You are probably not as interested in irises as I am. In fact, I'm not all that interested in them. Outside of the fact that they are pretty. And some varieties smell rather nice. And they remind me of my grandmother.
Actually, that's a lot of stuff that makes it sound like I am totally interested in irises.
There are other things far, far more important. My little family, for one. My work. Friends. Neighbors. Reading Harry Potter with my 7-year-old (who wants me to call him Jay now). Taking the kids to their sports and concerts and play dates. Heading out for a play date or two of my own.
But I like to garden. I like it so much that I manage to play in the garden about once every six months. Which means that in the 8 years I've lived in this one spot, I have played in my garden perhaps 16 times. Total.
And not once have I played with my irises.
Though I did accidentally spray a few with weed killer last year. That was not pretty.
I should play with them, though. They need moving, badly, out of the shade and into the sun. Which I may have mentioned last year, in the penultimate blog post before my rather long break.
I haven't moved them. And yet, somehow, they are defying the odds. They have budded. And in another week, maybe 2, they will bloom.
In the past year, while I have been not moving my irises, Peabo turned 14. He grew 4 inches, and given that he's suddenly gotten just a little bit rounder, I'm betting we're in for a killer growth spurt this summer. He started high school, and then started again in a place that makes him so happy he comes home smiling, even on a bad day. He is also learning the best lesson I can teach him: to identify what he needs to feel safe, accepted and competent, and to advocate for it appropriately. He reads voraciously, when he's not playing video games or listening to podcasts about them. He wants to be a journalist - a video game journalist, of course - and he's starting to figure out what he needs to do to get there. I find this to be pretty darn cool.
My diva turned 11. She no longer feels the term "veggie girl" applies, and given that she's abandoned broccoli florets and will eat only the stems, she is probably right. She's also leaving elementary school for middle school in another month. And the middle school she's going to is phenomenal. An arts school that will let her explore her inner writer, actor, musician and artist. My girl can sing. Have I mentioned that? She can sing. Beautifully. She can write, too. She writes songs, her own form of poetry. And she writes stories. She is creative and athletic and still impresses me daily with her willingness to jump in head first and try something new.
And Jay, my redhead, is now 7. He is tall and wiry and still redheaded, though the color has faded just another shade closer to brown. He's figured out that his eyes look green when he wears a green shirt. He now likes to wear green shirts. He tried 2 new sports and realized that neither one is soccer. So we're signing him up for more soccer. He does all his homework without prompting, can spell like a maniac, and absolutely loves math. Loves it. To the point where he asked me recently if he could please go to a middle school that specializes in math, and did I think he was going to get into a good college? He's in 2nd grade. Clearly he is a planner.
In the past year we have also acquired a puppy, a smallish fellow named Figglebob Lloyd, or Flloyd for short. He can chew through even the super-tough black Kong toys and is generally smarter than everyone else in the house. We're trying to make him stupid so we can train him properly.
So there you have it. Peabo is smiling. My diva is exploring. Jay is planning. And Flloyd is creating just enough chaos to keep things interesting.
And my irises are blooming again.
Showing posts with label the redhead. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the redhead. Show all posts
May 12, 2013
March 4, 2012
The spice of life
A little over a year ago, my redhead was "invited" - in quotes because it wasn't exactly a request - to participate in his class's Poetry Day. He had to find a poem, memorize it, and then recite it in front of a classroom full of children and parents.
So he found a poem from his favorite book: Sandra Boynton's Snoozers.
The Big Yawn
A pteranodon
Will show off its yawn
Anytime you request it.
Both you and your chair
Could fit inside there.
Though I wouldn't suggest it.
He recited it over and over and over again, until he could recite it in his sleep.
In his sleep. Bedtime poem. Get it? Ha ha.
And because this is how these things go, Poetry Day was scheduled on a day when I had to be away on business. And his dad couldn't go. So our amazing Belgian au pair filled in and went in my stead.
And this is what happened.
The teacher called on the redhead. He stood up in front of the class - all his friends, and his teacher, and his friends' parents. And then he turned bright red and demanded that everyone leave. The teacher said no, they had to stay, but maybe everyone could close their eyes. He said okay. So the whole classroom full of people closed their eyes. He recited his poem.
And then he burst into tears.
Because I wasn't there. And because he has stage fright, in a big big way.
In first grade there's no Poetry Day. But there is a Variety Show. Entirely voluntary. My diva, a born show-woman, has been in the Variety Show each of the past three years. So the redhead knows all about it. He had no interest in performing, though. Not until we got an email from a good friend of mine, the mom of another redhead in my redhead's class, suggesting the boys perform together with another friend. I told my little guy, and he got all excited. Why? Because they were going to "Do the Mario." Literally. Two boys in Mario costumes, one in a Luigi costume, dancing for 45 seconds. In front of well over 100 loving parents, grandparents and siblings. In a spotlight, no less.
I figured he'd panic. I figured he'd cry. I figured he'd run off the stage in fear.
He didn't. He totally rocked it. He rocked it right through the dress rehearsal and two nights of performances. He rocked it in front of his brother, his mother, two of his au pairs, and the 100s of theatergoers assembled in the audience.
He's still a little afraid of zombies. And a lot afraid of the dark, though if you tell him I said that, I'll totally deny it. But he's not afraid of getting on stage and pretending to be an Italian plumber in a mustache.
Dance your heart out, kid. You make your mama proud.
So he found a poem from his favorite book: Sandra Boynton's Snoozers.
The Big Yawn
A pteranodon
Will show off its yawn
Anytime you request it.
Both you and your chair
Could fit inside there.
Though I wouldn't suggest it.
He recited it over and over and over again, until he could recite it in his sleep.
In his sleep. Bedtime poem. Get it? Ha ha.
And because this is how these things go, Poetry Day was scheduled on a day when I had to be away on business. And his dad couldn't go. So our amazing Belgian au pair filled in and went in my stead.
And this is what happened.
The teacher called on the redhead. He stood up in front of the class - all his friends, and his teacher, and his friends' parents. And then he turned bright red and demanded that everyone leave. The teacher said no, they had to stay, but maybe everyone could close their eyes. He said okay. So the whole classroom full of people closed their eyes. He recited his poem.
And then he burst into tears.
Because I wasn't there. And because he has stage fright, in a big big way.
In first grade there's no Poetry Day. But there is a Variety Show. Entirely voluntary. My diva, a born show-woman, has been in the Variety Show each of the past three years. So the redhead knows all about it. He had no interest in performing, though. Not until we got an email from a good friend of mine, the mom of another redhead in my redhead's class, suggesting the boys perform together with another friend. I told my little guy, and he got all excited. Why? Because they were going to "Do the Mario." Literally. Two boys in Mario costumes, one in a Luigi costume, dancing for 45 seconds. In front of well over 100 loving parents, grandparents and siblings. In a spotlight, no less.
I figured he'd panic. I figured he'd cry. I figured he'd run off the stage in fear.
He didn't. He totally rocked it. He rocked it right through the dress rehearsal and two nights of performances. He rocked it in front of his brother, his mother, two of his au pairs, and the 100s of theatergoers assembled in the audience.
He's still a little afraid of zombies. And a lot afraid of the dark, though if you tell him I said that, I'll totally deny it. But he's not afraid of getting on stage and pretending to be an Italian plumber in a mustache.
Dance your heart out, kid. You make your mama proud.
November 6, 2011
I Can Fly
Yesterday was the last official day of soccer. Not that there's been much soccer this season. Between the hurricane, the flooding, and the freak October snowstorm, we've had enough weird weather on the East Coast to make a case for global climate change all on our own. Which means a lot of canceled soccer games.
So today, post-season playoffs began for Peabo. Which was interesting, because my redhead is sick. He's been sick since Friday, running a fever that got slightly higher on Saturday, and slightly lower on Sunday. But we all wanted to go to the game. The weather was mostly warm and very sunny, so I bundled up the redhead and snuggled him up on my lap.
The playoffs were a bit weird. There are five teams in the league. So the 2 and 5 seeds played a 30-minute game. Then the 3 and 4 seeds played a 30-minute game. Then, after a 30-minute wait, the winners played each other in another 30-minute game. The winner of *that* game goes on to play the number 1 seed next weekend for the championship.
Peabo's team - the 3 seed - won the whole playoff shebang. On penalty kicks after their second 30-minute game ended in a 0-0 tie.
If you do all that minute math, it adds up to 90 minutes plus penalty kicks. Which meant we were there long enough for a 6-year-old bladder to need a bit of relief.
So my redhead, feeling the joy of being outside and in something other than pajamas, challenged me to a footrace to the port-o-potties. Except, when we got there, we found them defaced with bad words. Bad words he could read. So he wouldn't use them.
The local middle school, on the very far side of the very large, multi-field field, was open. So I suggested we head up there to find restrooms. Another footrace ensued. He did his business, and then raced me once again back to our seats.
Which means I ran.
In fact, I ran quite far. For me, anyway.
I hate running. Hate it like the chore that it is. I've always felt like I was slogging through pudding just trying to get one foot in front of the other. I am slow and ungainly. Running is totally not my thing.
Except today it was. I ran with my redhead, and I felt fast. I felt like I flew across that field. I even beat him, which sounds ridiculous - I mean he's 6 - but he's a fast 6, and I'm a very slow 45.
And, amazingly, I wasn't breathless. Not even a little. If you'd talked to me right then, you'd never have known I'd run anywhere.
It was awesome.
The last time I tried to run, I was red and flushed and, yes, breathless, and I very nearly passed out. I also injured my hip so badly I could barely walk and spent 6 months in pain and 6 weeks on a daily regimen of ibuprofen.
The last time I tried to run, I weighed 56 lbs more than I weigh today.
I did not feel like I could fly.
Today, I ran. And I flew.
I like being an after.
(Not that I'm going to go run a marathon or anything. I'll leave that to folks like my friend Anne at Mom & Dad Track Stars, who just finished the Marine Corps Marathon and did not throw up. Kudos, Anne!)
So today, post-season playoffs began for Peabo. Which was interesting, because my redhead is sick. He's been sick since Friday, running a fever that got slightly higher on Saturday, and slightly lower on Sunday. But we all wanted to go to the game. The weather was mostly warm and very sunny, so I bundled up the redhead and snuggled him up on my lap.
The playoffs were a bit weird. There are five teams in the league. So the 2 and 5 seeds played a 30-minute game. Then the 3 and 4 seeds played a 30-minute game. Then, after a 30-minute wait, the winners played each other in another 30-minute game. The winner of *that* game goes on to play the number 1 seed next weekend for the championship.
Peabo's team - the 3 seed - won the whole playoff shebang. On penalty kicks after their second 30-minute game ended in a 0-0 tie.
If you do all that minute math, it adds up to 90 minutes plus penalty kicks. Which meant we were there long enough for a 6-year-old bladder to need a bit of relief.
So my redhead, feeling the joy of being outside and in something other than pajamas, challenged me to a footrace to the port-o-potties. Except, when we got there, we found them defaced with bad words. Bad words he could read. So he wouldn't use them.
The local middle school, on the very far side of the very large, multi-field field, was open. So I suggested we head up there to find restrooms. Another footrace ensued. He did his business, and then raced me once again back to our seats.
Which means I ran.
In fact, I ran quite far. For me, anyway.
I hate running. Hate it like the chore that it is. I've always felt like I was slogging through pudding just trying to get one foot in front of the other. I am slow and ungainly. Running is totally not my thing.
Except today it was. I ran with my redhead, and I felt fast. I felt like I flew across that field. I even beat him, which sounds ridiculous - I mean he's 6 - but he's a fast 6, and I'm a very slow 45.
And, amazingly, I wasn't breathless. Not even a little. If you'd talked to me right then, you'd never have known I'd run anywhere.
It was awesome.
The last time I tried to run, I was red and flushed and, yes, breathless, and I very nearly passed out. I also injured my hip so badly I could barely walk and spent 6 months in pain and 6 weeks on a daily regimen of ibuprofen.
The last time I tried to run, I weighed 56 lbs more than I weigh today.
I did not feel like I could fly.
Today, I ran. And I flew.
I like being an after.
(Not that I'm going to go run a marathon or anything. I'll leave that to folks like my friend Anne at Mom & Dad Track Stars, who just finished the Marine Corps Marathon and did not throw up. Kudos, Anne!)
August 2, 2011
Now We Are 6
It's been so long since I blogged that I barely remembered my password. Well, it's been two weeks. Not really that long. Which just goes to show you how bad my short-term memory is.
And because I seem completely unable to hold onto a train of thought for longer than 30 seconds, this is going to be a bit of a random ramble.
Here goes.
PS For those who don't know, Now We Are Six is a brain-stickingly brilliant book of children's poems by A. A. Milne.
And because I seem completely unable to hold onto a train of thought for longer than 30 seconds, this is going to be a bit of a random ramble.
Here goes.
- We are on our 4th au pair in 4 months. I swear I'm not that bad a host mom. Really.
- In April we said farewell to our beloved Belgian au pair, who was with us 18 months and left as she was meant to. Then came the manny, who, well, just did not work out and left us at the end of that month. In June, we welcomed our beloved, formerly purple-haired German, whom we loved and who loved us. But a family emergency called her home, oh, about two weeks ago (oddly, that would be the last time I blogged). So, on Sunday, we welcomed a young German whose hair has never been purple. She is sweet and sincere, albeit utterly fried today. I think we are wearing her out.
- Yesterday, my redhead hugged her. I can't remember the last time he hugged an au pair who hadn't already been here for at least 3 months. He is not a kid who touches. He hasn't let me kiss him since he was 2, and I'm his mother, for crying out loud.
- He did kiss me today, though. On the arm. He never does that.
- He did not, however, let me kiss him. I asked.
- When our formerly purple-haired German had to fly home, I called my former mother-in-law in the wee hours of the morning and left a message that said, very quietly, "help." She was in her car even before I woke up the next morning. She stayed for 3 days, bonded with the grandkids, spoiled them rotten, and gave me a big giant helping hand. She rocks.
- Then we went to the beach for a whole week with an awesome mom friend and her son, one of Peabo's best buds. The kids watched lots of TV, played lots of video games, discovered the joys of hand-dipped donuts and spent hours in the ocean. It was awesome. And that's despite the constant bickering my kids subjected us to. They gave Peabo's only-child friend a lesson in sibling rivalry I am certain he will never, ever forget. I'm so very proud.
- There was no internet at the beach. Which means I got lots of sleep. And I finished Middlemarch. I'm not sure how I got through as many courses on 19th Century novels as I did without once reading George Eliot. She rocks too, you know.
- I also read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. With the kids. We haven't finished it yet: it goes kinda slowly when you're reading a few pages at bedtime every night. Reading it used to be a chore because the redhead hated it. Now he loves it. I think that's because he has a scar on his forehead (seriously, he does), and his birthday is the day after Harry's.
- Because I know you're an enormous Harry Potter fan - isn't everyone? - I'm sure you've realized my redhead's birthday was, in fact, yesterday. And that means means that my redhead, who was 5 before yesterday, is suddenly and most unexpectedly 6.
- I gave him a book that uses the word "jackass" twice. It's okay, though, because it's describing an actual jackass and the book is damned funny. We read it over dinner last night, and all three of my kids cracked up, out loud even, and the redhead's read it twice more on his own. It's Lane Smith's It's a Book. Check it out. Though if you've got any issues with introducing your younger kids to that kind of mildly cussworthy snark, you may want to hold off. My guy invented snark (we call it self-defense when you're the youngest of 3). So I'm good with it.
PS For those who don't know, Now We Are Six is a brain-stickingly brilliant book of children's poems by A. A. Milne.
July 15, 2011
Sibling Issues
One thing I've always loved about my kids is that they are a team. I've tried very hard to foster that. I think it's a significant part of my job as a mom to make sure the kids know they have each other, now and always. They lift each other up, back each other up, because that's what siblings do.
A few years ago, when Peabo was maybe 9 and his sister not quite 6, they showed me they got it. Peabo was playing his first season of basketball, which he loved. And loves. He was sitting on the bench in maybe the 3rd period, watching the game, when he spotted a gaggle of very tall middle school girls in a part of the gym where people are Not Supposed to Go. So, being the rule follower that he is, he got up from the bench (did I mention he picks and chooses his rules?) and followed them in there to tell them to leave. I didn't notice this. I was watching the game. But my diva did. She went in after her brother. Good thing, too. Peabo asked the big girls to leave. They told him no. He asked them again, because that's what he does. In fact, he insisted. They said no. One of them pushed him. And then my teeny little diva, still in Kindergarten, planted herself in front of those big scary girls and said, at the top of her lungs (and she's got really big lungs), "Don't you touch my brother! He's a GOOD. GUY."
At which point an entire gym full of grown-ups turned to look, rescued my kids, reprimanded the tween-to-teens, and went back to the game.
That's having your back, is what that is. That's what sisters do, right? I mean, my sisters do. Both of 'em. My brother, too. It's the awesomeness of siblinghood.
And I think my kids have forgotten that.
These days, Peabo is heading headlong into puberty, and I think it's changing the chemical mix that defines who he is and how he responds to his world. Some of his behaviors are suddenly things he can manage. And some are ones it seems he no longer can.
And, despite being more than three years his junior, I think his sister is in much the same boat, with puberty on the not-so-distant horizon. Which means that now, suddenly, her brother embarrasses her.
So she watches him like a hawk. Did he brush his teeth? Wash his hands? Is he chewing with his mouth open? Talking when it's full? Is he drumming or singing or singsonging? Is he dancing at the table? Is he repeating his favorite phrase ad nauseum? Which is, oddly enough, "OBAMA!" ... which just recently supplanted "WAFFLES!" ... I really don't know why.
But she hovers, waiting to catch him. Which she often does. And then she's on him like white on rice. Only it's a snide, nasty, and even physical kind of rice. Or, um, white.
Bad metaphor.
The redhead isn't much better right now. He's figured out that Peabo doesn't always listen, or that he can't. ADHD can do that to a kid. So when the readhead really wants his brother to hear what he's saying, which is usually when he's mad, and often when he's not, he doesn't just say it. He screams it. Very very loudly.
It's like Peabo's siblings are angry with him 24x7. And they have no hesitation to let him know it. They're not exactly nice about it either.
And it hurts. It hurts him, and it hurts me too.
They love him. I know they do. And I have a lot of faith that they will come back to that, and to being a team. I'm trying everything I can think of to foster that. But right now, it's not working. And while I'm blaming pending puberty for the changing dynamic, it could just be the way they're handling Peabo's kind of special right now. I've always believed having Asperger's in the family is a good thing for all of us. We learn patience, tolerance, and a new way to look at ourselves and the world. We see difference in a different way. But this is their home. And maybe they sometimes need a little less difference, and a little more same.
I've started a new thing, because the old tricks aren't working. If one of my kids says something mean to another, we all shout "Rabbit!" and then the culprit goes back and starts over, only this time she has to come up with something nice to say. Got everyone laughing last night over dinner and thinking of things they like about each other.
This morning, though, it was back to the screaming and the cranky not getting along.
Can I get a "rabbit," too?
A few years ago, when Peabo was maybe 9 and his sister not quite 6, they showed me they got it. Peabo was playing his first season of basketball, which he loved. And loves. He was sitting on the bench in maybe the 3rd period, watching the game, when he spotted a gaggle of very tall middle school girls in a part of the gym where people are Not Supposed to Go. So, being the rule follower that he is, he got up from the bench (did I mention he picks and chooses his rules?) and followed them in there to tell them to leave. I didn't notice this. I was watching the game. But my diva did. She went in after her brother. Good thing, too. Peabo asked the big girls to leave. They told him no. He asked them again, because that's what he does. In fact, he insisted. They said no. One of them pushed him. And then my teeny little diva, still in Kindergarten, planted herself in front of those big scary girls and said, at the top of her lungs (and she's got really big lungs), "Don't you touch my brother! He's a GOOD. GUY."
At which point an entire gym full of grown-ups turned to look, rescued my kids, reprimanded the tween-to-teens, and went back to the game.
That's having your back, is what that is. That's what sisters do, right? I mean, my sisters do. Both of 'em. My brother, too. It's the awesomeness of siblinghood.
And I think my kids have forgotten that.
These days, Peabo is heading headlong into puberty, and I think it's changing the chemical mix that defines who he is and how he responds to his world. Some of his behaviors are suddenly things he can manage. And some are ones it seems he no longer can.
And, despite being more than three years his junior, I think his sister is in much the same boat, with puberty on the not-so-distant horizon. Which means that now, suddenly, her brother embarrasses her.
So she watches him like a hawk. Did he brush his teeth? Wash his hands? Is he chewing with his mouth open? Talking when it's full? Is he drumming or singing or singsonging? Is he dancing at the table? Is he repeating his favorite phrase ad nauseum? Which is, oddly enough, "OBAMA!" ... which just recently supplanted "WAFFLES!" ... I really don't know why.
But she hovers, waiting to catch him. Which she often does. And then she's on him like white on rice. Only it's a snide, nasty, and even physical kind of rice. Or, um, white.
Bad metaphor.
The redhead isn't much better right now. He's figured out that Peabo doesn't always listen, or that he can't. ADHD can do that to a kid. So when the readhead really wants his brother to hear what he's saying, which is usually when he's mad, and often when he's not, he doesn't just say it. He screams it. Very very loudly.
It's like Peabo's siblings are angry with him 24x7. And they have no hesitation to let him know it. They're not exactly nice about it either.
And it hurts. It hurts him, and it hurts me too.
They love him. I know they do. And I have a lot of faith that they will come back to that, and to being a team. I'm trying everything I can think of to foster that. But right now, it's not working. And while I'm blaming pending puberty for the changing dynamic, it could just be the way they're handling Peabo's kind of special right now. I've always believed having Asperger's in the family is a good thing for all of us. We learn patience, tolerance, and a new way to look at ourselves and the world. We see difference in a different way. But this is their home. And maybe they sometimes need a little less difference, and a little more same.
I've started a new thing, because the old tricks aren't working. If one of my kids says something mean to another, we all shout "Rabbit!" and then the culprit goes back and starts over, only this time she has to come up with something nice to say. Got everyone laughing last night over dinner and thinking of things they like about each other.
This morning, though, it was back to the screaming and the cranky not getting along.
Can I get a "rabbit," too?
March 19, 2011
Kiss Me, I'm Irish
I celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Despite the hefty dose of Dutch in my blood, there's still a wee dram o' Irish in there, and a great big dram o' Irish in my kids. Their dad is just one generation removed from the green hills of Skibbereen, and while he's not so into the shamrocks, I've taken it upon myself to give my kids a healthy appreciation of their Irish-Americanness.I celebrate St. Patrick's Day with food, of course, because that's how I celebrate everything. If it doesn't involve a big meal, it's simply not a celebration. Giant, comfort food holidays are the bomb. I'm a particular fan of giant, comfort food holidays that are also dirt cheap. Give me five pounds of potatoes, a big bag of carrots, a fat head of cabbage, a hefty slab of corned beef, some Dijon mustard and a fine bottle of Guinness, and I will give you a St. Patrick's Day meal that could make banshees cry. Though, um, they do that already.
It also makes my kids cry. They each like exactly one thing in this meal, and absolutely nothing else. Hence the tears. The redhead eats the meat (with ketchup), my diva eats the potatoes, and Peabo - surprisingly - gobbles up the cabbage. No protein in cabbage, so I'm not sure where that comes from. And that's St. Patrick's Day. Big crock pot full of cheap eats, and everyone wears green. No big bouncy bunny handing out baskets full of jelly beans and chocolate. No soot-covered fat man in a red suit passing out gifts. No magic. Just corned beef, cabbage, and kids clad in green.
Except there's supposed to be leprechauns. I didn't know about the leprechauns.
The night before St. Patrick's Day my redhead was apopleptic because he doesn't have any green pajamas. Apparently there were leprechauns coming, and if he didn't have green pajamas, they'd pinch him in his sleep.
At which point I did what any good mother with a freaked out kid would do. I said they weren't real.
Wait, did I say that was a good mother move?
What I was supposed to do, as it turns out, was find the kid some green pajamas, then meet the leprechauns downstairs and help them throw sofa cushions on the floor, dye the milk green, and leave a trail of coins. When you don't know this, though, the little green guys play a trick on you and do nothing at all, leaving you with one deeply disappointed five-year-old the next morning.
So I said they weren't real. I put the kid to bed in brown pajamas. And I ruined the magic.
Did you know about the leprechauns? Because in my day it wasn't leprechauns who did the pinching. It was any budding masochist amongst your group of besties who caught you greenless. I guess in this day and age, that would be considered bullying. So pinch-happy friends have been replaced by leprechauns. Yes, even in school.
Which I found out when the redhead came home, full to bursting with news.
"Mom!" he shouted. "You were wrong! They are real!"
And he told me about green footprints on the windows and tables in the classroom, chairs upended, and chocolate coins everywhere.
The leprechauns couldn't find him at home so they came to his classroom instead.
Magic.
And next year, I'll be able to help. Food and magic? Why that's almost like Christmas.
February 28, 2011
Gelukkige Verjaardag
Today is my amazing au pair's birthday.** Or, it was, when it was still today. Given my night owl habits, I think it's tomorrow already.
Birthdays in our house start just one way. With breakfast. Big, gooey, fabulous breakfast. When the diva and the redhead go birthday happy, their preference is always - always - chocolate chip pancakes. And for Peabo it's all meat, all the time. What can I say, the kid likes his protein. Usually he wants sausage and bacon and more sausage with a bit of cheese on an English muffin and a hefty dose of cinnamon rolls on the side to satisfy the little tiny sweet tooth he's been burdened with.
This morning, we made a birthday breakfast for our au pair. And that meant I was up early. Earlier, in fact, than I wanted to be, because my kids take this tradition so very deeply to heart.
The first hit was at 6:00 a.m. On the nose. A full hour before I'd set my alarm to ring.
"Mom! Mom!" That was Peabo. "You wanted to make breakfast for our awesome au pair!"
"Yes, and I will," I mumbled. "But I'm going to go make it after my alarm goes off. Okay?"
He went to go watch the news. It's his latest thing. He tapes the news at night, then watches it in the morning, and we talk about it at dinner. That's pretty cool. (Albeit totally beside the point. But you wanted to know, right?)
Then came the Diva. Who got the same response.
"Okay. Then I'll go make her a card." So she left, and my redhead climbed out of my bed and followed her. (Wait, how did he get there? I missed something. I musta been sleeping.)
Then the dog - remember the dog? - went berserk. Can't sleep when there's barking, so I woke up and got to cooking.
For my au pair: Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs. Raspberries. All on a tray with a pretty napkin and lovingly handmade cards from the two who like to make them. We tried to feed her breakfast in bed, but it's hard to get everyone ready for school when they're watching someone else eat, so we wound up with a big, family breakfast at the table, with manners and everything.
I so totally love that.
This is her second birthday with us. When she came to the U.S., she was 18, and more mature and responsible than most fully grown grown-ups I know. Now she's 20. Still mature, and nearly a fully grown grown-up herself.
Of the many, many wonderful au pairs we've had, she's the first who stayed with us for more than a year. She fits into our family as though she were born to it. I don't know if it's the hint of Dutchness in her Belgian self that clicks with the hint of Dutchness in our American family. Or maybe it's her experience with Asperger's, which she has in spades.
The best of our au pairs have been far more than just daycare providers. They were - and are - family. And this au pair, she is just that. Family. A big sister to my kids, a friend to me, and in many ways the daughter I'd have had if I'd started my family twenty years ago instead of twelve.
In just over a month, she goes home to the family who raised her, who made her this special and entrusted to her us. My kids and I owe them a great, big, giant thank you for that.
We call her Chuck, because Peabo likes it that way.
Gelukkige verjaardag to you, Chuck. You're the best birthday gift ever. And we are gonna miss you like crazy.
**Published nearly a week late because, well, you know. Timeliness is not exactly my strong suit.
Birthdays in our house start just one way. With breakfast. Big, gooey, fabulous breakfast. When the diva and the redhead go birthday happy, their preference is always - always - chocolate chip pancakes. And for Peabo it's all meat, all the time. What can I say, the kid likes his protein. Usually he wants sausage and bacon and more sausage with a bit of cheese on an English muffin and a hefty dose of cinnamon rolls on the side to satisfy the little tiny sweet tooth he's been burdened with.
This morning, we made a birthday breakfast for our au pair. And that meant I was up early. Earlier, in fact, than I wanted to be, because my kids take this tradition so very deeply to heart.
The first hit was at 6:00 a.m. On the nose. A full hour before I'd set my alarm to ring.
"Mom! Mom!" That was Peabo. "You wanted to make breakfast for our awesome au pair!"
"Yes, and I will," I mumbled. "But I'm going to go make it after my alarm goes off. Okay?"
He went to go watch the news. It's his latest thing. He tapes the news at night, then watches it in the morning, and we talk about it at dinner. That's pretty cool. (Albeit totally beside the point. But you wanted to know, right?)
Then came the Diva. Who got the same response.
"Okay. Then I'll go make her a card." So she left, and my redhead climbed out of my bed and followed her. (Wait, how did he get there? I missed something. I musta been sleeping.)
Then the dog - remember the dog? - went berserk. Can't sleep when there's barking, so I woke up and got to cooking.
For my au pair: Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs. Raspberries. All on a tray with a pretty napkin and lovingly handmade cards from the two who like to make them. We tried to feed her breakfast in bed, but it's hard to get everyone ready for school when they're watching someone else eat, so we wound up with a big, family breakfast at the table, with manners and everything.
I so totally love that.
This is her second birthday with us. When she came to the U.S., she was 18, and more mature and responsible than most fully grown grown-ups I know. Now she's 20. Still mature, and nearly a fully grown grown-up herself.
Of the many, many wonderful au pairs we've had, she's the first who stayed with us for more than a year. She fits into our family as though she were born to it. I don't know if it's the hint of Dutchness in her Belgian self that clicks with the hint of Dutchness in our American family. Or maybe it's her experience with Asperger's, which she has in spades.
The best of our au pairs have been far more than just daycare providers. They were - and are - family. And this au pair, she is just that. Family. A big sister to my kids, a friend to me, and in many ways the daughter I'd have had if I'd started my family twenty years ago instead of twelve.
In just over a month, she goes home to the family who raised her, who made her this special and entrusted to her us. My kids and I owe them a great, big, giant thank you for that.
We call her Chuck, because Peabo likes it that way.
Gelukkige verjaardag to you, Chuck. You're the best birthday gift ever. And we are gonna miss you like crazy.
**Published nearly a week late because, well, you know. Timeliness is not exactly my strong suit.
February 20, 2011
Too Osum Mom
My five year old wrote that. On the back of an envelope. It was for me. See? "To Awesome Mom."
It totally made me cry.
He's been in Kindergarten for just over 100 days, which I know because he and my au pair recently counted out precisely 100 Honey Nut Cheerios and brought them to school on the 100th day. A hundred days of learning means he can read like a pro. He knows letters have sounds. That one O makes an "awe." That two Os make an "oo."
Now he's using those sounds to write.
And he thinks I'm awesome. Or, you know, osum.
This is the kid who greets me after school with a happy "Hello, cute mama!" Who never thinks that one hug is enough because he'd rather have five. Who curls up in my lap in his fuzzy mornings and sticks his finger in my bellybutton. The kid's a morning-hater, like me, and I love him for it - enough so that I forgive the wacky bellybutton thing.
He's also five. Inside the envelope was a heart that he'd written on and colored on and then cut up to make a puzzle. He was beaming when I finally put it together. He wrote, "I love Mom. Mmmmm!" I guess because I'm yummy. And then he drew a brown me and a blue him and a whole bunch of decorative brown circles. He read me the words. Then he pointed at the pictures. "That's you. And that's me. And look, I'm pooping!"
He's pretty osum too. Poop and all.
It totally made me cry.
He's been in Kindergarten for just over 100 days, which I know because he and my au pair recently counted out precisely 100 Honey Nut Cheerios and brought them to school on the 100th day. A hundred days of learning means he can read like a pro. He knows letters have sounds. That one O makes an "awe." That two Os make an "oo."
Now he's using those sounds to write.
And he thinks I'm awesome. Or, you know, osum.
This is the kid who greets me after school with a happy "Hello, cute mama!" Who never thinks that one hug is enough because he'd rather have five. Who curls up in my lap in his fuzzy mornings and sticks his finger in my bellybutton. The kid's a morning-hater, like me, and I love him for it - enough so that I forgive the wacky bellybutton thing.
He's also five. Inside the envelope was a heart that he'd written on and colored on and then cut up to make a puzzle. He was beaming when I finally put it together. He wrote, "I love Mom. Mmmmm!" I guess because I'm yummy. And then he drew a brown me and a blue him and a whole bunch of decorative brown circles. He read me the words. Then he pointed at the pictures. "That's you. And that's me. And look, I'm pooping!"
He's pretty osum too. Poop and all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)