Bits and Pieces

Whew. Busy week. Planning, hosting, shopping, driving ... it all makes for a thin margin of time to write.

But, still plugging along with Project Life, I have been taking pictures! Here are a few bits and pieces of life this week:

1. The girls spent a couple hours one afternoon making an amusement park out of cardboard boxes for their dolls. Caroline's doll is all strapped in with a duct tape seatbelt and crash helmet here (which she definitely needed). Just one more reason to nominate the inventor of duct tape for a Nobel prize.

2. As you know, we love listening to audiobooks in the car. Our latest "read" is The Magician's Elephantwhich I frankly enjoyed much more as an audiobook (the narrator is faaaaabulous, dahling) than as a read-aloud. And I say that as a Kate DiCamillo fan. I just didn't love the book the way I have others of hers ... but the audiobook won me over.

3. We attended a wedding reception for our friends Joseph and Joanna (yup, Joe and Jo!) on Sunday afternoon. Caroline is always eager to be photographed with the bride. Maybe she's hoping the romantic aura will rub off on her? That girl seriously scares me sometimes with her eight boyfriends (all older and sweetly disinterested in her none-too-subtle designs on them). 

4. I've been purchasing books/curriculum and digging reusables out of boxes like a crazy woman. And, this week we attended orientation for our Classical Conversations group. I came away both exhilarated ... and overwhelmed. The mass of STUFF to organize, file, laminate, put in page protectors, review with the children, and remember each week is not for the faint of heart, my friends. And, my inner introvert wanted to curl up among the couch cushions and suck her thumb, as is typical when we're in large groups and the Inner Extrovert has to drive for a while. That said, I'm so impressed by the other mamas involved in this group. They're kind, reassuring, and apparently quite productive.

5. I'd promised Ashley, my 11-year-old niece, that I'd show her how to make a duct tape wallet way back in June. Well, with five days left before school starts for her, we got it done! Then she and her sister and cousins (my girls) had a duct tape crafting extravaganza. See point #1 concerning  the Nobel Prize.

Happy Weekending, everyone! 

P.S. Fellow Texans, this is the weekend to shop for school supplies tax-free. Even if you homeschool like us, you still need a few pencils and markers on hand, n'est-ce pas? 

Ramona Quimby, Age 8. I Mean ...

... make that Eliza Diller. The Age 8 part is right on the money, though!



During the Week of Extreme Busyness and Blog Silence, we celebrated the eighth anniversary of our beautiful girl's arrival in this world. Happy birthday, Eliza!

It was her year for a party (parties on even-numbered years; special outings with a friend on the odds), and she wanted her talented improv teacher to come as Penelope Foolish. We obliged. It was our first year to hire out the entertainment, but let me tell you, it was so worth it. All this tired mama needed to do, aside from purchasing a few supplies, was provide the food.



She requested for her birthday the following: A Bible. And an ice cream making ball. She received both. The Bible kind of speaks for itself (and my mom got it monogrammed!). But the ice cream ball? Is awesome in a totally different way. We've made three batches already in her quart-sized ball, and they. were. scrumdiddlyumptious.

Birthdays are the best, don't you think?

Happy Monday!

My littlest gal is sportin' some fancy new footwear.

Mothers of girls, please tell me I'm not simply the victim of a psychiatric illness. Exhibit A: I love buying  clothes for my girls. With great difficulty, I restrain myself -- and buy most items secondhand. Exhibit B: I hate buying them shoes. Summer shoes are fine; we do very little that can't be accomplished in a pair of cute flip flops or tennis shoes. But fall/winter footwear? This eats my lunch. Kicks my hiney. Because unlike boys, girls cannot simply have a single pair of high-quality shoes that covers 95% of their life situations. And I feel like having at least one pair of shoes that offers arch support and decent longevity PLUS cuteness in is important. (And yes, I'm aware that having this dilemma in the first place is a luxury denied to millions of mothers worldwide.)

So we breezed into the local shoe store intent on finding a pretty yet practical shoe for the fall, one that would go with dresses and jeans if they would ever consent to wear them, and Caroline sees this pair on the shelf. Instantly, that pair is THE PAIR OF CHOICE. No other pair even received more than a passing glance. She assured me that yes, she would wear these with everything and yes, she would tie them herself with no complaints. Apparently, these are to shoes what Truman is to boys. End of story.

I envy her that decisiveness. Her sister is more like me, the decision ever eluding her, the possibility of some other, better, choice out there constantly plaguing her. "Whatever you think, Mom," she told me after we ran our eyeballs over every single pair in the store and proceeded to leave, unsatisfied.

They're like that with their newest project, too. Caroline was bound and determined to learn to knit, and her God-bless-the-man-for-his-abiding-patience daddy finally sat down and taught her. Five days later, she had this:

Notice the quantity. Notice the expanding rows of stitches. Notice the holes -- but remember she's four.

Eliza, not to be outdone, asked for a lesson. Her work now looks like this:

One works slowly and carefully. One's fast and loose. The yin and the yang. They complement one another to perfection.

Only Look at ME, Mommy

Sometimes, I'm a little slow. A little dense. A little thick in the head.

(But only sometimes. The rest of the time, I'm positively catatonic.)

Recently I spent weeks alternating between wringing my hands over my middle child's behavior and wanting drop-kick her to the moon at certain moments -- figuratively speaking, of course. It seemed like her chief form of recreation was to go out of her way to irritate her little sister, who consistently rewarded her with some juicy shrieks and angry tears.

I know you don't believe me. No one believes me. People who don't live at our ranch are totally convinced that this child is sweet and mild-mannered ALL THE TIME.

MU HA HA HA HA!

Anyway, we had conversation after conversation along these lines: "Eliza, what do you get out of provoking your sister?" "Ummmmm ... it's fun." "Well, please find some way to have fun that doesn't beat our family sanity to a pulp." But we weren't really getting anywhere. And the wee one, she don't take nuthin' lyin' down.

A couple weeks ago we went down to the Austin Parks and Recreation Department to see our friend Bethany receive a Life-Saving Award from the City for saving Caroline's life. Of course, the very nice folks there also made much over our little miracle child and her big brother, The Hero.

A suspicion began nagging at me. You know the whole Middle Child Syndrome thing? I started to wonder how it might feel to be sandwiched between the Miracle Child and the Hero. And what if the Miracle Child also spent hours every day creating artistic masterpieces and reaping appropriate amounts of attention for it? And what if the Hero also had a dominant personality? Hmmmm.

I shared my thoughts with a group of friends and they suggested I do a little investigation. So, that very evening, my girl and I went for a walk. And we talked, about whatever she wanted to discuss. And somewhere on the next street over, I asked her the whole drowning crisis had been for her. The conversation lasted about two minutes and featured the words, "Well, from my perspective ..." coming out of her mouth. And I kept a straight face when that happened. And then reminded her how special and important she was to us. And that was that.

It's funny how, when kids challenge our patience, sometimes the thing they need most (time alone with us) is what we least feel like offering. But y'all, I am here to bear witness. For the entire week after that little walkie-talkie, my child sprouted angelic wings. Fairy dust practically sprinkled her path. Harmony reigned in our home, as if a tropical weather front had blown in. Maybe it was the conversation. Maybe it was the one-on-one time. Whatever it is, I'm ready to make this a tradition.

Long live the Sunday evening walk!

Help for the Chronically Distracted

So every morning, my kids have this Morning List they're supposed to work through. You know -- the brushing of the teeth, the clearing of the dishes, the putting away of pajamas, etc. Basic life skills.

And still, after all these years, my Girl gets, more often than not, completely off track. It drives me wonko-wonko, as a close relative would say.

Today I tried a different approach, when I caught her lollygagging yet again.

"Darling Child. Let's imagine that the steps of your Morning List are stepping stones in a straight path across a river. On the other side is a river bank, where you can run and skip and climb trees if you desire. In other words, free time. Now, you can take two hours to cross the river and and have no time on the river bank, because we have to leave the house at a certain time. Or, you can step right off those stones and land in the river. Or, you can put one foot right in front of the other and hop, skip and jump right across that river. Whaddya think?"

Oh, my friends. It was like MAGIC. We were so, so focused on stepping over those stones to that river bank. We even stepped on the Putting-away-the-Silverware stone, and the Help Mama Dust stone. Lollygagging? The word simply vanished from our lexicon.

Now let's just see if it works tomorrow.

Oh, and by the way? My mother-in-law and I took the five cousins out to Terra Burger for lunch today, since they have a sprinkler area on their playscape.

Here's a picture I took, just so you know what I'm up against. You figure it out.

Please send psychiatric help. Thank you. 

Maybe It Does Take a Village

Yesterday after a swim date with some wonderful friends on the other side of town, we braved the Friday afternoon traffic and crawled back toward our side of the river, aiming for the dojang where Eliza was testing for orange belt in taekwondo. Oh! This much-anticipated test was the subject of not inconsiderable anxiety. Especially when she realized that, having worn her swim suit when leaving the house, she had no undies to wear under her uniform for the test.

The following conversation took place between my friend Nicole (mother of Eliza's BFF, resident of a house closer to the dojang than my own, and contender for Most Easygoing Friend on the Planet) and me via text. Go ahead and crucify me for texting at red lights. I needed this one to be under the radar in case it didn't work out.

Me:  Emergency! Could we borrow a clean pair of underwear? Eliza has a belt test at three thirty and traffic is not conducive to us going home first. She's upset.

Nicole: Sure!

Me [Feeling super abashed]: Terrific. How possible is it for u to meet us there by three thirty this traffic is terrible

[Wow. Awesome grammar.]

Nicole [Three minutes later, with three kids in car]: On my way.

Girlfriend literally pulls up to the dojang, thrusts the tidy whities out the window to me, laughs, and takes off, while I rush them over to a tearful girl.

An hour and a half later, we have a beaming, brimming-with-confidence orange belt in our midst.

Coincidence? I think not.

I also think that Nicole deserves some sort of medal ... or maybe a delicious strawberry shortcake cake delivered to her front door. What do you think?

The Magic of Seven

"When you ask me how old I am tomorrow when I wake up, I will say, "SEVEN," my beautiful girl announced the night before, slipping into a clean pink nightgown.

"Gueth what?" the normally shy girl who's missing her front teeth asked the clerk at the checkout counter. "My birthday is in two days and I'm going to be SEVEN." Or THEVEN.

I can't help but love that about her. She was fine with her presents, but has never been a squealer. She cheerfully accepted the fact that it's not her year for a party (we alternate birthday parties with special outings with a friend, and this is her Special Outing year). She wanted to frost her own cake with her cousins, and the results looked loving, but not professional (she is her mother's daughter). But above all, the point was that she had now crossed the threshold into a brand new year, full of newfound maturity and promise.

At what point, between ages seven and thirty three, will that feeling pass?

In the meantime, she can stand as tall as she wants to.

P.S. In the photo, Eliza and her doll are wearing their birthday outfits, handmade for them by Shelli of Butterfly Egg Designs (we know how I am about sewing clothes; thank goodness there are gifted people out there). Shelli did a rush order for me at no extra charge and did a bang-up job. Hooray for Shelli!  Hooray for supporting work-at-home moms!

P.P.S. You can find another story about my girl's birthday rite of passage here.

The Way We Were

Do you ever wonder which of your children's personality quirks are already permanently packed into the suitcase they'll carry with them into adulthood?

For example, Eliza loves to make pancakes. She'll stand at the griddle, flipping 'til the cows come home. She's a feeder, that one. If given the chance to watch cable, she chooses the Food Network. She soaks up whatever wisdom Rachael Ray, Sandra Lee or Lidia Bastianich has to share. I'm totally in favor of this interest flowering for years to come. Or would that be "flour-ing?"

Then there is her four-year-old sister.

I know, with a pang of regret, that the days of things being "ri-dick-lee-ous" are numbered. One day, I'll realize with a jolt that it's now "ridiculous" and have no idea when that started, and I will be tempted to weep, as I was when her baby feet thickened into toddler feet or her breath stopped smelling like milk.

But it's hard to fathom that she'll ever stop being the person who asked for, and received, a set of real tools and a workbench for her fourth birthday. Or the girl who jealously guards her low-temperature glue gun. Or the child who, yesterday at the chiropractor's office, seized upon the February issue of Martha Stewart Living and ended up asking the receptionist to photocopy two pages' worth of projects for her to take home.

I've learned, conventional bedtime wisdom aside, that when it's eight fifty five and the girl asks for a piece of paper and her scissors, it's the better part of valor to JUST BRING HER THE DARNED SCISSORS and her snip herself into somnolent oblivion, rather than waste ten minutes on tears and high drama.

I've also learned that we cannot read If You Give a Pig a Pancake at that magic hour. For one thing, meltdowns ensue over her longings to own a Polaroid camera YESTERDAY. For another thing ...

Well, here's the story with which the shell-shocked Professor greeted me when I arrived home from tonight's tutoring session:

In a flurry of prebedtime activity at the craft table, Martha Junior could not open the bottle of tacky glue on her own. Rather than employ a minion for the task (remember, the Chief Minion was out), she thought "What would The Pig do?" (cue lightbulb to left of head), remembered the line, "feeling sticky will remind her of her favorite maple syrup," and headed for the fridge. One entire squeeze bottle of real maple syrup later, she had her adhesive surface ready for glitter. Why not just liquefy a wad of cash and use that?

So if you find us slathering a batch of Eliza's pancakes with tacky glue by the end of the month, you'll know why. Blame it on her little sister, that little sister whose soft, warm cheeks I need to go kiss right now, as if kisses could keep them just so for a little longer, beyond this too-brief breath of time.

It's not about winning

I love this about Eliza.

At the AWANA Games on Saturday, some of the most savory aspects of her personality were on display, proving that you can be a natural optimist without being a laid-back person.

This child is NOT about speed. We just don't do anything fast. So imagine, if you will, a human train of six little girls, racing other groups around a large circle in the middle of a gymnasium. My daughter is, inexplicably, positioned at the forefront of this group. As other groups jog more or less in sync around the circle, Eliza, beaming, leads her train in a WALK. The the other girls are bunched up behind her, trying to step on the gas, but their fearless leader continues to walk. Parents beside me are shouting, "Eliza, RUN!" but apparently all she can hear is that "Gosh, people are shouting MY name! Hurray for me!"

She was the picture of blissful innocence. And later that day, while Ian complained about his "horrible" performance at the games (his evaluation, not based upon fact), Eliza responded cheerfully, "Well, I must be pretty good at the games, because everyone congratulated me afterward!" Pause, then afterthought: "Even though we came in fourth place [out of four]."

What's not to love about that attitude? I so hope she hangs onto it, that ability to just enjoy the experience and accept her best effort as an unqualified success.

Let's be honest, she gets it from her father. Whereas with my son? All I can say is, we're in this journey together, buddy.

Popovers

Well, I may have scored points with that coordinated outfit yesterday, but tonight I was definitely in the doghouse. The princess was weepingly furious with me since I declined her demand to suspend all dinner preparations and retire with her to read more chapters of The BFG. Can you imagine??? Truly, I am running Stalag 13 here.

There seemed no way out of this sobbing quagmire until she submitted her next demand: to cook something. On her own. With no recipe.

We compromised: She could wear her own apron and do the baking, but she needed to follow a recipe under my gentle guidance from her very own cookbook.

Out came Pretend Soup.



Following the pictures and simple instructions that I read aloud to her, she was able to assemble a fine batch of whole wheat, slightly under-puffed, popovers.

Behold the pastries that saved our dinner hour.

And then some sugar 'n' spice

And THIS is how you know you've got a real, live five-year-old girl on your hands.

For one thing, on her first day of co-op, when her teacher asks the group to make a friendship web out of black yarn, with each of them telling one reason why they're special, she confides, quite seriously: "I'm special because I am a princess."

Her daddy has indoctrinated her, despite her brother's efforts to the contrary.

As we all climbed into the van today, the princess immediately noted my outfit. "Oh, Mama! Your necklace matches your shirt perfectly!!!" she exulted.

Flowered top: Four dollars at neighborhood consignment shop.

Beaded multi-strand necklace: Ten dollars at Ann Taylor Outlet.

Knowing your daughter finds you presentable: PRICELESS.