George Washington's Death, by Cal

A few weeks ago, Cal and I caught most of the second half of a one-hour documentary about George Washington on the History channel.  I thought it was pretty interesting - as one might imagine of a History channel documentary, it went beyond anything we had learned (and, in my case, since forgotten) in school.  What’s more, Cal thought it was interesting, too.  I knew it at the time, made obvious by his eyes being glued to the TV while the documentary was airing and his running around as the bundle of energy he is during commercials.  When the documentary came back on, his eyes were once again glued to the TV.

To be honest, I’ve forgotten many of the details I learned that day; but I do remember a few things about Washington’s death.  He was older, maybe in his late 70’s or early 80’s.  He had been out riding his horse when something happened.  I don’t remember what happened – perhaps he fell or just came down with something.  I know he didn't get shot.  He was having difficulty breathing because his throat was closing in on him.  I believe he was suffering from Epiglottitis.  A common practice in those days was to drain the patient’s blood, I don’t remember why.  Maybe to relieve pressure?  Get the bad blood cells out?    Turns out, this was the wrong thing to do to save ole George (again, I can’t remember why); and it ended up killing him.

I only include those tidbits to add some context to the rest of my story.

Cal’s interest in this documentary on the History channel was clear to me that day.  He asked questions during it and even talked about it for hours afterward.  Turns out, it was in his head for days (now weeks), which I learned when I pulled this gem from his backpack after school a week or two ago.  Now, his class did cover George Washington sometime during the year; but not within the last couple of weeks.  This picture / story was inspired by what we saw on the History channel that day, and I’m sure he drew it during one of their “quiet reading” or “personal choice” times of the day.

Cal wrote:

“George Washington had died because his throwt was closed in.  in the Revolution they had gun’s and swords. george Washington was Killed by the guns of the Revolution.”

I’m not sure from where the “killed by the guns” part came.  Probably a young boy's senseless obsession with guns.  If I were to ask Cal today how George Washington died, he’d say that he couldn’t breathe because his throat closed in on him.

And accompanying this write-up were a couple of pictures of ole George, drawn by Cal.  One is of Washington sitting on a horse and shooting a gun.  He is wearing his hat and his familiar wig and has an angry face.  The second is of Washington, now hatless but still wearing his wig.  He appears to be looking right and, this is my favorite part, is saying, “Cant breath.”  Classic.

While the volume of paper this kid brings home drives me bonkers, I do frequently stumble upon these keepers that give me a sense for what's bouncing around in that kid's head.  It's good stuff that needs to be shared.  And I love sharing it.

My Folding Chair

This is the second night that I'm using this tactic with Ella.  I'm sitting on a folding chair outside of Ella's room, her door closed, my computer resting on my lap as I type.  It's a familiar enough pose - I do this on the train to and from work every day.  The beauty of the laptop is also its curse - it's really too convenient.  I find myself working at it all the time.  I'm surprised I haven't developed a case of carpel tunnel.

Every once in awhile, I have to interrupt my typing to grab hold of the door handle to prevent her from opening the door.  See, Ella is just not going to bed and staying in bed.  Even with blankets perfectly placed over her body and her chosen sleepmates (stuffed animals) laid exactly where she wants them, Ella is out of her bed and scurrying across the floor the moment we step out of her room after signing "I love you" and blowing her a kiss.

Dan initially ignores her out-of-bed-ness but occasionally chimes in with an "Ella, get back into bed."  Sometimes I ignore it and head right downstairs; but typically I give her a second and third chance (call me a sap, call me a peace-maker), clearly expressing my frustration with her each time.  Three times is typically my limit, and then I'm occasionally chiming in with "Ella, get back into bed."  A different approach is needed.  I just don't know what the "right" approach is.

We've used incentives - a sticker for going to bed quietly and another sticker for staying in bed all night.  Each sticker was worth a coin to put into her bank.  At the end of the week, we'd count her stickers and give her however many coins that equated to.  Ella got zero coins for these goals.  (She did great with the "wake-up-with-a-dry-Pull-Up" goal, enough that she didn't need them anymore.)  We abandoned the reward chart after a couple of weeks.  Ella didn't even ask about its absence from our daily routine.

We tried using her "doggie dress" (this black and white-striped cotton dress with a pink tutu attached) as an incentive - if she goes to bed quietly and stays in bed all night, she can wear it the following day.  She loves this dress, and this worked a few times; so Ella and I went and bought another version of it, this one with princesses on the top and a pink and blue tutu attached.  While one was being washed, she could wear the other.

The dress incentive worked intermittently but put a bit of a burden on me to stay on top of the laundry, doing a load at least every other night.  With my uptick in working out and Cal's nighttime potty issues, I certainly had clothes, sheets and blankets to wash.  But somehow I either lost track of our rule or just caved in the interest of keeping peace.  Ella wore the princess dress today, okay'd (actually suggested) by me.

We've tried threats, too.  Since my complete meltdown and subsequent re-boot (see My All-Time Mommy Low)... goodness, that was back in March!), both kids have been listening to the "Frozen" soundtrack at bedtime.  If Ella gives us trouble (is loud or doesn't stay in bed) we take hers from her.  We remind her of this every night that we put her into bed, as in, "Remember, if you don't stay in bed, I'm taking your music."  I'm not sure about Dan, but I follow it up with "You understand me?"  She always nods, probably out of obligation.  Sometimes she even repeats the rule, "And if I don't stay in bed, you'll take my music."  This has worked intermittently, too, but usually ends up in a fight that drags out the bedtime window further after we actually act upon the rule and take her music from her.

I've even resorted to being completely honest with her.  "Ella, I'm tired of this.  I don't even want to put you to bed anymore," was a subset of my honesty.  As much as she asks if it's my turn to put her to bed, you might think that the possibility that I'd never put her into bed would be incentive enough to cooperate.  It's not.

A former boss of mine actually turned around the door knobs on his kids' doors (or, at least his son's) so that the lock was on the outside.  This way, he can close the door when his kid is giving him trouble and makes sure that it stays closed.  Dan used a similar tactic with Ella a few weeks ago by tying one end of two attached belts to Ella's door handle and the other end to the door handle on a nearby closet door.  Ella couldn't get out.  Eventually, after putting up a big stink about it, she crawled into bed on her own and fell asleep for the night.  It worked; but I really didn't like it.  It just seems like a jail or a cage to me.  And what if we fell asleep for the night before removing the belt?  What if she needed to get out to use the bathroom or something worse?

The folding-chair-outside-the-door approach arose out of necessity. I didn't like the belt-on-the-door approach, but I needed an alternative that Dan would accept.  I remembered reading a mom's blog post a few months ago where she described sitting at the top of her stairs, laptop in her lap so she could get some work done, while her kids fell asleep.  I can't recall if she did this to comfort her kid as he went to sleep or if she did it to enforce his staying in bed.  I figured I could do something similar and grabbed a folding chair and my laptop to act on it.

Here's how it works: I set the folding chair up just outside Ella's door, her door handle within arm's reach.  I put the laptop on my lap and type, sometimes working, sometimes blogging.  When I see or hear the door knob jiggle, I grab it to resist her opening it.  She yells at me, I tell her I'll open it if she crawls back into bed and stays quiet for a minute.  She says she can't get her covers on, and I tell her figure it out.  Most often I open the door while we have this exchange, and I close it without hesitation at the first sign of resistance or "I hate you, Mommy" out of her.  I hold the handle until I know she's not opening it and then get back to work.

We repeat this cycle a few times before Ella is in bed on her own accord and quiet.  It's effective and not too terribly inconvenient.  At least I'm productive... and in control (well, aside from the fact I'm sitting in a folding chair outside of Ella's door, working at my laptop).  It's the beauty of the laptop.  And tonight, I poured myself a Skinny Girl margarita before heading up for the stand-off.  I do like margaritas.

As I finish this, Ella is sound asleep in her bed.  When I felt like she was ready to cave and stay in bed, quietly, I decided I'd help her with her covers because she really is bad at situating them over herself.  I threw them on her without the usual precision, and she complained that they weren't on right.  I basically told her to deal with it, that at least she was covered and warm, and then left.  I didn't hear any more peeps out of her.  She got the message.

As with most things that I do as a parent, I don't know if what I'm doing is technically right or wrong.  All I know is it worked.  At least, the last two nights it worked.  We have a sleeping child (two, actually) and a content mom and dad.  We'll see what tomorrow has in store for us.  My folding chair is there if I need it.

Cal's Kindergarten Graduation - Take 1

Cal, on his Kindergarten Graduation Day (Take 1)

Cal graduated from Kindergarten for the first time a couple of weeks ago (on May 22nd).  The ceremony took place in the small gym in the back of the school he’s attended since he was 18 months old.  Some might call this a daycare (complete with a private Kindergarten), but I’ve always referred to it as school – not only do they have a formal curriculum around which all activities are structured, but I’ve always thought it was just plain old cute to call it “school,” even when Cal was getting his third tooth.

The ceremony had all the makings of the graduation ceremonies I remember participating in.  Caps and gowns.  Marching in to “Pomp and Circumstance.”  Speeches from the Administrators and Teacher.  Readings by select kids (Cal was one!).  Handing out of diplomas.  A class performance.  And a toss of caps into the air.  In all, it lasted maybe 15 minutes.  I think it was really closer to 10.  It was perfect for the milestone, if the milestone was to be celebrated.

Cal’s entourage included Dan, me and Ella; Grandma Reiter and Grandpa Fred; Grandma and Papa Leatherman; and Grandpa Reiter, a former Superintendent who, early in his tenure, put an end to celebrating Kindergarten graduations in his district because, really, it’s just a little too much “pomp” for the “circumstance.”  I don’t disagree.  It’s not like these kids spent a few grueling years of daily homework, research papers and frequent tests.  A year of crayons, glue and occasional weekend homework just doesn’t seem to warrant a celebration any different than, say, a little more of that in First Grade.

That said, I may have been the only person who cried during the ceremony.  No kidding.  I shed tears.  I didn’t plan it.  It just happened… more than once, of course when the kids first marched in to Pomp and Circumstance, but also when Mrs. Dunham talked about their year together and (I think) when Cal’s name was announced.  If I’m crying during my kid’s first graduation from Kindergarten, an achievement that I believe is over-celebrated, I’m going to be a blubbering fool for his high school and college graduations, or any celebration of Cal, for that matter.  In my defense, I cry every time I see Rudy run onto the field and make his official tackle.  I’m just a crier.  I don’t think it was necessarily the situation that brought it out of me… but I sure was proud of my kid (and, really, all of his classmates whom I’ve come to know over the years).

After the ceremony, my tears air dried (I knew Dan and my mother-in-law had seen them, but I wasn’t about to wipe them and draw any more attention to them), we met the graduates in their classroom for a small reception.  There was cake and punch.  A video montage played in the back of the room, flashing candids from the school year with intermittent video clips of the kids reading and/or speaking to the camera.  I never did see Cal’s clip – we had Choo Choo Johnny’s to hit for a celebratory dinner and cut our stay at the reception short.

With Cal’s entourage out the door, I found myself wanting to do one more thing before I followed them.  I walked over to Cal’s teacher and gave her a hug, telling her that she really did a fantastic job with Cal, that we really appreciated all of the work that she puts into her job and that she’s an excellent teacher.  I believe that.  Cal’s been with Mrs. Dunham since before he was in Kindergarten and before she was a Kindergarten teacher.  She makes it a point to recognize the potential in each kid and challenges him to tap into it.  I credit Ally with Cal’s remarkable reading abilities for his age.  That he’s also creative, pretty sharp and incredibly inquisitive may very well be in his genes; Ally just makes it a point to facilitate regular reinforcement and encouragement of those traits.

This was Cal’s first stint in Kindergarten.  With a December birthday, he technically wasn’t old enough to start Kindergarten last fall; so he’s really due to do so this coming August.  When the Director at his current school told us that they thought Cal was ready for Kindergarten and would we like to put him into their private Kindergarten program, we jumped on the opportunity.  When she told us he could just do Kindergarten twice, then (once at his current school, and again in public school), we thought that was nutty.  If he did well in his first year in Kindergarten, why not just put him right into First Grade in public school?  Mostly, we were worried he’d be bored, and this would lead to other issues.

He did well in Kindergarten.

Then we thought about maturity.  While Cal’s always been pretty good at fitting comfortably in to social settings, he has his idiosyncracies (freaking out about his pants hitting the tops of his feet, for one) that we’d hate to be problematic in First Grade and that another year might help to address.  And, just as important, did we want him to be the smallest and youngest in the sports he chooses to play or the biggest and oldest?  With the latter as the obvious preference and figuring another year to mature would be beneficial, we decided his first year of public school would be spent in another round of Kindergarten.  It would be different enough and with new opportunities that we really believe (hope?) he won’t be bored.

It's not that we stressed regularly about our decision, but it really seemed like a big one.  Sure, it's Kindergarten vs. First Grade; but I feel like we're setting the stage for Cal's life with this single decision.  With this single decision, we set him on a path with different potential friends, different potential teammates, different experiences altogether than he would have been had we put him into First Grade now.

I find comfort in knowing we weren’t alone in our decision.  Most others in Cal’s Kindergarten class who weren’t old enough to start Kindergarten in public school this year are doing the same.

So we, along with Cal's grandparents, celebrated Cal's first Kindergarten graduation with a dinner at Choo Choo Johnny's, Cal's restaurant of choice.  I may have asked him ten times over the course of the week leading up to his day if he wanted to go to "B-DUBS AND GET MAGGIE MOOS AFTERWARD or Choo Choo Johnny's and just get ice cream there?"  Each time he answered definitively, "Choo Choo Johnny's," resisting my obvious suggestion that he pick B-Dubs and Maggie Moos.  The kid knows what he likes and wants.  Maybe next year, for Kindergarten Graduation - Take 2, he'll pick B-Dubs.  I know it'll be in the mix of choices, and maybe he'll have matured his way out of Choo Choo Johnny's.

Don't Go Extinct

I was in a meeting at work when I got the call.  When it rang, I looked at my phone and saw it was from the kids’ school.  Oh, no.  Anytime I get this call, I immediately think about how the kids looked and felt when we sent them to school that morning and then think of all the bad things about which school might be calling.  Ella wasn’t sick – did she fall and get hurt?  Is she now complaining that she doesn’t feel well?  Cal had a minor rash, which we’ve come to learn is how colds manifest themselves in him.  Was that rash getting worse?  Did he not feel well?  What train would I catch to get home?  Would I need to call the doctor and get my sick kid in that night?  Would I need to take a PTO day tomorrow to care for my sick child and work while said child slept?  Please let it be Cal – he’s just a much better sick kid.

“Hello?”  I answered the phone.

“Hi, Carla, it’s Ally,” said the voice on the other side.

Ah, it’s about Cal.  Things are looking up already. I don’t know if I even said anything, and she continued.

“Don’t worry, everything’s fine,” she started.  Every call that I get from the kids’ school that isn’t for the purpose of delivering bad (sick/hurt) news starts this way.  I like it.

She then proceeded to tell me that she had received a “certificate” in the mail for Cal and asked me, “Did Cal enter some kind of contest with Metra?”

“He did!” It was so long ago, I had almost forgotten about it.

Cal did forget about it.  When Ally asked him what it was for, he told her he didn’t know.  Ally continued, “They sent me a certificate of participation.  That’s really cool.  I didn’t know anything about this!”

I explained what I could remember of the contest (what it was for, when we entered, that the entry asked for school/teacher information), all the while wondering if she had also gotten any notice of how he finished in the contest, i.e. whether he had won anything.  I hesitated to ask, only because I didn’t want to put a damper in her excitement over his mere participation in it; but I was curious and eventually asked her, “So, this is just a certificate of participation, not that he won anything?”  Goodness.  Using the word “just” in my question made me sound disappointed with too-high expectations.  To clarify, I wasn’t disappointed; but I do have high expectations.  Cal can draw very well for a 5-year-old.

Ally then told me that it didn’t say anything about him winning anything.  I told her I’d find the picture he drew for the contest and bring it in.  And I did.

A few days later, I got the same call from school and had the same feelings of dread that I usually do when I see the number.  I reluctantly answered it.  It was Ally again.

“Hi, Carla.  Don’t worry, everything’s fine,” she started.  Relief.  “Cal won third place in the Metra contest!” she relayed, once again really excited about it.

“What?!?!!” I exclaimed, as a huge smile planted itself on my face.  I then rattled off another explanation of the contest, that they use the drawings for their tickets and other posters and told her I’d get her the details of it so her whole class can participate next year.

Cal's Participant's Certificate and Entry into Metra's Poster Contest,
displayed on his classroom door

It turns out, Cal did win third place in the Kindergarten age group with his entry titled “Don’t Go Extinct” followed by the mandatory words “Look Listen Live.”  It was a perfect mix of dinosaurs and trains.  He won $100 for it.  When I asked him what he wanted to do with his $100, he told me -- and I’m not making this up -- that he was going to save it so that he could buy a car when he gets older.

When Cal told Ally his plans for his winnings, Ally said, “I’m sorry, no 5-year-old says that.”  Of course, she knows that our 5-year-old does.

Five Short Ella Stories

Short Ella Story #1

One day last week, Ella put her running shoes on without socks, a common occurrence which I just cannot understand.  With both shoes now on her feet, she whined, “something’s wrong,” and somehow communicated to me that it was the left shoe that wasn’t “right.”

I told her with all of the attitude I could muster (which pales in comparison to the attitude she regularly gives me… but I digress), “Sure something’s wrong – you’re putting your shoes on without socks.  You’re going to get blisters.  I hope you get blisters so you learn to NOT wear your running shoes without socks.”  And then I helped her fix it and actually succeeded in doing so, I have no idea how.

We made it to the car; and as I strapped her into her carseat, Ella happily announced to all of us (Dan and Cal were already strapped into the car themselves), “Mommy hopes I get blisters.  Yeah, because I didn’t wear my socks.”

I’m sure she announced this to her teachers later, which will be yet another hit to my quest to be Mother of the Year.  I don’t really hope she gets blisters.  I mean, Ella with two unblistered feet is tough enough to handle, but with blisters?

Short Ella Story #2

This morning, I had my morning shake (one of those EAS Myoplex shakes that Dan and I “eat” while we’re on “the program” (Body for Life diet and exercise program)) sitting on the counter in the bathroom.  I was in the shower and not really in a position to fend off my little vultures who might come looking for a sip, so I had pushed the shake back toward the mirror, still reachable by said vultures but not without some effort.

Now, these shakes aren’t the greatest tasting things, but our kids love them.  They enjoy the pasty, semi-sweet taste of them as well as the “Papa moustache” (Dan’s dad, until recently, had a white moustache) the shakes leave on their upper lips after they each take a sip.

Mid-shower, Ella entered the bathroom.  She stood on a stool in front of our bathroom counter and looked at herself in the mirror.  Then she started fidgeting with some of the things on the counter.  I kept my eye on her because I knew at some point she’d make a move for my shake.

She finally did, but subtly, just with her eyes.  I immediately said, “Ella, noooo,” like one would to a dog warning him not to step outside the boundaries of the yard.  And I followed it with, “Hey, Boo Boo, why don’t you brush your hair?” with a really up-beat, excited tone, as if I hadn’t scolded her only seconds earlier.

“NO! I was not checking your shake, Mommy,” Ella said loudly and sternly, angry that I’d even suggest she was… which I wasn’t… well, sort of wasn’t.

“I didn’t say anything about the shake.  I just suggested you brush your hair, Boo Boo,” I responded.  Clearly, I was talking about the shake – she knew it and got the message.

Short Ella Story #3

A recent morning conversation with Ella:

Ella <sweetly>: “Mommy, can I have my animal crackers?”

Me <leading>: “Animal crackers… ?”

Ella <sweetly through a smile>: “Please.”

Me <recognizing a teaching opportunity>: “Ella, if you just always say ‘please’, I’ll be SO PROUD of you.”

Ella <in one ear and translated a bit>: “I’m proud of Zoe.” (Zoe’s our cat.)

Me <following>: “You are?  Why?”

Ella: “Because… because… because she put her fur on.  She put her undies on and her fur and… and… and her shirt.”

Me: “Zoe wears a shirt?”

Ella: “Yes!”

And I left it at that.  Why I didn’t challenge the "undies" part of her declaration is beyond me.

Short Ella Story #4

One morning last week, Cal was sitting pantless on a stool at our kitchen island, either drawing or eating animal crackers (or maybe both).  I don’t know why he was pantless.  I don’t think I even knew why at the time.  Normally, he emerges fully clothed from his room in the morning.

Ella arrived in the kitchen dressed, glanced at Cal and started to climb onto the other stool at the island.  As she did so, she commented on Cal’s half-nakedness:

“Cal, you have a penis and you’re sitting on the stool with no pants on.”

She could not have been more right.

Short Ella Story #5

Ella regularly asks Cal for help.  Washing her hands: "Cal, can you help me?"  Drawing a picture: "Cal, can you draw a lion for me?"  Writing her name: "Cal, can you write my name on this paper?"

And he does.

I love that she's comfortable asking him, and I love that he usually does help her without question.  I hope it's always this way between the two of them.

My Mother's Day Gems

If I've learned anything in my 5+ years of being a mom it's that MY DAY just will not live up to the sun-is-shining and everyone's-smiling expectations that I may have for it.  While I want my kids to enjoy planting flowers with me, I know they might "help" me for a short time only to discover that planting flowers doesn't just mean digging in and flinging dirt.  I may look forward to a dinner at "B-Dubs" but am certain it will be tense throughout as we try to keep the kids in their seats, happy, if we even make it out to dinner at all.

Really, my expectations are that it will be like any other day, complete with timeouts and hugs, poor listening skills and small successes, big messes and surprising cooperation, tattle tells and best friends, sharp tongues and kisses, tears and smiles.

My Mother's Day, 2014, was pretty nice, really.  Sure, it was comprised of the mix of the good and bad I described above.  I also had breakfast in bed.  I planted flowers and herbs in the yard and in planters.  I went for a run on the prairie path with Cal and then shared a post-run PowerAde and cookies on the bench near Walgreens.  I enjoyed a glass of wine.  Yes, I was pretty content for most of the day on Mother's Day, except for a brief moment after I conceded that we would not be making it out to dinner due to misbehaving kids and a couple of parents not wanting to reward the misbehavior in any way (except that Dan did go pick up some "B-Dubs" for us to eat at home instead).

The best part of my Mother's Day, though, was being on the receiving end of these gems (below), hand-made cards and booklets from the kids.  I absolutely eat these things up.

My cards, including one from Dan and one from Mom
 

My card from Ella... hmm... a lot of my "favorites" happen to be her favorites
 

The inside of Cal's "I love you bunches, Mom" card
 

Cal drew a picture of me - I'm smiling!
 

Cal knows me a little more than Ella does - he got phone, Chapstick and money right... trash?
 

A couple of excerpts from the "book" Cal made for me - love it!
 

A couple more excerpts from the "book" Cal made for me - I'm so polite!

Ella's Fruit-Loop Necklace

One of Ella’s teachers told me a story yesterday while I was picking the kids up from school.  She started it by telling me that they’re working on Ella’s listening skills (sweet – Mommy and Daddy need some help); and at the center of this listening exercise was a Fruit-Loop necklace, handmade primarily by Ella by looping a string through a bunch of Fruit Loops and then tied together by her teacher to form a necklace that she could put on or off herself by simply pulling it over her head.

One can imagine the temptation that a Fruit-Loop necklace might present to a kid, particularly one who doesn’t usually get to eat Fruit Loops.  We regularly buy Frosted Mini Wheats (“Daddy’s cereal”), Honey Bunches of Oats (“Mommy’s cereal”) or Oatmeal Squares and (unfortunately) have a half-eaten thing of tastes-like-eating-bark Grape Nuts from a diet attempt that’s just taking up good cereal space in our pantry.

Needless to say, Ella gave in to the temptation soon after putting her new necklace around her neck and ate a Fruit Loop off of it.  Her teacher, Ms. Cece, saw this and politely told her that she was not supposed to eat any of the Fruit Loops off of the necklace until Mommy and Daddy said it was okay to do so later.

Ella proceeded to eat more of them.  Ms. Cece reminded her of the rule and specifically asked her not to “eat all of the Fruit Loops” off of her necklace.

Some time passed by, and Ms. Cece looked again at Ella and noticed that most of the Fruit Loops were now gone from Ella’s necklace (three were left) and confronted her about it.  She asked her why she had eaten "all of the Fruit Loops" after having been asked not to do so a couple of times.

Ella responded with shock in her tone, “Ms. Cece, I didn’t eat all of the Fruit Loops!” and showed Ms. Cece that she still had a few on her necklace.

Ella & what's left of her
Fruit-Loop Necklace

Ella had gotten Ms. Cece on a technicality.  Ms. Cece knew it, and I’m certain Ella knew it.

Ella managed to make it all the way to Cal’s swimming lesson that night without eating her three remaining Fruit Loops.  Half way through his lesson, Ella actually asked me if she could eat them.  I told her that she couldn’t because they don’t allow people to eat food in the pool area.  She proceeded to eat them… all three of them.

No technicality there – she had completely disregarded my direction.  I didn’t even do anything about it.  I just did my “whatever” smirk, shook my head slightly back and forth and rolled my eyes.  I really didn’t want to get into it with her at that moment over three Fruit Loops.  I just wanted to watch Cal swim and also knew that still ahead of me was our daily battle getting her into bed for the night.  I wonder if we can recruit Ms. Cece to help with that.