Inappropriately Excessively Fun Pool Time

Today we went to The Pool.

There was a stop involved, before The Trip to The Pool.

We picked up some noodles.

Friend + Self + 4 kids + 4 noodles = inappropriately excessive pool fun.

For instance, Friend and Self could be heard to utter any of the following phrases at any time during our pool time:

Put that noodle down.

Keep your noodle to yourself.

Nobody wants to be whacked with your noodle.

Stop poking your noodle into other people, or I will have to remove your noodle.

I don't care why you just knocked a glass off of the table; 'My noodle just got too big' is not a very good reason for losing control of your noodle.

Put your noodle down in the car; it's dangerous to go waving your noodle around when people are driving.

If you don't stop touching his noodle, I will take all the noodles away from everyone!

I am not sure how I feel about everyone having noodles.

Worthy (of historical moments) Conversations

On a recent drive home from a windy beach outing with old friends:

Bubbles: Supergirl, I think you're gonna marry Henry.
Supergirl: Oh YEAH??? Then you are gonna marry Davey and be GAY!
Bubbles and Davey: ........
Bubbles: No I'm NOT! I'm not gonna marry Davey!
Because I'm gonna marry Mama!!





Yesterday, in the Yard:

Mom: Owl, did you hit Bubbles with a sword?
Owl: NO!!!
Mom: Then why did you run away?
Owl: Because I didn't like the NOISE!!
Mom: What noise?
Owl: The CRYING noise!
Mom: Who was crying?
Owl: Bubbles.
Mom: Why was he crying?
Owl: Because I hit him with a sword!

Supergirl's Room Rules

I would totally hang out in that room.

I love this kid so very much. Have I mentioned that lately?

Quiet Observation

"Mama, how old would Elijah be next month if he was still alive?"

"Seven."

"Would he be in a wheelchair?"

"I don't know honey. Probably."

"Would he go to my school? I bet he would."
(note: although there are children of different ability at her school, none of them uses a wheelchair)

"I really don't know, Supergirl."

"Would other people make fun of him? I wouldn't let them, you know. They probably wouldn't at my school, anyway."

This went on for a short while, the asking and self-answering of questions.
I thought about how sweet it was, this dreaming that I had done for years causing me nothing but pain, and here she was....just wondering, just dreaming...no pain attached to her speculation at all. No judgment, just wondering.
I noticed that I shared the wondering with her. No pain. Just wondering for a moment.
How far we have come.

That Little Boy Stole A Big Piece of My Heart

In the recently discovered files of pictures, I found this priceless triptych:


Elijah was between 5 and 7 days old, living in the NICU, and about to meet his sister:



Supergirl was only twenty months old at that time. Closer to one and a half, than to two. She had already endured a six week separation from her attachment parenting, hospital bound mother, so he was like the frosting - when he was born, maybe Mama could come home too!! She adored him from the beginning, and was gentle, gentle, very gentle with him:







These were precious days in the way that diamonds are precious - beautiful, but someone always dies for it.


Funny thing is, I've always loathed diamonds, while I've always loved babies.

Parenting Lessons: In Progress

Yesterday was a challenge to my parenting expertise stamina.
Supergirl was awful. Sassy, insolent, unrepentant.
She spent the afternoon in time-outs which were extended before they were served.
I wanted to smack her around a bit, but we don't do that.

Finally, by dinnertime, she would just not stop antagonizing her three year old brother. This, as she knows, is a button-pusher for me every time, as I would never have allowed any other seven year old bully to treat her that way when she was three.

I demanded she come downstairs to help me with dinner.
"I don't want to make dinner!" she whined.
"Wash your hands!" I snapped back at her.
Did I care? Did I care at all what she wanted? No, I certainly did not.


I handed her a bowl of eggs.
"Stir!" I commanded, adding melted butter to her eggs.
She pretended to stir very angrily, then became interested in the process of mixing yolks into whites.
"What are we making?" she finally asked.
"Matzoh balls for soup," I replied, beginning to soften, "Will you please cut the carrots?"
"YES!" she said, more brightly now.

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled the matzoh out of the fridge.
"Can I make the balls myself?" she asked.
"Oh, okay." I pretended to relent.

"I miss the times when you used to help me with dinner all the time." I remarked.
"Well, I could do that again...."
"I would really like that."

Thirty minutes later, we were eating steaming, salty, doughy delicious matzoh ball soup.
"Honey, I am so glad you are going to help me in the kitchen again. Dinner always tastes better when you help make it."
"Oh Mama, thank you! I love you! I'm sorry I was bratty today!"





Not a trace of bitterness remained by bedtime.

Supergirl, you are my Superstar.

I've Always Said They Were Elf-like

Send your own ElfYourself

Beach Friday - Still Thankful

Find the child:

Dune rompers:

Surf Dance:

Levitation:

The Magic of Where We Live

The temperature in our part of California today was in the mid-eighties.
In mid-November.
Even on the coast.

(For those of you who spent a weekend in July freezing your arses off in San Francisco, this should be of notable record.)

We did what everyone else within sixty miles of the beach did today - we (drove the six miles down the hill to the coast and) headed to our favorite beach.


We went to Elijah's beach:



Bubbles enjoyed the tide pools and.......the rays of....... magic.....(?)



There was much rejoicing:


We tumbled, ran, splashed, swooped, stumbled, squawked, scooped, gawked, chased, lounged, basked...until the sun set.

And then we went home.

URL Friends, IRL Meetups

Last week was filled with Bloggity Friendship Goodness!

First. there was the almost spontaneous (howabout tomorrow?) meeting with Lunasea at the boardwalk. During which I was somewhat startled by the feral fearless and adventurous natures of my children in contrast to her extremely cautious (and crazily adorable) boys. Our children were happy enough to meet (full adult disclosure: we were way more excited to meet each other than the kids were) and hang out together, but when it came to the rides, they became polar opposites.
I suggested that A and Ben take a moment to watch Supergirl and Bubbs go on the kiddie helicopter ride; no pressure, just watch them go and then decide if they wanted to ride. Of course Supergirl took that opportunity to show off the joystick of the helicopter ride, jerking it forward and back quickly, making the helicopter convulse as rebelliously as allowed on it's no-doubt extremely safe and regularly inspected kiddie ride. Up :{jerk}: Down :{jerk}: Up :: Up :: Up :: Down :: Up :: Down :: Down :: Up ::Down :: Up :: Up:: YOU GET THE IDEA, YES?
Nice job, kids. Scare the sensitive guests. Jeebz when will my kids start using the manners I have been using on them all these years? I mean the good ones.
After that ride it was no better. My kids wanted to ride everything, Lunasea's kids wanted to ride nothing, and all we wanted to do was eat fried food drink beer and talk.
We got along (I thought, though I tend to the deluded side) fabulously, and the children got along very well too - as long as there were no mechanical ride shenanigans involved.
The children's jaunt to the most polluted in all of town beach proved to be their most fun connection of all. Garbage and sewage drains brings children together.

Eventually, we convinced the Lunasea family to go on one ride with us. I was a little worried I was going to get a parking ticket if we lingered, but hell - I was going to go on one ride at least with them! The boys agreed to the merry-go-round. This was, I have to point out, after I was seen dragging my highly motivated (and slightly deluded) two year old away from the log ride and the giant roller coaster to ride the damn carousel already.
First I got my own kids situated. Supergirl predictably chose the highly dangerous outside ring horse, dangerous because she is waaaay to small to reach out and grab for the brass rings, which she does anyway, hanging nimbly yet obliviously and possibly falsely secure - by the strap of leather attached to her painted horse....
Bubbles chose the horse next to Supergirl, and after he was seated securely on his psychedelic steed, he insisted that I also take mount upon a magical ride. I guess standing next to him kind of ruins the experience and demeans his whole dizzy rainbow cowboy fantasy, so I obliged and did a side-saddle (I was a-wearin a-skirt) on my inferior, interior-ring horse.
I looked for my new friends and scanned all the horses before the ride started. I wanted to get pics of everyone on their horses, but I couldn't find them anywhere!
Finally, I saw LunaMom waving at me from (what she called!) the granny bench! She was on the very stationary wide bench that is for...well...grannies. Grampies too. But her small children? They were not amused. Benjamin, flirt extraordinaire and owner of illegally long eyelashes, who is three, was not entirely comfortable with the carousel, according to LunaMom:

Ben started looking around and groused, "Why is there no seat belt on this?"

Me[LunaMom]: "Because people don't usually fall off these, honey. Really. It's not that dangerous."

ZOMG I had to laugh. Because, hey it was the hall of ghostly death MERRY-Go-ROUND! Poor LunaMom looked like she could have used a few rounds on the Giant Dipper. Those damn adorable kids were cramping her style! I can see how she lets them get away with it though....they are HOTDAMN cute! And Momma?? She's pretty hot herself and I cannot believe I let her escape my radar while she was on her one day drop-in Blogher experience. My Bad was in not thinking far enough ahead to booze up have lunch at the local not-so-horrible-brewery which is very close to the boardwalk. We were instead, destined to dine on soggy fries, watery pepsi drinks, and slippery corndogs.
We hugged and said goodbye.
I am a local and cheap and paid for outrageously overpriced meter parking and scoffed at the standard $10 boardwalk parking.
I got a ticket. HAHA on me.

This weekend I had happy hour/dinner/duskytime (this is that time right after dusk, when your kids get sucked into the video you have suddenly started so that you and your friends can chitty-chat) with some local bloggy friends who I don't see enough. Because I am mountain, and I am lame. I don't get out much. And after the fun time I had with the crafty ladies, I don't think you can persuade me to do otherwise. So come on over.
I felt guilty when Michelle asked me why I seemed to say the word craftbloggers with such intensity, as if they were pariahs.
I laughed and said I had been completely misunderstood, because I am way more likely to call those crafty ladies of mystical achievements, messiahs rather than pariahs.
I do not think that had been properly conveyed.
Sara brought a salad which I am still craving more of and was oh-so-deliciousy garlicky bluecheesey. Michelle brought dough. To make fresh naan. And her own very well-seasoned cast iron pans. And chutney. And yum. I made the Grace1 Special Salad (fresh uncooked corn, sliced off the cob, chunks of avocado and heirloom tomatoes, red onion and a few splashes of high quality olive oil), and some grilled chicken and skirt steaks.
And of course the cupcakes. The little faux ice cream cone cupcakes.
Which were eaten faster than I could photograph that batch.

Oh yes, and if you live near me and are trying to find those tiny cones? Don't bother. I got all four boxes in the county.

Strawberry Picking

We are lucky enough to live about ten minutes away from a coastal organic strawberry farm.


So, we obviously had to go get some of these mutant very extremely incredibly happy strawberries.

We got too many strawberries. Too many for jam, even. Because I am a shortsighted dumbass who underestimated the power of child labor and only bought one packet of pectin for the jam.


When we could have made three batches of jam. But now we have some jam, some frozen strawberries, and I made this:

Coconut cake with seven minute frosting, layered with strawberries (and coconut, of course).

Guilt is a Dirty Little Secret

A mother of an 18 month old in my class asked me today if she could bring her older son along for the last three weeks of our session.
She said, "If it's not okay I understand. He's five." Here she looked at me closely, something flickered across in her gaze, searching my own. "He's autistic." She sucked in her breath and waited for my response.
"I would love to try that," I told her. I meant it; she knew. She wanted to say more. I smiled, hoping that she would take that to go on.
"It's just...he's just....well he's not really five. He's always had some delays...but...well...music has always been good for him...I just want...I hope...." Her words lost their shape, floated like thin clouds into the ether.
I wanted to hug her.
"My son is in an ABA program," I said.
"Does he have autism?" was her fair enough and predictable answer.
I shrugged. "I don't think so. The ABA is for speech therapy. I think he has verbal apraxia, but we have yet to get that diagnosis. Or assessment for that matter!" I laughed as I told her how comical but sad it was to listen to Bubbles' own indecipherable language tumble around his mouth. I told her that I certainly have concerns about it, as Bubbles' vocabulary seems to be increasing, but his articulation is not improving at an expected rate.
She commented that I seemed to be handling it well, and I responded that we had been through early intervention before with Elijah, of course we were hoping for a different 'outcome' this time... She grinned at me and asked if we could go out for coffee sometime soon to talk about ABA (her son is just starting a program) and everything else in the world. Aha! I have sucked another friend into my world!
Her son received the diagnosis just a few months ago. That part shocked me. But it also reminded me of how fragile our concepts of our children really are.
She actually knew long before the diagnosis. Of course she did. He is five.
There is so much wrapped up in a diagnosis. Maybe relief, maybe shock, mourning, fear.
And guilt. Let us not forget guilt.
I have a secret.
I usually think I am the only one with this secret, but the sad truth is that most mothers in my position have their own secrets.
We, above all medical professionals and developmental specialists, know what is wrong with our children. We are sure we know what made them different.
Because, you see, we grew these children. So of course we must be the source of their pain, their differences, their challenges.
I am sure that my childrens' picky eating habits are one of my lower gene pool swimmers, and I feel horrible about that. It also makes my life as their mother who needs to feed them very challenging. Dh knows that our kids are freakishly stubborn because of his own gene pool. We all know that we will pass some of our traits along to our children; others will be unexpected.
But growing that baby? Is delicate work.
Every time a child comes out looking like what you may consider 'perfect' (you who all counted toes and fingers), I consider it a miracle. Those are the kinds of miracles that I even consider at all. Every baby who is born with the ability to suck? Another miracle. Babies who grow and learn to sit up, crawl, and walk? Wow. Lucky. Seriously gifted.
Children who learn to talk, converse, hug, function? Don't get me started on the fireworks of miracles happening there.
When pregnant, most us of spent some time dreaming about that little nugget with limbs and her future. There were, of course so many variables, it was hard to actually picture her. And in the name of freedom of personality, who would dare to try? But really? Would there be sports in my future? Because I hate the sports. Would she want to go to college or move to Costa Rica? Would she want to get married someday? To a guy? Would she do my bidding and eat the homemade pureed organic spinach brown rice babyfood (no), wear her hair in long braids and favor smearing homemade jam on her homemade pinafores as I homeschooled her? (no, no, and no)
And he? Would he be taller than his tiny sister? Would he want to take ballet? Would he want to live with us in his twenties? Would he sleep through the night?
And of course....did you get the prenatal testing done? Phew, because now you can stop worrying about those 3 things that they can screen for.
Because you of course are spending all your free time wondering if he (or she) will have a neurological disorder, developmental delays, autism, apraxia, PDD/NOS, etc.
Oh, not?
No, me neither. Until it happened once. 'It' being merely something different. Something mysterious, yet unexpected and glaringly different.
And then we had this little window, this snippet of time to hold on to this mysterious, glaringly different, and glaringly precious bodhisattva before he moved on. *poof*
But on the days when I am feeling less gifted and more cheated, he was not a bodhisattva. He was just not given everything exactly right. From me: right time, right place. When I was growing him, of course. If something went wrong there and then, I do believe that all of the rational thinkers and doctors in the world could never convince me that I was not at fault.
There were all those drugs pumped into me for six weeks. I consented; I was told it was the best thing for my baby...to try to keep him from coming too early (he never did). There were the weeks of hyper-emesis and weight loss, the weeks without vitamins or solid food of any kind.
My dirty little secret: My child was different because I grew him wrong.
We're in the park of differently-abled people again, but on a different ride. This time around we are dealing with what has been classified as 'a severe expressive language delay'. His supervisor for speech therapy and ABA (all of whose services we will lose in 3 months) is extremely confident (her words) that he does not and will not meet the criteria for a spectrum diagnosis, though she shares my concern about the verbal apraxia and is arranging for an assessment. Not that a diagnosis of apraxia would get him any more services after he turns three, at which point we are basically going to get screwed by the school district: fact. Stay tuned.
So here I am again hiding my little secrets. When I was pregnant with Bubbles, I didn't eat enough vegetables, I forgot to take my prenatals on purpose when I was nauseous in the beginning, and in the last trimester, I drank a full glass of wine on more than one occasion!
I screwed him up; I totally never gave him a chance to talk pretty.
Secrets.
Exposed, now.


Guilt has gripped me ever tighter each year of motherhood.

Birthdays of Ghosts

Supergirl asked me, "How old would Elijah be?"

Five. On Monday.

"WOW! He would be in kindergarten. I could be his big buddy!"


I thought about this. The wheelchair that would have been, the special bus, the special school, the special class that there would have been. The children 'like' him; the ones who could perhaps speak volumes with their eyes but could not wrap their little arms around you to hug you. The ones who instilled fear into every typical parent by merely drooling.

But instead, I answered enthusiastically, "Yes! Yes, honey, you would be the best big buddy ever!"

And of course, thinking of her friends who are in the kindergarten room next door to her who may be only five but are quite reasonable, she said, "I wish Elijah was alive. I like Bubbles, but he pulls my hair and he stinks."
(for the record, I would like to point out that 'stinks' is a relative term in a six year old's vocabulary, and does not in any way, reflect the actual attention given to said brother's stinky rotten diapers)

The special feeding chair, the on-order foam floor-sitter, the more than likely lifetime of diapers, the OT, the PT, the ECI, the many many doctor appointments, the special attention that he required....

She remembers none of that.

Only the fact that he was her brother and she loved him.

We all miss him.

My Children Took the Truthiness Morning Challenge

Unlike their scary mama, this is how my children wake up in the morning:

Have you taken the challenge??

I did.

I love that girl

A friend asked Supergirl a question about a baby picture she saw in her room: "Is that Elijah or Bubbles?"
Supergirl answered, "That is Elijah."
Her friend responded sensitively, "Oh, I'm sorry. It is probably too sad to talk about it. Is it too sad to talk about it? I'm sorry."
Supergirl said, "Well, of course it makes us sad. Because he died and that is sad. But talking about him makes us happy because we like to remember him too."



(If you had asked me? What would I want her to be able to say in that situation? She broke the mold of perfection on that one.)

Sometimes it's not what you were expecting, which is nice.

Supergirl is obsessed with losing her teeth. A few of her friends and classmates have lost their first teeth, and it seems to be all the girl can think about lately. She even declared that she intends to 'be the toothfairy' next year for Halloween. She talks about losing her teeth. She talks about wishing she would lose some teeth. She talks about dreaming that she is losing some teeth. I suppose, like the jump-roping chants she brings home and makes me feel nostalgic, it is one of those childhood rites of passage. One that she cannot wait to claim as her own. So impatient is she, that she has managed to wriggle one less-obstinate lower front tooth into slightly wiggly compliance!
As with many five year old girls, she also is very 'in' to drawing. She drew herself through half a ream of paper when we were in Hawaii; the girl was constantly moving or drawing. Now that the weather has its inclement moments, she has been productive enough to prompt this mama into desperately searching for a portfolio in which to deposit it all (literally, it can cover every surface after a good 2 hour drawing binge).
Combining these two current events, a recent favorite drawing featured a friendly monster with many well articulated teeth.
The drawing was left on the table to be admired, which it was, and during a phone call in which I was distracting a lap-baby, I absent-mindedly let Bubbles color on a piece of paper in front of me. I was just happy that he was not eating the crayon. So I let him go on coloring. On the piece of paper in front of me. That was the backside of the monster picture. But who knew?


Later, Supergirl noticed this.
"Mama. Someone scribbled on the back of my picture."
"Mmmmhmmm, yes well I believe it was Bubbles when he was in my lap. I let him have the crayon." I was ready to get apologetic if I needed to, but I was going to feel this one out to see if I could get off with a mild infraction.
"You mean that was Bubbles? Who drew on my picture? Who made that drawing?"
"Well, technically the back of your picture, but yes. Bubbles."

And then Supergirl turned and crowed at her brother:
"Bubbles! You made a picture with a crayon!! You are such a clever baby! You are the cleverest, best baby, aren't you? Yes you are! You are the little artist baby! What a good little boy!"

And my heart grew. Can you believe it?

clones?

yeah. they're related.

siblove

They get along quite nicely.