Can I Spare Him the Plague That Struck Me?

I chaperoned my second preschool field trip yesterday. The first was to the Festival of Trees at the Appleton Art Center in early December. I could handle that. This one, though, was more of a challenge--fifty preschoolers on thirteen lanes of a bowling alley. Now THAT is a spectacle to behold.

Once the six-pound chartruese balls were in place and we'd gotten into the rhythm of pushing the reset button (the pinsetter doesn't notice a ball striking the pins at roughly the speed of continental drift), a good time was had by all. Well, almost all. All but my son and me.

We'd visited Grandma's house in Green Bay the day before, and the excitement and late return left us both a bit worse for the wear. He and I also tend to experience a strange harmonic amplification of our bad moods--picture those films of that poorly engineered suspension bridge shaking itself to bits and you'll know what I'm talking about. It's not pretty.

That's what was going on this particular morning. He was tired, I was tired...we were two tired peas in a cramped, gunpowder-packed pod.

Then the clinging started. And the whining. And the pushing, sassing, and shouting. I did my best to fake my way to success, cheering for him each time he threw (and you can take that verb quite literally) the ball down the lane. But the cheering only enraged him. He ran off to a corner to cry.

When I approached him, he said tearfully, "You cheered when I didn't knock over any pins! Not getting any pins isn't good! You don't cheer for something that's not good!"

I was speechless. We hadn't talked about the idea behind bowling, the scoring, nothing...heck, I hadn't even told him we were GOING bowling until we got up that morning. Where was this coming from?

"Honey, I was cheering because you were trying hard," I explained. "We're just here to have a good time."

"Well, it's not GOOD to not get any pins. So don't cheer for me any more when I don't!" he said.

What could I say but OK?

I watched his next turn attentively, clapping when six pins fell on his first ball. Then, when he knocked down two more with his second, I said, "Good job, buddy!"

He stomped up to me, near tears again, and said, "Don't cheer when I only got two! I didn't get all of them."

Obviously, this was not about bowling. I tried to convince myself that this was a genetic thing, that he was somehow hardwired for competition. That it was his dad's fault. Anything, anything, but that my own perfectionism had already rubbed off on him at age four.

After all, I've abandoned that approach to life. I'm not engrossed in a high-achieving career, I don't strive for an impeccable home (what parent of small children since the invention of Legos and Play-Doh could?), and I'm known to spend entire days in my gym clothes. I'm so far from perfect that he couldn't possibly have learned this from me.

Oh, but they watch so closely, far more closely than we watch ourselves. He's heard me sulk when the scrambled eggs are overcooked, fret when I'm not prepared for a meeting at church, and rant when we're late to the Y. On a bike ride through a new neighborhood one day last summer when he was barely four, he pointed to a decidedly nice home and said, "That house is prettier than ours." Why would he think that unless he picked it up from someone like, oh, me?

He hears every comparison I make and soaks up every disappointment with myself or my situation that I express. And tragically, his observations manifest themselves in, of all places, a bowling alley. Who can get that upset about bowling?

I know who. She was a nine-year-old girl in a Saturday morning league who used to get all bothered when her ball went left when it was supposed to go right. She didn't mind so much if her team won or lost, but she obsessed over missing an easy spare. She was me.

Some Long-Awaited Winter Fun

Now that it's late February, winter has hit Wisconsin in a big way. There are several inches of snow on the ground--something we haven't seen since December--and it got crazy-cold for a while in a way we'd all forgotten it could. A few weeks with temperatures in the high 30s F and that's bound to happen.

The sledding stars finally aligned two days ago, providing skies sunny enough to make the temperature bearable without melting all the snow. Under almost ideal conditions (it seems a little twisted to call 28 F "ideal"), the kids and I headed to a hill in a park off the Fox River just after lunch.

Following a few runs down a well-smoothed slope that belonged entirely to us that afternoon, we went to romp in the playground at the bottom of the hill. I spent much of the time lying on my back in the snow, my head resting on one edge of a snow-covered sandbox, after an ill-advised backflop off a spinning merry-go-round into what I thought would be a cloud-soft blanket of fluffy white. Instead, I landed hard on my rump, experiencing a sensation not unlike my spinal cord being ripped from the base of my brain. But at least the kids had fun.

From there, we walked a toddler-scale distance out onto the Trestle Trail, a former railroad bridge converted into a popular recreation path. This windswept water crossing is bordered on each side by railings made of two-inch-diameter steel pipe and sturdy cables spaced about five inches apart. While it seemed unlikely that either of my children would slip through such a small gap, I couldn't fight the weak-kneed, lightheaded feeling that overcame me every time one of them came within six inches of the edge. I imagined a fall into the icy water, a frantic dive made in the name of rescue, a frozen-limbed swim to the shore...it was all too much. We quickly headed back to solid ground and back to the car.

Once we were home, I served hot chocolate with microscopic marshmallows in the two tiniest mugs we own, one of which I got during one of my own single-digit birthday parties at Shakey's Pizza Parlor. It's made of clear glass and is about an inch and a half in diameter.

It was from this mouse-sized mug that our two-year-old was trying to spoon the marshmallows stuck to the bottom after she'd sucked all the liquid out. She was having a devil of a time since the spoon was just barely smaller than the mug's mouth, and she was audibly frustrated as I emptied the dishwasher. Putting silverware into its drawer, I heard her and her big brother giggle, and I looked up to see him, with his slightly superior coordination, scooping the sweet morsels out and spoon-feeding them to her.

And THAT was my sweet treat for the afternoon.

The All-Knowing Mother

Yesterday over breakfast, I enlightened our kids about the day's plans.

Me: Well, first there's preschool.

Preschooler: I don't want to go to preschool!

Me: Why don't you want to go to preschool? It's so much fun! You get to play and sing and do art projects and read and...

Preschooler: I don't want to go because (name omitted) doesn't listen to the teacher.

Me: Oh. Well, if he's not listening to the teacher, why don't you just ignore him?

Preschooler: Because I just don't like him.

Me: But why don't you like him?

Preschooler: Stop asking me things! You're the one who knows everything, not me!

Me: (mildly amused--and slightly smug--silence)

Jewelry Makes the Best Valentine's Day Gift

A couple of weeks ago, I was chatting up one of the other moms as we waited in line to sign our kids out of preschool when my boy ran up to me with a big grin on his face.

"Mommy!" he exclaimed. His tone shifted to mildly flirtatious as he sing-songed, "I have a present for you..."

I glanced down out of the corner of my eye, still kibbutzing as I did so, and saw that he was shoving a twisted-up, chocolate-streaked white napkin at me.

"You're bringing me your garbage?!" I said, thinking that calling it 'a present' was a clever new tactic he was using to get me to do his dirty work.

"No," he replied. His tone suggested that he was a little annoyed that I had been suspicious of his motives. "Open it!" he implored.

I found the least soiled edges of the makeshift gift wrap and pulled them back to reveal a white plastic ring--you know, the "adjustable" kind with the little gap in back--sporting a giant red heart. It was an inch and a half tall, an inch and a half wide, and had white scalloped edges.

"Wow!" I said. "For me?"

"Yup. It was on my cupcake, and I wanted to give it to you because I love you," he said.

"You thought of me?" I asked, touched.

"Actually, it was Trevor's idea," he confessed.

"So did all the kids save their rings for their moms?" I asked.

"No. Just me," he said.

After my germ-o-phobic side fixated briefly on the likelihood that he had licked the icing and crumbs from my gift before presenting it, I slipped it on my right ring finger and wore it all day--with pride.

It's now sitting on my dresser in the open-topped popsicle-stick box the same young love made for me while he was helping his dad with some woodworking a few Saturdays ago. Under normal circumstances, I stealthily throw such trinkets in the trash while the kids are sleeping, but just this once, I've made an exception. Diamonds may be a girl's best friend, but in certain circumstances, plastic reigns supreme.

Sweet Big Mommy

My daughter and I have an almost invariable exchange each night as I tuck her into bed. In it, I call her by her nickname, Lulu. (She's a Lulu when she's good and a Moo Moo when she's bad, just for informational purposes.)

Me (snuggling her close): Mmmm, you're so sweet. You're my sweet little Lu.

Her: And you're my sweet big Mommy.

She's the ONLY person in the world who can get away with calling me big.

Another Sign That You're Raising Your Kids Right

This afternoon, we went to our first-ever movie at the theater as a family. Our son and I made a failed attempt to watch a free summer morning showing of a Veggie Tales flick a year and a half ago, but he was NOT ready. Once the Skittles were gone, he was outta there.

Tonight was different. Everyone made it through the entirety of "Curious George," though there were moments we nearly needed to abort mission. Our big guy is really sensitive to even the slightest bit of suspense or danger--he has been known to leave the room during a showing of "Blue's Clues"--and said out loud at least twice, "I want to go home now," prompting his sister to say the same thing. But being the bullies we are (and having made the investment we'd made), we selfishly convinced both of them to tough it out.

When the end came and everything turned out well for the monkey and the man in the yellow hat (phew!), we let the kids run through the empty theater, up and down the lighted aisles, while we watched the credits roll. Big brother had brought with him a flashlight, and he was leading his sister around with it.

Once people started coming in for the next show, we got up to leave. I snuggled our boy close and asked him, "So, what did you think? Do you like the books or the movie better?"

Without a second's hesitation, he said, "The books."

(Insert Title Here)

A couple of weeks ago, my beloved presented our son with a Certificate of Excellence for The Best Getting Ready for Bed Ever. The award was bestowed on a boy usually belligerent at bedtime because he flossed, brushed, put on PJs, and used the potty in less than five minutes (it usually takes a good 25 minutes to coerce him to complete all these tasks).

This certificate, cherished as it is, has drifted through all three levels of our house, residing chronologically in the corner hutch of the dining room, on the kitchen counter, and, most recently, under an end table in the living room.

It was near this end table that the kids and I were eating lunch yesterday afternoon. They've taken to picnicking with some frequency on the tray table I use for the rare breakfast or evening tea in bed, spreading out a tablecloth on the floor and setting the table in the center.

We were semi-reclined after eating and were chatting a bit when big brother reached over and picked up the nomadic certificate. He studied it for a moment and then asked, "What does 'name-tittle' mean?"

The certificate, which was created using an MS Word template, had a signature line at the bottom with the words 'Name, Title' printed parenthetically beneath it. I explained that a title is a word or two describing what you do.

"Daddy's title is 'electrical engineer,'" I continued. "And Mommy's is 'freelance writer' or 'fitness instructor.'"

Our little man considered this and then said, "When I grow up, my title is going to be 'firefighter.'"

Then our little girl, not to be left out of the conversation, said with conviction, "And when I grow up, my title is going to be 'princess.'"

Being Just Hands-On Enough

Two afternoons ago, my son and I decided to tackle his first-ever preschool homework assignment--he had been asked to make a Valentine box for their school party. I had simply by chance bought a new pair of shoes over the weekend whose box had a super-cool flip-top lid, and I was excited imagining the handy ease with which he would access his cards and goodies during the fete. I had a vision for this box.

As is nearly always the case, I "just needed to finish one more thing" before I was ready for arts-and-crafts time. But I encouraged my little partner to go ahead and get out the supplies that he thought we'd need.

"One more thing" turned into two or three, so it was probably five minutes later when I came on the box-decorating scene to find that it was well underway. With all the precision a four-year-old can muster, my son was holding a sheet of white paper against one of the sides of the box and using the flat surface of the box top as a cutting guide as he snipped carefully for an accurate fit. He had already cut two or three similar panels and Scotch-taped them to the box--disabling the nifty functionality of the flip-top lid.

With enthusiasm, I suggested that I get a knife and slice through the paper to free up the lid once again. But making that slice would have disfigured two hearts that he'd drawn in magenta Crayola marker, and he was clearly not cool with that. I put the knife down and sat on my hands as he kept taping and taping, my silent and ridiculous protests ricocheting around in my own head.

He (nearly) completely covered the box's surface with jagged white rectangles. I blushed at my neuroticism in being bothered by the exposed patches of cornflower blue that hadn't been papered over. Whose Valentine box was this, anyway? What kind of Valentine-y expression of love is it to judge the quality of a preschooler's expression of love? He was drawing rounded bubble-hearts with abandon and taping gleefully, and THAT'S what was beautiful.

In the end, when I'd encouraged him to try his glitter glue pens to jazz things up, he drew two blobby, unrecognizable images side by side and told me they were our faces. And then he said, "Let's write the names of the people who made the box on the side," scrawling his name and mine--MOM--in all caps.

And I guess I had helped him make his box--mostly by not un-making it.

One Sign You're Raising Your Kids Right

Our eldest and I were idling about the kitchen a couple of days ago, not doing anything in particular. I was probably putting dishes away, and he was probably choosing to be in my space because that's what kids do.

I looked over at him at one point and saw that he was doing laps around our tiny butcher block table, running his fingers along the thick edges of the chopping surface and humming absently to himself. At first the notes were random, but ultimately they gathered themselves into a familiar little melody.

My heart swelled with pride when I recognized it as the trumpet fanfare that NPR uses to announce news at the top of the hour.

Heat Exchanger

I was wrapped in a cushy hand-knit shawl when I curled up next to our boy to tuck him in tonight. As I snuggled him, he said, "You know when I love you best, Mama?"

"When?" I asked, expecting it would be something to do with the cookies we had made the day before.

"When you're warm," he said.

"You like it because I make you warm, huh?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "And I make you warm, too, 'cause I take some of your warm off."

And the Days "Flu" By...

We Strandbergs are just returning to the land of the living after an interminable bout with what I suspect is the flu. Never mind that we all had flu shots this fall; perhaps only corporate America gets the "good stuff," since our patriarch--who got his shot at work--has remained unaffected by the ridiculously gunky noses and on-again, off-again fevers from which the rest of us have suffered the last five days or so.

There were bright moments amidst the glossy-eyed torpor. The mid-afternoon "family nap" instituted by a mama desperate for sleep was enjoyed by all. Three bodies snuggled under a queen-sized down comforter--what could be better than that?

There was also the pleasure of not having to make our morning deadlines at the Y. And staying in our PJs all day. And drinking as much orange juice as we wanted.

But one of the greatest joys for me came this morning, when I finally had enough strengh to shower again. I hadn't bathed since Sunday, and you can't imagine the feeling, this Wednesday morning, when I rinsed the suds from my tresses and heard an audible squeak as I ran my hands over my hair. It was heavenly.

Forget personal ambition or aims to improve society--being sick brings one back to the simpler things on the needs hierarchy, to the level at which sleep and clean hair are all that matter.