that people get to act out, or a creative writing camp where he could make up stories like he used to write in preschool-thinking that maybe the Writer's Workshop focuses too much on telling his personal story writing about his life for him to find it interesting.  He didn't think so.  He hates writing he reminded me.
"What do you like?  Science?" I asked, because he talks about being a scientist frequently.
"Math.  I like math.  And science, but I really like math."
"Well, maybe we can find you a math camp," I said, not believing the words coming out of my mouth.  See, I've always been more of the arts and drama type.  Math camp would have been my idea of torture, but as soon as I said it, his eyes lit up.  He was excited.
"They have that?" he asked.
"I don't know, but I think so.  I'll have to find out," I answered not even knowing where to begin looking. And the search has been tough.  Guess what, even people who put on camps think that 7 year-olds aren't interested.  Apparently 9 is the golden age for math camp.  Before that I can find pirate camp, sports camp, reading camp, writing camp, drama camp, crafts camp even science camp.  I can find cooking camp, geography camp, zoo camp and so on, but no math camp.  And the one math-y camp I did find that he would be able to take, a "Math Crafts" camp, was already full.  In February!
So after a few weeks of hunting, I had to break it to him.  In the car on the way to school, I told him, "Big Dog, I'm having a really hard time finding math camp.  There are tons of other cool camps, but no math camp.  I'm sorry."
"That's ok," he replied, "Can I go to science camp then?"
As soon as he said it, Little Dog spoke up, "Yeah!  Science camp!"
"Sure," I answered, "There are all kinds of science camps.  What kind of science camp would you like?"
"I want science camp with experiments," said Little Dog immediately and with 100% certainty.
And I am back on the hunt.

Good morning. Well, kind of.

I am not a morning person.  By nature I am a night owl and a cruel twist of genetics has landed me two night owl children.  It is a struggle to get them into bed, and once they're in bed I have to fight my own desire to stay up late and enjoy the quiet of a sleeping house on my own.  Left unattended I will easily stay up until 1 or 2 am not doing much of anything.
When I started working in software development, I thought I'd found a perfect match.  Sure I had an hour long commute, but our team rarely showed up in the office before 10 am and many of us were nocturnally inclined.  I frequently left the office long past dinner time having been fed by my employer since many of us worked long hours. 
Motherhood is not for night owls.  Babies wake at odd hours and you need to grab the hours of sleep they allow you whenever they may come.  Prolonged sleep deprivation can twist your nature to sleep as soon as your baby sleeps, even if that's earlier than you've ever been to bed in your adult life.  And for me it did.
When they got a little older the boys would stay up late then sleep in in the morning.  We were not the first family in to daycare in the morning, but we were frequently the last parents at pick up.  My days still skewed later and since software developers seemed to abhor early mornings were less hectic and meetings rarely started before I arrived at the office.
Then work changed.  We started working with international teams.  In order to create even a little overlap we scheduled meetings at 8 and 9 am.  Not every day, but the intrusion into my slow-moving mornings was definitely noticed.  My team grew, more morning meetings were scheduled, 7:30 am, sometimes 7 am.  I could do these on the phone from home, and usually in my pajamas.  Rushing the boys out of the house could happen after the meetings and as painful as they were, it did not greatly shift my morning routine, just added a bit of a hump.
Then Big Dog started public school. The mornings start at a set time.  A mandatory start time.  And it wasn't that it was early, it was just that it was out of the house, to a designated location at a hard start time.  This meant planning and coordination.  And since Little Dog goes to another school, in a different area of town there is a lot of ground that needs to be covered before I finally arrive at the office. But if I kept the hour from 8am to 9am open, I could manage.
Then I started working with teams and customers in Europe.  Now almost daily I am on the phone at 8am.  I need to be dressed and ready to go before I call in, though sometimes I am muted, putting on makeup while I participate in my meetings.  The boys must be shuffled while I am paying attention to the business on my phone.  There is no easy workaround.  I have scheduling conflicts that I cannot simply shift.  Next year, if Little Dog is able to go to Big Dog's school (thanks Seattle Public Schools for adding this as a stressor in my life) my pace can slacken slightly.  Oh how I look forward to that slackening.  This pace is pretty painful.