Seriously. I’d even vacuum up all the poop pellets.

Tacy and CJ almost never go to bed on time.  And it’s not usually because they’re delay fish.  Instead, it’s Kyle who is reluctant to stop doing whatever it is he’s doing and hurry along the bedtime process.

Of course I could step in.  Sometimes I do, but usually only to say, “It’s WAY past your bedtime!”

You think I’m kidding?  As I type, it’s 8:37 and Kyle just informed CJ that he’s not giving her a bath, but he is going to brush her hair, and she is shrieking so loud that she probably woke up the toddler two doors away.

All day long, CJ proudly shows off how she can tell time by reading aloud the numbers on the clock over the stove.  “It’s one-one-two-zero!” she’ll announce.  A minute later, she gives me an update: “Now it’s one-one-two-one!”

But something strange happens right around dinnertime (whenever the hell that is – all schedules are fluid around here, it seems), and everyone but me loses their ability to tell time.

Most nights, I try vainly to ignore the chaos, occasionally injecting an opinion as to whether or not someone needs a bath or who really shouldn’t have another cup of milk or who probably hasn’t brushed her teeth in three days.  Evening is my opportunity to get some work done with reinforcements (i.e., Kyle) in place.

I’m not bashing Kyle; believe me, I know how many other fathers consider their day to be finished the moment they walk in the door.  He’s thrilled to pieces to play with the kids, but that fact actually works against the whole bedtime routine here.  He’s in no hurry for the fun to end.  If they’re happy, why put them to bed?  In fact, why not chase them around the house twenty times and tickle them until they nearly puke and then announce that it’s bedtime?

Now it’s 8:54 and I can hear CJ thumping overhead, which means that she’s in our room, not her room.

I’ve never been one to put the kids to bed at seven o’clock.  Even with Oliver, I only put him down that early if he’s really sleepy.  I certainly don’t make the girls lie in bed while the sun’s still up and they can hear their friends playing outside.  Not even on school nights.

We’ve got fairly lenient bedtimes here: CJ’s is eight o’clock, and Tacy’s is eight-thirty.  On school nights, I’m satisfied if they make it to bed a half-hour late.  They’re having fun with their daddy, after all.

9:06. Kyle just came downstairs to refill a sippy cup with water and retrieve a lambie.

I know we could get the kids to bed on time if we just laid down the law and were consistent about it.  We know the importance of consistency where it comes to enforcing rules and establishing expectations.

But in the end, we prefer to direct that consistency toward other areas.  In doing so, we accept the fluidity of bedtime.

Well, at least until those hamsters show up and start whipping everybody into shape.

——————————

Do your kids go to bed on time?  Every single night?

Liar.

Tell us your kids’ bedtime stories in this week’s PBN Blog Blast – “Are You Afraid of the Dark?“  SYLVANIA, those lighting geniuses who probably made nearly every light bulb in your home, have some cool new products – some practical, some just downright fun – and if you play along, you could win $200 worth of great prizes.

Don’t tell me you don’t have any good stories.  Because believe it or not:

It’s 9:26, and CJ just called downstairs, “Mommy, I didn’t have any dinner. I want a hot dog.”

Ugh.

By that time I was already blogging, and I figured that I was probably the one telling tales about my children that would someday make it difficult for them to look anyone in the eye without having prefaced the conversation with the question: “You haven’t read my mom’s blog, have you?”

Granted, in spite of my determination to shield them from unnecessary embarrassment by refusing to tell stories that would no doubt garner dozens of “LMFAO!” comments – not to mention some much-needed commiseration among similarly beleaguered moms – I’m sure that there will still be plenty of posts and pictures that they’ll find objectionable.  So they’ll take their revenge on me using their MySpace pages (or whatever social media platform is de rigeur among tweens and teens by then).  That’s fine; I’ll deserve it.

But in the meantime, those who fear that we bloggers are exploiting our children, rest assured that our children are enabling us.

There’s not a single day during which I don’t crack up at something Tacy has said – and then go back to typing – only for her to eagerly ask, “Are you Twittering that?”

Usually I’m not.  But I always ask, “Would you prefer that I don’t?”

And she replies, “Do it!”

Earlier this week, I had a conference with her teacher, who raved about Tacy’s writing – how she’s able to put down in words what most kids can only describe at this point.  Of course I was tickled pink, especially since I spent years writing nothing that impressed my teachers but research papers.  But then her teacher said, with amusement in her voice, “She really likes telling stories.”

At least she looked me in the eye when she said it, right?

I laughed too. “Well, her stories can’t be any worse than what I share on my site every day,” I admitted.

But it was CJ whose story telling made it difficult for me to look a woman at the grocery store in the eye.

We were fidgeting together in the self-checkout line at the grocery store witching hour – right about a quarter after five – and CJ, who should have been pooped out after her swimming lesson, was full of energy.  And words.

Apropos of literally NOTHING, she announced to the woman in front of us: “My daddy doesn’t have a driver’s license.”

I started to snicker.  I couldn’t help myself.

The woman looked down at CJ and very seriously said, “Well, I’m sure there’s a very good reason for that, and it’s probably not anything that I need to know about.”

I laughed.  No, actually I cackled.

I put my hand on CJ’s shoulder and told her, “That’s right, Daddy needs to get a new driver’s license.” Then, because I can’t stand ambiguity, I told the woman, “His wallet was stolen.”

Then I promptly looked at the floor.  Because even though I was telling the truth, it was a story I wasn’t prepared to tell.

So when the day rolls around that my kids start whimpering about what I’ve shared here, I’ll remind them that they’ve told plenty of stories too.

And they can keep right on telling them.  After all, they’re their stories too.

I didn’t mind.  Other kids loved having their mothers chaperone field trips and plan class parties, and their mothers loved doing those things.  Not me, and not my mother.

Tacy has asked me a few times about volunteering at her school.  I’ve explained to her that in addition to my work schedule, I’ve got CJ and Oliver to consider.  Bottom line: I’m not going to pay for a sitter so that I can tromp around a pumpkin patch.  I have found a few ways to support her school though, including a really cool monthly teacher recognition program, and I’ll be happy to do more as CJ and Oliver get bigger.

But when Tacy’s teacher asked for parent volunteers to come into the classroom and speak about their work…well, I couldn’t help jumping at that chance.  Talk about blogging?  Get some publicity for PBN and CMP?  Rant about the preponderance of misplaced apostrophes in society?  Yes, please!

Of course, I asked Tacy first.  “Do you want me to come speak to your class?” I inquired.

“YES!” she shrieked.

Well, alrighty then.  Sign me up.

As I pulled up in front of the school yesterday, I started to get nervous.  Sure, they’re only kids, but you never know what kids are going to do and say.  Speaking to adults is different; they’re pretty easy to predict.  But kids can be a tough crowd, especially when your own kid is part of the group, and it’s not like I could employ the typical public speaking nervousness abatement strategies.  Picturing a bunch of first graders in their underwear is just wrong.

I needn’t have worried; as soon as I introduced myself, five hands shot up.  “You have questions already?” I asked them incredulously.

No questions.  They just wanted to tell me about all the people they knew named Julie – mothers, aunts, cousins, the waitress they had last night at Red Robin.

Hey, at least we could relate to one another right off the bat.

I told them about how I started blogging.  How I went to the BlogHer conference in 2006 and met all of these other mommies (and daddies too) who had blogs too.  How a few of us started talking about ways that we might work together.

“Because,” I explained, “even though lots of daddies go to work every day and make money, it’s usually the mommies who spend that money.”

Most of the kids nodded.  “Yeah, my mommy bought me this sweater,” piped up one little girl.

“Exactly,” I agreed.  “So at Cool Mom Picks, we write about all sorts of cool things that mommies can buy for their kids.  Because we mommies are always thinking about what our kids might like to have.”

Tacy waved her hand and pulled at the sleeve of her Hanna Andersson top.  I shook my head at her.  “Actually, that’s one of the only things you have that I didn’t find at Cool Mom Picks,” I admitted.

“Then,” I continued, “at Parent Bloggers Network, we work with businesses who want bloggers to write about their products.  Tacy gets to check out some pretty neat toys and books, but she also gets to try stuff that helps her learn, like DreamBox.  It’s a computer program that teaches her about math.”

By that point, about half the kids were fidgeting, so I knew we needed to move on to a topic that interested them more.  Like my name.

But another girl was waving her hand, so I called on her.

“If you’re…um…a writer…and…uh…an editor…why do you…um…why do other people…uh…have to edit what you write?” she asked.

“Now that is an excellent question!” I told her.  “I’m really impressed with you.”

Even though I’m usually pretty good at checking my spelling and my punctuation, it always helps to have someone else take a look at what I’ve written.  They might find something wrong that I didn’t see.  Plus, even though I understand exactly what I’ve written, they might not understand it.  So there might be a better way to write it,” I explained, “and that’s how my editors help me write better too.”

I looked up at the clock.  “I know it’s about time for you to go to art, so we should probably end here.  Thanks for letting me come in to talk to you.” I smiled at them, and Tacy grinned back at me.

As I rose, a little boy sitting in the front row waved his hand at me.  I sat back down. “Yes?”

“My friend’s mom is Julie too,” he told me.

Sigh.  Maybe next time I’ll just introduce myself as Tacy’s mom and teach them to sing Fountains of Wayne.

——————————

I’m so tired of hearing about the economy, and more specifically, the stimulus package.  But after reading a piece in CNN Money, I realized that what I’m really tired of are the partisan sound bites.  Want to make some sense of what’s going on, without the political distractions?  Check out this week’s column at The Parental is Political.

Tuesday and Thursday mornings are always a little rough; CJ has to be at speech therapy by eight, which means all five of us have to be semi-presentable by seven forty-five.  That shouldn’t be all that difficult, but it almost always is.

For one, I have yet to remember to set Tacy’s alarm clock – you know, the one I bought her for Christmas so that we wouldn’t have to wake her up every morning? – and she has developed the morning personality of a teenager.  Instead of an alarm clock, I might try a bucket of water.

Meanwhile, CJ is an early riser, but that’s only because she wants to go downstairs to watch TV and drink a cup six cups of milk.  Getting her dressed and brushing her hair and teeth almost never happens without at least one instance of bursting into tears, which is really hard to take at any time of day, let alone first thing in the morning without the fortification of coffee.

Oliver is the most compliant where it comes to getting ready, but only as far as getting HIM ready.  He sits on the floor and howls as I struggle to get my contacts in and rearrange my bedhead, or else he climbs the slate steps to the master bathtub and teeters there until I just barely catch him.

So, last Thursday.  Kyle had to be at work by seven, and although I don’t doubt that he nudged me at six forty-five, I didn’t actually peek at the clock until seven thirty.

Fifteen minutes to get one adult and three children out the door.  Fifteen minutes.

There were a lot of tears, a little howling, a shameful deficit of toothpaste, and one really old pair of gauchos, but we made it downstairs…where I discovered messes left behind from the night before.  And my threshold for mess tolerance was at an all-time low right then.

Yeah, there was no “kind of” about it.  I lost it.

The worst part of it though was when I was buckling CJ into her car seat, and she looked up at me with tears still streaking her face and said, “Mommy, you don’t love me.”

Oh god.  I SUCK.

Of course I reassured her that yes, in spite of my hysterics that morning, I loved her.  That I loved her all the time – when I was mad, when I was sad, when I was sweeping her up into my arms and kissing her and breathing in her sweet cedar smell.  That I never, ever didn’t love her.

She’s at the age and the stage where she needs that extra reassurance though.  She’s old enough to make me absolutely crazy by doing what she knows better than to do, but she doesn’t yet have the perspective to realize that when I lose it, she hasn’t lost my love.

Because as many impromptu hugs and kisses as I dole out every day, my kids can always use more.  And I’m happy to oblige.

——————————

Do you like Tiffany jewelry?

That’s a silly question; who doesn’t like Tiffany jewelry?

Write about how you show the people around you that you love them, and you could win a gorgeous Tiffany necklace.  Guys, that means you too – how nice would it be to give your sigOth a robin’s egg blue box that you didn’t even have to shell out for yourself?

Details over at PBN, as always!

Happy birthday!  You turned four on Saturday, but by no means is that your biggest accomplishment of the past year.  Your metamorphosis since your last birthday is nothing short of incredible.

Sure, you talk.  A lot.  Perhaps too much sometimes.  You go pee in the potty.  You write your name and draw recognizable pictures.  You shriek “GO!” at green lights and issue directions from your throne car seat.  But there’s so much more to the progress you’ve made.

It amazes me what a social creature you’ve become.  Not only do you insist upon answering the door, you’re a most welcoming hostess.  You take visitors by the hand and lead them into the house for a guided tour, and you’re so charming that it seems they can’t help but follow you.  I hope you learn to use these powers for good, perhaps as a docent at the Met someday.

Similarly, you love to answer the phone.  Since we don’t have Caller ID, I have no idea whether the person on the other end will appreciate your charms, but I have such a good time observing you as you practice your telephone manners that I’m not particularly concerned about it.  Because really, anyone who can’t take the time to giggle at your adorable “Hallo!  I CJ!  What your name?” probably isn’t somebody I want to talk to anyway.

If I thought your big sister was the master negotiator, it was only because I hadn’t yet witnessed your strategies.  Lately, you have a fascination with SIX – you want to stay up for six more minutes, you need to watch six more episodes of Spongebob, you’ll agree to eat six pieces of broccoli in exchange for a piece of candy.  For a while this year, you insisted that you were six years old, just like Tacy.

Speaking of Tacy, I’m still awed by how well the two of you get along.  Granted, your big sister is exceptionally patient with you, but you are her greatest admirer and biggest fan.  It never fails to tug at my heartstrings when you pick up an extra package of crackers after preschool to share with her.  You are such a thoughtful and generous little girl.

You’re also an amazing big sister.  I knew you’d love Oliver; I just had no idea how much.  You’re downright motherly in your concern for him.  We walked into the doctor’s office last week and you gravely announced to the receptionist: “Olliepop has germs in him.  He need’a doctor to make him feel better.”  I get a kick out of listening to you explain the rules of a game to him, or tell him that you’re going to build a tower and he has to wait until you’re finished before he knocks it down.  When he inevitably fails to follow direction, you sigh, “Oh Olliepop!” and then chide him, “Don’t do that ever again.”

Hmmm…wonder where you heard THAT.

From me, of course.  I’ll admit that even though I’ve told you multiple times NOT TO DO THAT, you still do exactly THAT – whatever THAT may be.  Your most recent major transgressions involve disposal of your pee-soaked overnight Pull-Ups.  We find them everywhere except the garbage can or the diaper pail – in your closet, in your hamper, in your night table drawer, in the linen closet.

You also can’t be trusted alone in the bathtub anymore, in spite of all the progress you’ve made at swimming lessons.  It was bad enough when you emptied an entire bottle of shampoo into the tub to make bubbles.  But a whole tube of toothpaste?  Toothpaste doesn’t even make bubbles.  Why, CJ?  WHY?

“Okay, Mommy.  No more minty baff,” you promised solemnly.

While you certainly can make me crazy with some of your inexplicable behavior (like squeezing the bulb aspirator into my bottle of beer – what was THAT about?), you can make me laugh just as quickly, especially with your mispronunciations.  My two favorites?  “Fridgelator” (for refridgerator) and “Leper Company” (for The Electric Company).

You’ve developed an early fondness for books, picking out letters and numbers, pointing to words as you “read” them aloud.  Listening to you read Sandra Boynton’s “Going to Bed Book” never fails to make me tear up:

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LW-gRVgZZZ4[/youtube]

I love you, Miss Mousie.  You have no idea how much I love you.

Love,
Mommy

“That’s true,” I agreed. “But do you know why they were important?”

There began yet another discussion of civil rights.

It’s ground that we’ve covered before – not just on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, but throughout the Presidential election.  But it startles Tacy anew every time I tell her that it wasn’t that long ago that black people and white people were treated very differently under the law.

One of the clearest examples I’ve found to give her is that of the number of bathrooms in the Pentagon.  The place is jam-packed with facilities – not for the purpose of convenience, but because it was built in Virginia when Jim Crow laws were still in effect.

It was the first time I’d mentioned Jim Crow laws by name, and she screwed up her face: “What’re those?”

“They’re the laws that said black people and white people had to use different bathrooms and drinking fountains, and that black kids and white kids had to go to different schools,” I told her.

“I thought everybody in the country was free,” she protested.

“Well, to an extent, yes.  But individual states could make laws about what people could and couldn’t do.”

“Which states had those laws?”

I took her hand. “Let’s go look that up on the Internet.”

So we sat down together at my laptop and Googled “Jim Crow laws”.  She listened with interest as I read aloud from various sites.

“It seems that the federal government – the one that makes laws for the whole country – said these Jim Crow laws were okay because there were separate but equal facilities for blacks and whites.  That means if there was a drinking fountain for white people, there was a drinking fountain for black people, so the idea was that everybody had what they needed,” I explained.

Tacy narrowed her eyes at me.  She wasn’t buying it.

I continued, “And back then, if our next-door neighbor was black, their kids wouldn’t go to the same school as you.  They’d go to a different school, one for black kids only.  And because you’re white, you’d go to a school for white kids only.”

Now she looked at me like I was crazy.

“Yeah,” I said. “But eventually the federal government decided that these laws didn’t make sense.  That they weren’t fair.  And a lot of what Martin Luther King Jr. said in his speeches helped the people in the government understand that.”

She mulled that over.  Then she asked, “Which states had these laws again?”

“Well, a lot of states had laws about what white people and black people could do, but the South probably had more of these laws than the rest of the country,” I explained.

I pulled up a map. “Looks like the Jim Crow laws began in the South” – I pointed the cursor at the swath of southeastern states – “but other states adopted them too.”

“Really?” Tacy asked.  “Even Colorado?”

I went to the map that highlighted the rest of the country and clicked on Colorado. “Yep,” I told her,  “even Colorado.  For example, a white person couldn’t marry a black person in Colorado until 1957.”

“What?!” she objected. “That’s crazy!”

I nodded. “Totally. But what’s really crazy” – I clicked back to the map of the South and pulled up the history of Louisiana – “is that in Louisiana in 1958 – and that’s only 50 years ago – not only couldn’t white people and black people get married, but All human blood to be used in the state of Louisiana for transfusions to be labeled with the word “Caucasian,” “Negroid,” or “Mongoloid” so as to clearly indicate the race of the donor,” I read aloud.

“Remember how Daddy donates blood so that if someone has an accident and needs more blood, they can use his?” I reminded her. “His blood can be used by anybody who needs it.  But in Louisiana in 1958, a black person couldn’t use his blood, because he’s white, even if they’d die without it.  Likewise, he couldn’t use a black person’s blood, even if he’d die without it.”

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Why?!”

“Some people thought that there was a difference between white people’s blood and black people’s blood.  That there were enough differences between us that we should be segregated – kept apart.  Obviously that’s not true, but that’s what people used to think, especially in the South where so many of these laws were still in effect not that long ago.”

“But why did people think that?” she protested.

I sighed. “A lot of people think a lot of crazy things.  Sometimes they just don’t know any better.”

“Like what?”

“Well, remember when we went to the museum and saw all of those dinosaur bones?  Scientists have figured out that those bones are hundreds of millions of years old, but there are some people who believe that dinosaurs only lived a few thousand years ago – at the same time as people – because they think God created the Earth about six thousand years ago.”

That really threw her for a loop.

“Now I’d never say that someone who believed in God was uneducated,” I continued. “That’s simply not true.  There are many, many extremely smart people who believe in God.  Even scientists.  But to say that the Earth is only six thousand years old and that dinosaurs lived at the same time as people?  That’s uneducated.  Because we know better.”

“Yeah,” she breathed. “That’s crazy.”

“Likewise, believing that black people and white people shouldn’t be together – that’s uneducated too.  Because we know better.” Then I changed the subject. “Do you see why it is so amazing that on Tuesday, our new president will be a black man?”

She cocked her head at me.

“Think about it.  Fifty years ago – only about ten years before your daddy was born – black people and white people still weren’t allowed to do many of the same things.  And now – NOW – a black man is going to be the leader of our country.  He’s going to be in charge of everything.” I smiled at her. “It’s amazing!”

She smiled back and nodded. “Yeah!”

——————————

No matter how many maps I show her, nor how many outdated dusty statutes I read aloud to her, she won’t have the appreciation that I do for what will happen in our country tomorrow.  None of my kids will.

Honestly, I’m grateful for that.  That she’s so far removed from how horribly human beings have treated one another, she cannot fathom such irrational and unjust laws ever existed.

Likewise, my own life experience doesn’t permit me to understand the threshold we’ll cross tomorrow on the same level as African-American citizens do, particularly those who lived under the Jim Crow laws.  I’ll never understand the magnitude of this milestone in their eyes.

Even so, it is a triumphant moment for all of us.  Explain its significance to your own children, and revel in it together, no matter what color you are.

“I don’t like it when my friends say things that I know aren’t true,” she complained.  “When I say, That’s not true! they keep saying it is.  I don’t like that.”

I smiled at her. “Yeah, that’s pretty annoying.  Want to know what to do about it?”

She looked at me curiously. “You know how to make them tell the truth?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Nope.  You can’t force them to admit they’re lying.  But you don’t have to believe them either.  When your friends say something that you know isn’t true, or even if you just don’t agree with them, here’s what to say: If you say so.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“That means you’re not agreeing or disagreeing with them.  You’re just acknowledging what they said they think,” I told her.  “It doesn’t mean you think the same thing.”

“Oh,” she said, still sounding unsure.

“Trust me.  It’ll drive them nuts.”

——————————

On Monday, Tacy came home from school in a great mood, which promptly disintegrated when I reminded her that she had swim practice.

“If you need to throw a fit, go do it up in your room,” I told her.  “Let me know when you’ve got it out of your system.”

She went up to her room, but she didn’t scream and cry.  She changed into her swimsuit and sweats and came back downstairs.

“There’s a boy there who bothers me,” she admitted. “He’s always touching me and scratching me when we’re swimming.  The coach tells me to swim behind him, but then he stops and messes around with another boy and they get in my way.”

“Did the coach see him?” I asked.

She nodded.  “She told him if he did it one more time he’d have to get out.”

“Did he do it again?”

“No, but practice was over then.”

“Hmmm.” I thought a bit. “Well, if he’s preventing you from doing what the coach has told you to do, then it’s okay to tell the coach.  But you should also tell him not to touch you.” I affected a menacing tone. “Don’t touch me again, or I’ll tell the coach. Got it?”

“Got it,” she agreed.

——————————

On Wednesday, Tacy came home from school and the same scene played out – cheerful mood gave way to despair.  But this time, the tears started.

“Your brother is sleeping,” I told her.  “If you wake him, I will be very angry.  Go down to the basement until you can get a hold of yourself, and then we’ll talk.”  I closed the basement door.

A few minutes later, she came out.  “Is it that boy again?” I asked.

She nodded.  “He still bothers me.  He touches me, he says everything that I say, he makes faces at me…” She trailed off, on the verge of tears again.

“Well, you have to ignore him when he repeats what you say and when he makes faces,” I told her. “If you give him any attention when he does that, he’ll just keep doing it.”

She sniffled.

“But,” I continued, “you don’t have to put up with him touching you.  That’s when you should say something: Listen. I told you on Monday. Don’t. Touch. Me.”

She nodded.

“Practice,” I instructed her.  “Say it with me: Listen. I told you on Monday. Don’t. Touch. Me.”

In unison, we said it.  Then she said it herself.  Several times.

We drove to the pool, where she repeated her line one last time before I pulled up in front to drop her off.

As I got out of the car, another mother waved at me: “Pool’s closed!” she called out. “They’re…uh…disinfecting it.  Somebody had an accident.”

“Thanks!” I called back to her, chuckling as I got in the car and informed Tacy, “Pool’s closed on account of poop.”

She giggled. “Poop?!”

“Yeah. So remember your line for next Monday’s practice instead.”

——————————

On Thursday, Tacy came home from school and began to fix herself a snack. “Hey, Mommy,” she began, “remember how I say If you say so to my friends when I don’t think they’re telling the truth?”

“Yep.”

“Well, they don’t like it.  They told me to stop saying it.”

I laughed.  “Oh really?”

“Yeah.”  She stopped to lick peanut butter off the knife.  “But they still say things that I know aren’t true, so I keep saying it.”

“Sometimes that’s just what you have to do,” I agreed.  “Some things are worth an argument, and some things just aren’t.”

T: Why are you playing a God song?

Me: Because I like it. Some of my favorite Christmas carols are the religious ones. Beautiful music, fun to play.

——————————

We have a new piano.

I bought it the day after Thanksgiving and told Kyle to consider it my Christmas present, and my birthday present too. And Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day too.

Of course I’m hoping that the kids will take lessons and not waste my money enjoy them. But even if none of them can ever find middle C, I will play that piano every single day. I love it.

It’s not the baby grand I’ve dreamed of – I knew better than to even sit down at a baby grand or else I would have attached myself to one of its legs and Tacy would’ve had to call Kyle to come pry me away from it – but it’s only a couple months old, and for an upright it plays beautifully. And considering the effect that playing has on my mental state, I ought to be able to pay for that piano out of a health savings account.

——————————

Tacy is singing to Oliver: “Ollie, Ollie, Ollie…I made you out of clay. Ollie, Ollie, Ollie…with Ollie I will play!”

Me (laughing): Where did you learn that?

Tacy: School. We’re singing all kinds of songs.

Me: Cool.

Tacy: Yeah, but some kids don’t want to sing the Jewish songs.

Me: Why not?

Tacy: They say they shouldn’t have to sing them because it’s not their holiday. But I told them they should.

Me: Good for you.

Tacy: Yeah, and I told [Jewish classmate] I like those songs even though I’m not Jewish.

Me: They’re just songs, after all. Singing is fun.

Tacy: Right.

——————————

I’m really glad we have a piano, because I needed a little music therapy after that conversation.

I’m very proud of Tacy. She looks beyond appearances and accents. She doesn’t care about the size of someone’s house or how they spend their Sundays (or their Saturdays). A friend with two mommies is just that – a friend.

But I wonder about the cumulative effect that peers (and to be quite frank, some of their parents, because biases begin at home) will have on Tacy’s view of the world.  I’ve been wondering about this topic for a while, obviously.

It’s tough enough to address such conflict between adults.  It’s even more difficult to continue emphasizing to a child that her friends (and their parents) may have a different outlook than we do – and, most challenging of all, to explain that while they have a right to hold whatever views they choose, we think – to put it bluntly – that they’re wrong.

That it’s wrong to disparage people – even in the vaguest manner – for how they look, how they speak, who they love, or what god they do (or don’t) worship.

I worry about the day that such conflict will dissolve a friendship of Tacy’s – or CJ’s or Oliver’s.  It’s not a matter of if, but when.  And it’s going to be hurtful for all of us.

But what would be even more hurtful in the long run would be to sacrifice our views for the sake of fitting in.  Because this place isn’t our final stop in the world, nor will it be for our kids.  We need to teach them accordingly.

In the meantime, I’ll pound away at the piano.  I’ll start relearning Rachmaninoff and save my pennies for a baby grand.

During my labor with Tacy, I never made it anywhere near the transition stage.  My guts were piled on a platter, but I never had to vomit in one of those aqua, kidney-shaped bowls.

But this transition to first grade is inducing nausea too.  It’s been a bumpy two weeks.

She hasn’t yet feigned illness in order to stay home – and I’m really hoping nobody puts that idea into her head anytime soon – but she’s not excited about going to school.

I haven’t gotten much information out of her as to the reasons for her feelings about school.  Last week, she told us that “my teacher put me in time out”.  We asked her why, and she told us “for playing with Play-Doh” (each student has a can of Play-Doh on their desk).  I asked if she was supposed to be playing with Play-Doh, and she said yes.

So I got out the packet that her teacher had handed out on Back to School Night, and I flipped to the page about discipline.  “Tacy, it says here that your teacher will give you a verbal warning first.  Did she tell you to stop playing with the Play-Doh?” I asked.

“Well…it was because I was talking,” she admitted.

“Did she tell you to stop talking?”

“Yes.” She looked down.

“And you kept talking?”

She looked up.  “But Mommy…” she began.

Then she told me about how she hates sitting in her seat all day.  How she only knows two kids in her class from kindergarten.  How she just wants to go out and PLAY.

I hugged her.  And I bit down hard on my urge to tell her that this is how LIFE is.  You sit in your seat all day and do work you often don’t want to do.  Sometimes you don’t know anyone, or you only know a few people, or – worst of all – you know people, but you don’t like them and they don’t like you.  That thousands of people have coffee cups on their desks that read “The worst day of golf is better than the best day of work” and for most people, that’s true.

She doesn’t yet need to know that this reality exists.  But I don’t kid myself – and I won’t kid her – that life only gets harder.

I remember my own first grade worries.  They’re nothing compared to the worries I’ve carried with me as an adult, especially as a parent.  But at the time, they were monumental.  Minimizing them gave me no comfort.

First grade is the start of new patterns that persist for years – waking up early, getting ready, spending the day adhering to someone else’s schedule.  It’s a grind, no doubt.  And it’s a tough switch for even the most enthusiastic six year olds.

We’re still in transition here.  I’m just hoping we can get through it without any vomiting.

She always sounded really sincere, but now that I’ve had two three year olds of my own, I’m wondering if she wasn’t just trying to put one over on me. Because three? Is maddening.

Despite the significant differences between Tacy at three and CJ at three, there are some definite similarities that I would have never expected.

First, selective deafness sets in at age three. In boys, it persists through manhood. In girls, it comes in handy when you have a family of your own that you must occasionally tune out in order to get anything done.

I can say CJ’s name several times at increasing volumes, and it’s only when I finally SHRIEK her name that she looks up at me in surprise: “You talkin’ t’me?” This has been a problem with Tacy for years, and it’s part of the reason that raising my voice has little effect anymore. When I have to shout in order to get a child’s attention so that she will take the sippie cup of milk – that she requested, mind you – from my outstretched hand, it’s no wonder that shouting in the face of danger is futile.

Just last night, Kyle and I went outside, and CJ locked the sliding glass door on us. We BANGED on that door while she sat not three feet away, engrossed in Dora. Thanks to her speech delay, her hearing’s been tested several times already, but while she can hear a barely audible *ping* from somewhere behind her, she can’t hear two adults screeching to be let back in the house.

Then there are the sleeping arrangements. Tacy had just turned three when we moved from a two-bedroom apartment to this house, so we chalked up her sudden need to sleep in our room to that transition. We let her fall asleep in our bed, then transferred her to her own bed, then put up with her taking over our bed in the middle of the night. This continued for at least six months before she started falling asleep in her own bed, but with all lights blazing, and even then there was no guarantee that she’d stay in her own room all night. It’s only been a year or so since she’s consistently fallen asleep in her own room with the lights off and stayed there all night long.

(And now we can’t get her little buns out of bed in the mornings. Oh, how I miss afternoon kindergarten.)

At first, we thought we’d dodged the co-sleeping hurdle with CJ. She was content to stay in her own room as long as her bed was piled high with activities. Books, puzzles, her Magnadoodle. We’d check on her before heading to bed ourselves and find Littlest Pet Shop paraphernalia from last weekend’s Happy Meal perched on her headboard. One night she was sound asleep, but still clutching the string of a Red Robin balloon in her fist.

But then she started coming into our room in the middle of the night, and now she insists on beginning each night in our bed. Which is fine now that Kyle has accepted my mandate that she be limited to ONE sippie cup of milk before bed and make a final trip to the potty before donning her night-night diaper. It really sucks to change the sheets on both her bed and ours three nights in a row.

And unlike Tacy, she is cheerful even when unexpectedly awakened in the middle of the night. Two nights ago, I returned from feeding Oliver around 4am to discover that CJ had migrated to my side of the bed. I lifted her back into the center of the bed, and she chirped, “Hi Mommy!” before dropping back off to sleep.

Finally, the novelty of asking why has worn off. While Tacy jabbered in complete sentences before she was a year old, I’ve spent the past two years waiting for CJ to say something intelligible…anything at all. I was absolutely tickled the first time she asked why. It’s a cognitive leap! But even the greatest cognitive leaps become irritating when they happen a hundred times a day, and even the most patient parents start to snap, “Asked and answered,” when the same question has been posed a dozen times in the last hour.

(She does the cutest thing though. “But whyyyy?” she asks. Upon hearing the explanation, she sighs, “Ohhhhh.” I wish I had it on tape.)

Three is maddening. Three will try your patience more than two or one or even those dreaded newborn weeks. But deep down, three really is fun. In much the same way that roller coasters are fun. And I love roller coasters.

Maybe my mother wasn’t so far off after all.