'M' is for 'Medicine'

I'm finally coming out from under the oppressive, depressive fog, and, for the first time in a long time, I'm feeling really, really good.

Wins are really, really, really important for me these days. They remind me that I'm good at this mothering, parenting thing. (This is why I blog [HAHAHAHAHAHA, sometimes] about the good days. Because I can go back and read about them on the bad days, and I remember. The bad days are seared into my memory forever. I don't need to write about those.)

So here's a win.

When Mom was growing up in Germany, if someone got hurt, an adult would give them a sugar cube, and once the offending "owwie" stopped hurting, the kiddo could eat the sugar cube.

I've talked about Genevieve's sugar-induced transformation from adorable Mogwai to terrifying Gremlin. But extreme times call for extreme measures.

Genevieve - like many kids - was terrified of shots. The mere mention of them would make her practically apoplectic with fear.

[Before I continue any further: This is not an open forum for debating vaccines, or vaccine efficacy. Thank you.]

But I cracked it, courtesy of some inspiration from Halloween.

Last year, Genevieve cut her finger on a cheese knife [while my most excellent and very capable mother was supervising, because even supervised, accidents can and will happen] - which was the first time we tried the 'M' Method_(TM) to get her to calm down and put a band-aid on. Up to that point, she told me she was just planning on keeping the paper towel on her finger forever.

FOREVER, Mommy.

"Okay," I said, fetching one tiny M&M** (which is just an "M"), like the stingy, joyless, sugar miser/ Tsugar Tsarina I am, "When it stops hurting, you can eat the M."

Well, wouldn't you know it. The paper towel came off, and nobody needed stitches. Phew.

We used M&Ms for a while (in fun sized bags, applied like an ice pack after vaccinations), until Genevieve discovered better chocolate. Swiss chocolate. (Lindt, to be specific.)

Fast forward to last month, when we needed to get our flu shots. Genevieve packed two special pieces of Easter chocolate (YES, we still have Easter chocolate in the freezer, see "Tsugar Tsarina" above) in each ziploc bag so that each kiddo would have their own, and off to Kaiser we went.

"YAY, flu shots!" Genevieve said, because in addition to the chocolate, YES, we were going to get ice cream afterward. (The sugar binge post vaccinations is based on science, study linked below.)

"Flu shots, YAY!" Rex chanted, all the way there. In the minivan. In the waiting room. In the injection room.

He was so enthusiastic that a doctor (who was updating her charts when we came in) walked over to see our own young vaccine enthusiast for herself. Rex was all smiles and excited.

Genevieve wanted to go first, so if Rex screamed, she wouldn't have to stay and listen (two adults meant that they could wait out of earshot).

[I could talk about kids and compassion, but really, it just makes the experience that much more stressful for her, and THEN she has to get the shot.]

Genevieve was brave, right up until the needle was prepped. Then came the anxiety.

"I'll hold you. Sit on my lap, put your face against my shoulder," I said, "And here, hold your chocolate in your other hand."

Genevieve, who is terrified of needles, gave no more than a slight gasp when she got her flu shot.

That's it. No screaming. No tears. A small, quiet, gasp. And then she was done and eating her chocolate.

Rex went next, due for two shots that day, so he was on my lap. The first poke came, and in the most *offended* voice he said, "OUCH." [If he was older, the tone would have matched "Thanks, JERK. THAT HURT."]

... And then he saw the nurse getting the SECOND one prepped, and when she poked him, he started up like a siren---

-- and abruptly stopped when I handed him his baggie of chocolate.

"Here's your chocolate, buddy," I said, deftly handing him to his father (because two year olds and chocolate are a sticky mess).

Everybody was happy, everybody got vaccinated, and then everybody went together to get ice cream.

Genevieve, not throwing away her shot! (Old picture, but the sentiment is the same)

... And it's totally legit, per this study. (I would still do it, even if it wasn't backed by science.)

** If you're not thrilled about the ingredients of M&Ms, I highly recommend the Unreal Candy Coated Milk Chocolates. They. Are. Delicious. They don't come in "fun sized" bags, that I've been able to find, so you'll have to DIY that business.

Balloon-a-palooza

There is a lot of value in letting kids be bored. It's in all of the parenting books I recommend when asked (especially Positive Discipline, It's Ok to Go Up the Slide/It's Ok Not to Share, for those of you asking), and a popular subject in loads, and loads, and loads of parenting articles.

Mainly, it teaches kids to make their own fun. Which they will. (I also absolutely acknowledge that letting kids manage their own entertainment is easier said than done.)

Given an empty hallway, a bag of balloons, an agreement that I would tie any balloons that the kids inflated, and maybe two hours of work on their part (mostly Genevieve's, though Rex did his best), I give you:

Balloon-a-palooza

The party hallway.

(No party in progress, obviously, because I didn't want to ruin the fun by pulling out my phone/camera.) 

Lunchbox Love

This year, Genevieve has been in the 4-day class at her preschool. What that means is that, along with the fantastic play-based curriculum, the kids bring their own snack.

As part of teaching Genevieve the power of independence, she's responsible for packing her own snack in her Frozen lunchbox the night before.

[NOTE: doing things for themselves gives kids better self-esteem. It's all an investment in her future! Not to mention the fact that she's packing food that she'll eat cheerfully and - best of all- I'm not doing it!]

We have some guidelines (fruit, protein, carbs), and we make sure there's nothing on the school allergy list**

The deal is: if she packs her snack, then I have time to do a note. If I have to pack it, then there's no note. (I haven't packed her snack - ever - this year.)

This has given me the opportunity to continue my own excellent mom's tradition of lunchbox love notes, and - along with making Genevieve feel loved- it has taught me that I can draw.

The notes started very simple, a short statement on a heart-shaped post-it note, but then, one day I did a doodle of me saying "I love you THIIIIIS MUCH!". And Genevieve really liked it.

She's what I like to call a "tangible media" kid, meaning, she likes stuff she can hold on to. Printed pictures, letters. And love notes. She carried the heart all over. She didn't want to throw it away, even after it's unfortunate rendezvous with the sink.

[Helpful hint: pink post-it notes will stain a white sink if they get wet. You're welcome.]

Like it often happens with me, the whole thing grew into, well, a whole thing. Mouse, cookie, apples, trees, and whatnot.

I try to tie in things that we're talking about, and it's always something that's relevant to her, and she'll drop subtle-for-a-five-year-old hints, "This was a good note, but I'd really like a Frozen note."

Some of my favorites, you can click the picture to see the whole album

I have a problem addiction passion for stationary. Good pens, nice paper; I just love it. So when I decided to really start doing these, I pulled out the new set of metallic markers from Office Depot, and a black notepad, and we were in business. (I've upgraded to black index cards since then, because Genevieve was worried about her notes getting wrinkly.)

I've been asked how I do the notes, and, while I'm sure it will take some of the magic away, here it is:

First, the materials list. Obviously, you don't have to use exactly the same stuff that I do, but here it is:

- Black index cards

- Metallic Markers, Metallic Gel Pens, or this set of brush tips/round tipped metallic markers (there are a million options for these). [Yes, I have all of these, but you don't need all of these. Unless you do, and in that case, party on.]

- Treasure box (Genevieve likes to save her notes in one of these)

I decide on what I want to draw. Let's say it's a monarch butterfly, because last week, it was. I google "monarch butterfly line drawing".

I don't own the art above the black note. That's the screen cap, for the purpose of explanation.

From there, thanks to the Ed Emberly's Make a World book , I've learned that you just have to break drawing down into basic shapes, and proportion.

(A butterfly is a circle, an oval, and two sort- of kidney beans. Easy!)

If you don't find a line drawing that you like, google some fan art. (Though, when I searched for Shrek fan art, the results were... unexpected. Consider yourself warned.)

I start with a good, central beginning point- like the eyes- and sort of work my way out from there. I'm really working at it because it gives me a lot of satisfaction to be able to do something I thought I could never be good at.

But here's the thing I've learned: the pictures don't have to be amazing, or even good. Just the effort of the doodle seems to be what matters most.

I did an Ariel earlier in the year, and then did another. Here they are:

Before

After

You can see how I've upped my lunch note game.

When I picked Genevieve up from school, she asked me why I had done another Ariel note.

"Your first one was really good!" She said.

"You don't like this one better?" I asked.

"No, I just like the first one. You did a great job!"

She's so enthusiastic about her notes, that thinking up ideas and surprising her is a real pleasure.

There have been some unintended and unexpected benefits to doing a daily lunch note; Genevieve's pre-reading skills have advanced to some site words, which I learned when she was reading text messages over my shoulder. (Oops.)

She feels loved, and it's a special thing I can do to connect with her when I'm not with her.

... And it's a great excuse to buy pens.

[In case you want to follow this particular madness, I post them on my personal instagram @cuteknitter with the hashtag #lunchboxlovenotes, and I've got a Flickr album of all of them here.]

** the school allergy list includes peanuts, tree nuts, sunflower seeds, Sesame seeds, avocado, and oats. We had a full-on "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" situation when my dad was helping her pack her snack, and he suggested almonds. Genevieve, to her credit, reminded him about the kids with nut allergies, and my dad said, "But what about almonds?" I repeated, "Peanuts and TREE NUTS." Allergies are very serious, and definitely not funny, but this was, because I had to remind my father, the erstwhile almond farmer (true story), that almonds grow on trees.

How easy it is

[I've waited to share this story for a year, because I'm hoping that my friend won't remember it as clearly as I do.]

Last year, close to when Rex was born, a friend of mine invited us (me and Genevieve) to lunch. We arranged to meet at a restaurant that Genevieve and I went to fairly regularly, after school one day.

I preloaded her. We planned. We discussed what kind of manners we use at restaurants. The usual (long and extensive) routine.

When we got there and ordered, she was as good as gold. She was remarkably well-behaved the entire time we were there, on her best company manners. High fives all around!

At one point, my friend - let's call him Kristoff- leaned over to his intended - we'll call her Anna- and said softly, "See how easy it is? "

Piece. Of. Cake. Riiiiiiiiight.

I don't think he intended for me to hear him, but I did.

In that moment, all I could think is, "Are you kidding?! EASY?!"

All the hours of "please"s and "thank you"s. All of the discussions, all of the preloading, making sure that she'd gotten all of her wiggles out- but wasn't so tired that she was going to melt down in the middle of the restaurant. And all the other minutiae that have consumed my day-to-day reality.

The 90%-of-the-time challenge for the 10% smooth sailing. (Your percentages may vary.)

But how do you say this without it sounding like having kids (or being a parent) is awful? (Because it's not, obviously.) And there I was, eight and a half months pregnant, about to do it all over again. 

The best way I can think of to explain it (a year later) is this: if I was to sit down at the piano and play a complicated piece of music, you wouldn't assume that (a) I sat down at the piano for the first time and the music magically flowed from my fingers or (b) that it was easy. 

And if I've learned anything, it's that if something looks easy, someone has worked really hard to get to that point. (Rome not being built in a day, and all that.)

I felt like laughing hysterically. I actually *physically* felt my eyebrows hit my hairline in utter disbelief. 

...so what did I *do*? 

I pretended that I didn't hear it. 

Because all of the thoughts and words I had couldn't possibly explain the feelings that come when you look at your amazing kid(s) and think, "I have an amazing kid."

But maybe that's just the hormones talking. Because parenting? Is not so easy.

What, now?

Genevieve has discovered jokes, and humor. It's very funny listening to her trying to put together original jokes- particularly after she repeats a joke she's heard, and then does her own riff on it.

Yes, those are mitten clips holding up her "dress".

We're also working on explaining how "funny" works, and that being funny on purpose is actually really hard. (There was some real heartbreak when we talked about this.)

Like, for example, instead of making a fart noise, she says, "Fart!" and then laughs hysterically. (To be fair, I usually laugh, too.)

[Since our household is fancy and multilingual, sometimes she says "Fart!" in another language. We are truly a cultured bunch.]

Recently, we had a golden moment. A breakthrough. A conversation that proved that all my hard work and excellent parenting was coming to fruition.

Me: Guess what.

Genevieve: What?

Me: Chicken butt.

Genevieve: Fart.

My work here is done. 

An Ode to Tired Mothers

Once upon a time, when KidBrotherSam was a little guy in diapers, my mother was tired. Exhausted. Positively knackered.

Obvious, right? It wasn't until I had Genevieve that I understood exactly what "tired" meant. (Even moreso since I have had Rex.)

It was first thing in the morning, and Mom had gotten up to brush her teeth. Instead of her toothpaste, she grabbed this:

(For childless readers, this is diaper rash cream. Not toothpaste.)

"Mom," I said.

"Yes, baby," she said.

"That's diaper cream," I said.

"Yes, baby," she said, continuing to put Desitin on her toothbrush.

It was obvious that she was on autopilot, even to my six-year old self, "Mom. Mom."

"Yes, baby. I heard you," she said, putting the Desitin-ed toothbrush in her mouth.

A horrified look, toothbrush out of her mouth, "This isn't toothpaste."

"That's what I TOLD you, Mommy," I said.

In retrospect, I imagine my part looked something more like this:

As an adult, I thought it was funny, because WHO KEEPS BUTT CREAM NEXT TO THEIR TOOTHPASTE?

Well. Funny story...

I would like to present an Apples & Trees Production_TM** (the first of many, I'm assuming)

I present, my own Desitin toothpaste moment:

Genevieve was a baby. I had cut my hair short while I was pregnant, and spiked it using hair glue. This exact hair glue, in fact:

For your reference, I do keep my hair products on a shelf, next to...

... My toothpaste. Which looked this:

I'm sure you can guess what came next. I unscrewed the cap and started to squeeze the tube, and that was when I looked down and realized that it was hair glue I was applying to my toothbrush. It was in that moment, where I Understood, and I felt solidarity of a whole, new kind with my mom. And maybe also some real empathy, since You Can't Really Know Until You Know.

So, to all the tired mothers, Happy Mother's Day, from my family to yours. But most of all, to my own amazing mom.

... And keep the diaper cream FAR from your toothpaste.

(Just to be safe, you may want to have your coffee before you brush your teeth.)

**  Apples & Trees Productions_TM, brought to you by Apples Who Do Not Fall Far From Their Trees

En garde... UNAGI!

Sometimes, I get to be The Fun Mom. (For the sake of clarity, let's call her Rosie.)

Rosie is the one who thinks up great ideas like taking a Costco sized bag of toilet paper to the preschool and letting the kids toilet paper everything they can get their hands on. Rosie is the brainchild behind Sparkle Magic.

Now, don't confuse her with Fiona, because Fiona likes to have fun, but tidy, organized, Pinterest-worthy fun. 

Where Fiona is a photogenic poster child, Rosie is an eyes-crossed-tongue-out kind of gal. Rosie is the unbridled, belly laugh kind of fun. 

So when we went to the drugstore for the necessary stuff, and came across foam swords, it was no real surprise that Rosie piped up. 

"FOAM SWORDS!" Rosie was ecstatic, "Can you believe it?! These are awesome!"

"These are a terrible idea. Someone is going to get hurt. Things are going to get broken," I countered. 

"They're FOAM. Come on, live a little," she encouraged. "It'll be FUN."

I gave in, and two swords became ours.

Genevieve couldn't WAIT to play with them, so we each took turns.  We had just watched the first half (roughly) of The Princess Bride (turning it off after - SPOILER ALERT - Wesley gets killed in the dungeon, because that part scared Genevieve.) so naturally, Genevieve was Buttercup.

I played the Man in Black, using all of my swordfighting skills- all obtained from watching the aforementioned Princess Bride. I don't quite know which character Andrew was, but my mother - in her purest form - observed classic swordfighting etiquette.

"UNAGI!"

From the hallway (the best place in our house for a duel, really), I heard my mother declare, "En garde!"

Then a pause.

"UNAGI!" Genevieve yelled, running towards Mom, wielding her sword like an axe.

Now, there was no question as to what she yelled, because it was as clear as a bell. Once I picked myself up off of the floor (and stopped laughing like a demented hyena), Andrew turned to me and simply asked, "Unagi?"

Well.

You know the bit with the shrieking eels? Genevieve likes to do big body play after naptime with me, and the day after watching The Princess Bride, she wanted to play "shrieking eels".

She, predictably, was the shrieking eel, leaving me to play the role of Buttercup.

I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly the "damsel in distress" type. So, I turned the game on it's head - a bit - and said, "Eel? I love eating eel... as UNAGI!" and then wrestled, and nibbled on the eel- who then shrieked with good reason.

(Now we take turns being Buttercup, shrieking "UNAGI!" and nibbling on each other, for the record.)

Since only two of us can play at a time, I have been researching getting more foam weaponry (specifically these, though they're shorter than the swords) because you know the saying.

"The family that mêlées together, stays together."

Sparkle magic

Genevieve told me not too long ago that she wished she had "sparkle magic". When I asked her what that meant, she said, "Like Elsa's magic, but with SPARKLES."

Of course.

So, I thought about wishes. Some wishes, I can't do anything about.

But sparkles? I can do. By the power of Amazon Prime, I bought one pound of "Elsa" glitter with the tap of my - also magical - fingertips.

They made cascarones at preschool today, and Genevieve loved it. (I can see your surprised faces.) The best part - Genevieve told me - was cracking them over their heads.

"Because THEN you have CONFETTI in your HAIR!" she told me, holding an uncracked cascarone so carefully that you would think it would crumble in her hand.

After naptime, she declared that It Was Time, so we went into the backyard, and she showed me the joy of cascarones.

After her brief - and glorious - presentation, I told her that I remembered when she told me that she wished she had sparkle magic,

"I wish you did, too," I said. "I can't give you magic powers. But I CAN give you THIS."

And I handed her a one pound jar of glitter, and let 'er rip.

I'm going to chalk this one up to a parenting win.

Oh, Pumpkin

In my imagination, I'm a Pinterest Mom. I have these ideas about how a project or outing is going to go...

... And then I start the project or go on the outing with my kids. And like I've said many a'time, there's nothing that ruins ideal parenting like having actual children.

Over the last year or so, I've embraced the chaos of actual parenting (more or less), and I'm doing my best to find the joy in all of it. 

...But then I hear the Pinterest Mom's voice in my head. We'll call her Fiona, and she's as real as Verne (the grumpy old man who lives in my head). Fiona also blogs more regularly than, well, Yours Truly.

"You know what would be beautiful," she says into my ear, sipping a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc out of a Villeroy & Bach crystal wineglass, "Family photos in the school pumpkin patch. You can get everyone to dress in a color theme. You have a remote shutter for your camera, so you can be in the pictures, too!"

"Ooooh," I say, drinking some (perfectly respectable) boxed Chardonnay out of a Ball jar with ice cubes in it, "Fiona, you are a genius."

So the night before, here's how Fiona's night went:

Fiona: Genevieve, here's your Halloween tutu, matching tights, and a Halloween shirt. 

Genevieve: Okay, Mommy! You're the best!

Here's how it actually went:

Me: Please pick a Halloween shirt and tights. And here's your Halloween tutu. 

Genevieve: I'm going to wear this skirt and these pants. 

Me: But we're going to take pictures. 

Genevieve: It's my choice. 

[Lesson learned: If I want to get a certain look, I will pick the clothes and inform her that it's a day where her clothes aren't her choice.]

And, not to wax too philosophical, but do I want our pictures to look perfect, or reflect what our lives actually look like? (The answer is both.)

I did put on makeup, and Genevieve and I added glitter on our eyes and cheeks (because it's fun), and eventually, the family went to the pumpkin patch at Genevieve's school. 

Her school is super fun, and it's a safe place to get messy. And the pumpkin patch has a couple of tables of crafts, play dough, and a DIY face paint station.

(There's a table to have it done as well, but if you're Genevieve, either way is just as fun.)

So within mere minutes of our arrived, Genevieve  went from this:

... To this:

(I positively adore the mustache.)

Rex, at a kingly ten weeks old (I told you that Fiona blogs more frequently than I do), was extremely cooperative and wore the ADORABLE pumpkin hat cheerfully while he slept. (The hat was actually a baby shower gift from Genevieve's baby shower. Not knit by me, sadly.)

The lighting was excellent, the pumpkins plentiful, and Genevieve was cheerfully playing with a classmate, so I took some pictures. 

(I also relinquished control of the camera to Andrew so that there were a few pictures of me as well. I may be a control freak, but I'm learning.)

Genevieve played, I chatted, and Andrew compared our little pumpkin to other little pumpkins.

I did *try* to get the family all in one place at the same time, but alas, it was my family that came along to the pumpkin patch, and not Fiona's, so you'll just have to imagine my beautiful family in the pictures with me.

Notice that we have a COLOR THEME!

My handsome guys

Maybe one day, Fiona's ideas will work for me again. But, until then, I'll be here with a stylish splotch of spitup on my shoulder.

And Genevieve will be in her "mooo-stache."