We Leathermans went to a friend's daughter's graduation party earlier today. As one might imagine, there were many people of varying relationships to the graduate; and we were the "friends-of-the-family" variety... all four of us.
Despite initial appearances, the Leatherkids are not shy. They're very comfortable talking to just about anyone, adults included. So it was no surprise that Cal had no problem interacting with Uncle Rueben. Fortunately, Dan was around to witness some of it, the perhaps best of which follows:
Cal <to Rueben, the two of them sitting on the same swing seat>: "So, how old are you?"
Reuben <sensibly>: "I'm not telling you how old I am."
Cal: "You're not a girl."
Rueben: "Well, I know I'm not a girl. But I'm still not telling you how old I am."
Cal: "How old do you think I am?"
Rueben: "Eight."
Cal: "No, six."
Rueben <foolishly>: "Well, you can add 50 to that, and that's how old I am."
Cal: "You don't look 56."
Rueben <pleasantly surprised>: "Oh, yeah... how old do I look?"
Cal <laughing>: "Uh... 92. In four years, you'll look 96."
Rueben <joking>: "Well, if you keep it up, you might not see seven."
I don't know if Cal got the hint that he had insulted Uncle Rueben, but shortly after this exchange, he offered to make a trip to the kitchen for some treats for the two of them and returned with a plate full.
Saturday, July 18, 2015
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Two Moments in the Dells
Last year while in the Dells, I captured daily posts about our four-day, three-night stay. This year, I did not do that, not so much because it would have been the same stories as last year (afterall, we were staying at the same resort) nor because there were just no experiences worthy of sharing -- it wasn't the same and there were plenty of sharable experiences. I'm in a bit of a lull with my writing, finding it hard to find the time and, when I do, finding it hard to stay on point. I start with simple stories and find myself wandering into unfinished (and, as a result, unposted) novels. It's already happening with this one. Enough!
Anyway, we left the Dells today, three days after we arrived, two days after friends Pam and Joe left and one day after Cal's friend Colin and his dad left. And from those four days with all of those people, there are two very simple moments I want to share.
Moment 1:
Pam and I were floating down one of the lazy rivers at the resort, keeping Cal in check. This year, he loved spending time in the lazy river not in or on an inflated tube but tubeless, half running and half swimming with the current. When he was with Colin and Mark (Colin's dad), I was okay floating on a tube alongside Pam and well behind Cal; when Colin and Mark got out and Cal wanted to stay in, I insisted he stay with us and not stray far ahead. He accepted this condition of his continuing to enjoy the lazy river and actually adhered to it without much reminder from me to do so.
All of this is the lead-in to the shareable moment about which I don't even remember all of the details. I think Cal may have taken a break from his run-swim and grabbed on to my tube. He wanted to say or ask me something and started with, "Mama..."
I don't remember what he said after that. What I do remember is how incredibly special I felt at that moment when that beautiful boy... that miracle of a human being... that eventual independent man... called me "Mama" in his unique Cal voice. He calls no one else "Mama," just me. I am this kid's mom! What a gift I was given!
Clearly this wasn't the first time Cal's called me "Mama." I don't know what about this particular time struck me any differently than the others. Perhaps it was his vulnerability and my instinct to protect him. Perhaps it was because it was in the presence of my childhood friend. Perhaps the moment was one of no stress, no need to rush out the door and no distractions that enabled me to really hear him. Whatever it was, it was truly a special moment for me.
Moment 2:
Our days in the Dells started and ended with a visit to the indoor water park. There were a few water slides in there worthy of some time and to try to enjoy them midday is next to impossible with the crowds.
Two of these slides require an inflated tube, and two do not. All of them require that you be 48" to ride, else you need to ride with an adult (or not at all). Yesterday, we finally convinced Ella to give the requiring-a-tube slides a shot.
She's four ("and a half" she now adds), so this was no easy feat for her little self. Getting to the top of the slide required a long stair climb; and, once at the top, getting down the slide -- the first time an entirely unknown path -- required a lot of faith that her family and the lifeguard weren't leading her somewhere she really wouldn't want to go or be.
For Ella to go down the slide, she had to be positioned on top of me positioned over the rear hole of the figure-eight tube, her little buns situated between my legs and her body lying on my stomach and chest such that her head was snugly tucked into the left side of my neck. As we were in our bathing suits, there was a lot of skin-to-skin contact.
Immediately after Cal and Ella were each born, the nurse or midwife placed my newborn baby on my bare chest. They say skin-to-skin contact is a natural way to build and further the bond between a mother and her new baby after birth. I understand it even has some health benefits for the baby, too. Good for the baby, yes... good for this mama, absolutely -- it was a wonderful feeling when the kids were born and, evidently, still is.
Riding those water slides with Ella draped on top of me... feeling her skin on mine... feeling the weight of her little body on mine... feeling her trust in me... feeling her fears and knowing I would keep her safe... hearing her, copying me, say "thank you" to the guard as he pushed us down the slide... I could have ridden those water slides with her all day. We probably did ride them for an hour and a half -- Ella leading us up the stairs, the two of us zipping down the slide and me making sure we didn't tip at the base of the slide or on any part of our navigation with the current to the exit for another round. It took Ella's need to go potty and my brain kicking in to tell us to experience stuff outside to stop us.
These were two very simple moments in the Dells that pulled on my heartstrings without anyone knowing. I am one happy, lucky mama to have been given these gifts.
Anyway, we left the Dells today, three days after we arrived, two days after friends Pam and Joe left and one day after Cal's friend Colin and his dad left. And from those four days with all of those people, there are two very simple moments I want to share.
Moment 1:
Pam and I were floating down one of the lazy rivers at the resort, keeping Cal in check. This year, he loved spending time in the lazy river not in or on an inflated tube but tubeless, half running and half swimming with the current. When he was with Colin and Mark (Colin's dad), I was okay floating on a tube alongside Pam and well behind Cal; when Colin and Mark got out and Cal wanted to stay in, I insisted he stay with us and not stray far ahead. He accepted this condition of his continuing to enjoy the lazy river and actually adhered to it without much reminder from me to do so.
All of this is the lead-in to the shareable moment about which I don't even remember all of the details. I think Cal may have taken a break from his run-swim and grabbed on to my tube. He wanted to say or ask me something and started with, "Mama..."
I don't remember what he said after that. What I do remember is how incredibly special I felt at that moment when that beautiful boy... that miracle of a human being... that eventual independent man... called me "Mama" in his unique Cal voice. He calls no one else "Mama," just me. I am this kid's mom! What a gift I was given!
Clearly this wasn't the first time Cal's called me "Mama." I don't know what about this particular time struck me any differently than the others. Perhaps it was his vulnerability and my instinct to protect him. Perhaps it was because it was in the presence of my childhood friend. Perhaps the moment was one of no stress, no need to rush out the door and no distractions that enabled me to really hear him. Whatever it was, it was truly a special moment for me.
Moment 2:
Our days in the Dells started and ended with a visit to the indoor water park. There were a few water slides in there worthy of some time and to try to enjoy them midday is next to impossible with the crowds.
Two of these slides require an inflated tube, and two do not. All of them require that you be 48" to ride, else you need to ride with an adult (or not at all). Yesterday, we finally convinced Ella to give the requiring-a-tube slides a shot.
She's four ("and a half" she now adds), so this was no easy feat for her little self. Getting to the top of the slide required a long stair climb; and, once at the top, getting down the slide -- the first time an entirely unknown path -- required a lot of faith that her family and the lifeguard weren't leading her somewhere she really wouldn't want to go or be.
For Ella to go down the slide, she had to be positioned on top of me positioned over the rear hole of the figure-eight tube, her little buns situated between my legs and her body lying on my stomach and chest such that her head was snugly tucked into the left side of my neck. As we were in our bathing suits, there was a lot of skin-to-skin contact.
Immediately after Cal and Ella were each born, the nurse or midwife placed my newborn baby on my bare chest. They say skin-to-skin contact is a natural way to build and further the bond between a mother and her new baby after birth. I understand it even has some health benefits for the baby, too. Good for the baby, yes... good for this mama, absolutely -- it was a wonderful feeling when the kids were born and, evidently, still is.
Riding those water slides with Ella draped on top of me... feeling her skin on mine... feeling the weight of her little body on mine... feeling her trust in me... feeling her fears and knowing I would keep her safe... hearing her, copying me, say "thank you" to the guard as he pushed us down the slide... I could have ridden those water slides with her all day. We probably did ride them for an hour and a half -- Ella leading us up the stairs, the two of us zipping down the slide and me making sure we didn't tip at the base of the slide or on any part of our navigation with the current to the exit for another round. It took Ella's need to go potty and my brain kicking in to tell us to experience stuff outside to stop us.
These were two very simple moments in the Dells that pulled on my heartstrings without anyone knowing. I am one happy, lucky mama to have been given these gifts.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Mommy, the Heel
There’s something about leaving my kids in the care of
others for 11+ hours a day, sometimes longer when there are train issues
(exhibit A: yesterday) that makes me feel like a heel of a mother on nearly a
daily basis. That’s a long day for my 6-
and 4-year-olds that starts and ends with mad, terribly stressful rushes
through our limited family time together, making it even worse.
Sure, I squeeze “I love you’s” in for the ears and hearts of
both kids in the morning; but I’m sure their hearing it is muddied by the demanding
“get your shoes on” and the snotty “if you had gotten dressed faster, you’d
have time for some animal crackers” and my not-so-gentle brushing the knots out
of Ella’s slept-on long hair as we race out the door. The best is when I say “I hope you get
blisters” when Ella chooses to wear her Crocs (sockless) over her comfortable
New Balance running shoes despite my repeated pleas for her to choose the
latter. Nice mom.
At the end of the day, it’s not much better. On a good day, we’re getting the kids from
school just after 6pm. They’re generally
not the last kids to be picked up, so I’ve got that going for me. Our greetings aren’t filled with excitement
and hugs, having reunited after several hours apart. Half the time, they’re smiley and cooperative;
the other half, someone’s upset, be it me for having to beg them to stop what
they’re doing so we can… just… go… home… or be it they for having their play or
drawing time cut short so they can go home and be constantly parented by Dan
and/or me. And none of us actually say
anything about it, but I'm sure we’re all dreading the hour and a half that’s ahead of
us.
After deflecting Ella’s broken-record requests that we “go
to a restaurant” virtually the entire time it takes us to get out the door of
school and through the door of our house, the madness begins. Chicken breasts aren’t thawed? Nuts. Think
of an alternative, throw it together (sometimes with Ella’s (non)help) and call
it a meal. Reconsider buying canned or
boxed meals –- they’d be so much easier but just so processed. Announce, “dinner’s ready, wash hands” five
times, get little to no reaction and either start yelling or just sit down to
eat by myself. Eat dinner -- Cal’s half
sitting on his chair, constantly dropping food from his mouth and wiping his food-dirtied
face with his shirt; Ella’s up and down, on her chair and off her chair, for one
reason or another throughout dinner. Fall
into a negotiation about exactly how much dinner needs to be eaten in order to
get a treat… and wonder, “one stinkin’ cookie is worth all of this?” Give kids a cookie each. Finish eating while Dan starts clearing the table
and rinsing the dishes and watch him not
put them in the dishwasher. Put dishes
in dishwasher while Dan and the kids head upstairs for showers. Listen to battle of who gets to shower first…
and then the battle to just get the kids to get their jammies, get undressed
and meet in the bathroom for said shower.
Head upstairs to be the official dryer (or dryer helper if I'm in an encouraging-independence mood).
Sternly insist showers are taking too long, time to speed it up or “no
books.” Dry first kid off, tell her to
get her jammies on and to brush her teeth (yes, Ella is typically first).
Do same for second kid. Head to Ella’s
room with Dan to perform the routine -– Ella picks books, Dan reads one, I read
one, turn “Frozen” soundtrack on, cover Ella with crazy small “Blue Blankie”
and nothing else, Dan leans over and gives Ella his good-night spiel, I do
mine, start “Frozen” soundtrack over, blow kisses to Ella from the doorway,
tell her “I love you” and acknowledge her “I love you, Mommy!” Head to Cal’s room. Pick non-fiction book to read to him. Watch Cal rub Dan’s rough feet and call them
both “weirdos” (and secretly wish he’d rub my tired feet). Read book to him and try to retain facts
myself. Turn on the White Sox game on the
radio. Watch Dan give Cal goodnight spiel. Give Cal goodnight spiel myself.
Take a breath.
My train was delayed just outside of the train station
yesterday after work. It was the
infamous “switch problems” excuse. When
they announced that we were delayed 14 minutes (and still not moving), I
realized I was screwed –- there was no way I’d get the kids before school closed
at 6:30pm. I arranged for a friend to
get them and stay with them outside the school until I got there. When I called to inform the school of this, I
found myself on the receiving end of short responses and a judgmental tone that,
in not so many words, suggested that I didn’t have my priorities right. My poor kids.
What were my poor kids doing when I finally got to school? Enjoying time with my friend. Taking a little hike around the school. Playing red light, green light. Telling my friend that we would be going to B-Dubs for dinner (really?). Not stressed. Happy and seemingly unaffected by my lateness.
So what did this heel of a mom do? I took them to B-Dubs for dinner, of course, temporarily lifting my heel-of-a-mom label, which I quickly earned back by laying into them about taking way too long to leave school this afternoon.
Take a breath indeed.
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Too Sweaty
I had probably given myself 10 minutes to cool down after my excellent run on Thursday morning before heading up the stairs to get showered and dressed for work when I ran into Ella who declared, "Mommy, I'm supposed to wear my camp shirt today."
On top of things as I always am (fer sure), I knew this and told her I had put it out on her dresser for her last night. She ran to get it and quickly returned with it in her hand. She told me that she didn't want to wear it to school, which was fine as long as she put it on for the field trip she'd be taking with her classmates later that morning.
I extended my hand to her and asked her, "Do you want me to put it in your backpack?" My head and shirt were still wet (the sweaty kind) from my run, and I'm sure a few beads of sweat were still visible on my forehead.
She pensively looked at me for a bit, concerned but considering my offer. "Yes," she said, tentatively handing it to me. "But don't get it too sweaty because I'll have to say, 'Teacher, my camp shirt is TOO SWEATY!'"
As careful as I was with it, I'm sure her shirt didn't make it into her backpack unscathed. I'm also sure it dried before Ella had to reveal any grodiness about it, put there by her sweaty mother.
On top of things as I always am (fer sure), I knew this and told her I had put it out on her dresser for her last night. She ran to get it and quickly returned with it in her hand. She told me that she didn't want to wear it to school, which was fine as long as she put it on for the field trip she'd be taking with her classmates later that morning.
I extended my hand to her and asked her, "Do you want me to put it in your backpack?" My head and shirt were still wet (the sweaty kind) from my run, and I'm sure a few beads of sweat were still visible on my forehead.
She pensively looked at me for a bit, concerned but considering my offer. "Yes," she said, tentatively handing it to me. "But don't get it too sweaty because I'll have to say, 'Teacher, my camp shirt is TOO SWEATY!'"
As careful as I was with it, I'm sure her shirt didn't make it into her backpack unscathed. I'm also sure it dried before Ella had to reveal any grodiness about it, put there by her sweaty mother.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Ella's Sports Bra
Last Saturday, Ella informed me she wanted a "top that goes up like this" as she moved her hands up from her chest and stopping at her shoulders... as if that even described anything other than basically every type of top.
I asked her to clarify -- it might have been as blunt as "I don't know what you're talking about" (I didn't) -- so she said the same thing. "I want a top that goes up like this," again, moving her hands up from her chest and stopping at her shoulders.
It was the Wiggly-Wrigley thing all over again. A year or so ago, Ella told us about her new friend, "Wiggly."
"Wiggly?" I asked.
"No, Wiggly," she responded.
"Wiggly?"
"No! WIGGLY." she got frustrated.
We went back and forth with this several times -- me somewhat entertained, Ella ramping up her frustration with me every time I said "Wiggly" -- until I realized that she was actually saying Wrigley, in her R-less, Ella way.
By some miracle, I figured out the kind of top she wanted. I don't recall the exact chain of the conversation that brought me to the right conclusion (it really was a miracle), but I determined it was a sports bra. I found this to be amusing and cute and complimentary, all wrapped up in a tight, stretchy band of fabric. Of course she needed a sports bra -- she's a runner, and runners (the girl variety) wear sports bras. She learned this from watching me.
This was one of those nutty requests that I feel like I had to oblige. Clearly she doesn't need a sport bra and won't for several years. But if it gets her out and active and proud to do so, I'm happy to help facilitate that. Being out and active is a big part of who I am, who my friends are and how I got to this point in my life, and it's a path I'd like my kids to be on as well. Worst case, they'll be in good shape.
So, with "sports bra" at the top of our clothes shopping list, we headed to Old Navy, not sure we'd actually find one her size there but feeling pretty good about it. And what do you know? They had a few. The smallest size we could find was a 6-7, which turned out to be perfect for Ella. It's hard enough putting a right-sized one on myself; a little too big for Ella meant it would still cover her privates but be loose enough to pull on without too much of a struggle.
So we bought it, along with a running tank to go over it.
I'm not sure where she got this, but she had no interest in putting a tank over her sports bra. I always do -- no one's interested in seeing my abs (or, truth be told, trying to find them), and I'm not interested in letting them try.
It was chilly last weekend, and we really don't want her, at 4 years old, running around in a sports bra; so we introduced this rule: No sports bra without a top anywhere outside the house. Inside, she could wear it sans cover; outside, she had to cover it.
On Sunday afternoon, Ella wanted to test out her new sports bra and go for a run. She was already dressed and ready. Knowing that I had already taken my post-run shower that day, she informed me that I didn't need to run with her, that I could walk since I had already showered and wouldn't want to "get sweaty." Plus, I didn't have my own sports bra, or any bra for that matter, on. But she'd run... in her sports bra... with her running top over it. So cute!
A stickler for routine, Ella grabbed her water bottle, filled it up with water and ice and handed it to me to put in the BOB (jogging stroller). We always take a water bottle when I take her running with me. She told me that she wouldn't be able to push the stroller because she'd be running, so I'd have to. A natural problem solver, I suggested that I just carry the water bottle and we leave the stroller here. She agreed that was a good idea.
We headed out the door and asked Cal, who was playing basketball, if he'd want to join us. He did and, for the most part, stayed behind and walked with me. Ella ran and Cal and I trailed behind, sometimes too far behind for comfort. With Cal and me yelling at her to stop, she made sure to stop at corners and wait for us and get a drink of water, and we never actually crossed a street. I saw a couple of cars slow until they saw me, either making sure she was okay and with an adult or getting ready to call the cops on me. This was a high-stress run for everyone, and it would be the last time she'd run without me by her side, also running, for awhile.
Ella probably ended up running a good .75 miles before she was done. As soon as she got home, she went inside to get some more water (her bottle was empty) and came back out without a shirt over her sports bra. She was already breaking the rules. When asked, she said she took it off because she "was sweaty" and had to cool down. We were sitting on a couple of chairs just outside our garage watching the boys play basketball, so I let it slide.
We went out for a second run with Ella's sports bra yesterday. This time I, too, had my running gear on and was ready to run alongside her. About 10 steps in, she stopped to walk... started running after 20 walking steps... and stopped again shortly after. It was a pattern I wasn't thrilled about, and, of course, I asked her, "why when I wasn't prepared did you run the whole way?" It was a question lost on Ella whose sudden lost interest in our run was bugging me. So I proposed something.
"Ella, how 'bout this? We'll make some lunches and Mommy will run with you in the stroller to the prairie path where we can have a picnic lunch?" I thought it was brilliant.
Ella's eyes were wide. She liked it.
I clarified, "so, Mommy will run first and then we'll stop at the picnic area at the path. We'll eat our lunches there, and we'll walk back home. You can walk and push the stroller home after lunch <ugh> if you want."
It was a great idea in both our eyes. So we went back home, packed some lunches in Ella's Minnie and Disney princesses lunch bags and headed off toward the path, me running and pushing Ella, her sports bra, and our lunches in the stroller.
I figure I got about 3 miles in before we reached the picnic area. It was 3 miles complete with reminders at every half mile that I was getting my run in first but "don't worry, we'll get to the picnic area where we'll eat in about N <once it was 14, thrice 10 and once 3> minutes."
We made it to the picnic area where... of course... of all the days that this would be so it was when Ella and I had some plans for it... someone had rented out the picnic area and was having a party in it. Ella actually handled this really well, first insisting that we could find an empty spot to sit and then quickly accepting my proposal that we just head to the park in our neighborhood instead.
So, after walking for a bit (she was out and pushing the stroller on our way back to our 'hood for lunch in the park), she complained it was taking too long. Um, yeah, I know. I jumped on this and told her that it would be faster if she hopped in the stroller and let me run ourselves to the park. To my surprise, she took me up on this.
Ella, her sports bra, our lunches and I got to our neighborhood park pretty quickly, found the benches to be too hot and just set up our lunch spread on a platform of one of the playsets there. It was just the two of us outside in the park for awhile, and I think we both enjoyed every bit of it. I like to think Ella's sports bra played a role in that, justifying her having one at such a young age. We might have gotten out of the house anyway, but I know for sure her sports bra was behind our run and fun yesterday.
I asked her to clarify -- it might have been as blunt as "I don't know what you're talking about" (I didn't) -- so she said the same thing. "I want a top that goes up like this," again, moving her hands up from her chest and stopping at her shoulders.
It was the Wiggly-Wrigley thing all over again. A year or so ago, Ella told us about her new friend, "Wiggly."
"Wiggly?" I asked.
"No, Wiggly," she responded.
"Wiggly?"
"No! WIGGLY." she got frustrated.
We went back and forth with this several times -- me somewhat entertained, Ella ramping up her frustration with me every time I said "Wiggly" -- until I realized that she was actually saying Wrigley, in her R-less, Ella way.
By some miracle, I figured out the kind of top she wanted. I don't recall the exact chain of the conversation that brought me to the right conclusion (it really was a miracle), but I determined it was a sports bra. I found this to be amusing and cute and complimentary, all wrapped up in a tight, stretchy band of fabric. Of course she needed a sports bra -- she's a runner, and runners (the girl variety) wear sports bras. She learned this from watching me.
This was one of those nutty requests that I feel like I had to oblige. Clearly she doesn't need a sport bra and won't for several years. But if it gets her out and active and proud to do so, I'm happy to help facilitate that. Being out and active is a big part of who I am, who my friends are and how I got to this point in my life, and it's a path I'd like my kids to be on as well. Worst case, they'll be in good shape.
So, with "sports bra" at the top of our clothes shopping list, we headed to Old Navy, not sure we'd actually find one her size there but feeling pretty good about it. And what do you know? They had a few. The smallest size we could find was a 6-7, which turned out to be perfect for Ella. It's hard enough putting a right-sized one on myself; a little too big for Ella meant it would still cover her privates but be loose enough to pull on without too much of a struggle.
So we bought it, along with a running tank to go over it.
I'm not sure where she got this, but she had no interest in putting a tank over her sports bra. I always do -- no one's interested in seeing my abs (or, truth be told, trying to find them), and I'm not interested in letting them try.
It was chilly last weekend, and we really don't want her, at 4 years old, running around in a sports bra; so we introduced this rule: No sports bra without a top anywhere outside the house. Inside, she could wear it sans cover; outside, she had to cover it.
 |
| Ella and her sports bra |
 |
| Pre-run stretch |
Ella probably ended up running a good .75 miles before she was done. As soon as she got home, she went inside to get some more water (her bottle was empty) and came back out without a shirt over her sports bra. She was already breaking the rules. When asked, she said she took it off because she "was sweaty" and had to cool down. We were sitting on a couple of chairs just outside our garage watching the boys play basketball, so I let it slide.
We went out for a second run with Ella's sports bra yesterday. This time I, too, had my running gear on and was ready to run alongside her. About 10 steps in, she stopped to walk... started running after 20 walking steps... and stopped again shortly after. It was a pattern I wasn't thrilled about, and, of course, I asked her, "why when I wasn't prepared did you run the whole way?" It was a question lost on Ella whose sudden lost interest in our run was bugging me. So I proposed something.
"Ella, how 'bout this? We'll make some lunches and Mommy will run with you in the stroller to the prairie path where we can have a picnic lunch?" I thought it was brilliant.
Ella's eyes were wide. She liked it.
I clarified, "so, Mommy will run first and then we'll stop at the picnic area at the path. We'll eat our lunches there, and we'll walk back home. You can walk and push the stroller home after lunch <ugh> if you want."
It was a great idea in both our eyes. So we went back home, packed some lunches in Ella's Minnie and Disney princesses lunch bags and headed off toward the path, me running and pushing Ella, her sports bra, and our lunches in the stroller.
I figure I got about 3 miles in before we reached the picnic area. It was 3 miles complete with reminders at every half mile that I was getting my run in first but "don't worry, we'll get to the picnic area where we'll eat in about N <once it was 14, thrice 10 and once 3> minutes."
We made it to the picnic area where... of course... of all the days that this would be so it was when Ella and I had some plans for it... someone had rented out the picnic area and was having a party in it. Ella actually handled this really well, first insisting that we could find an empty spot to sit and then quickly accepting my proposal that we just head to the park in our neighborhood instead.
So, after walking for a bit (she was out and pushing the stroller on our way back to our 'hood for lunch in the park), she complained it was taking too long. Um, yeah, I know. I jumped on this and told her that it would be faster if she hopped in the stroller and let me run ourselves to the park. To my surprise, she took me up on this.
 |
| Our lunch spread (it's not Ella's birthday) |
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Ella's "Friends"
I watched Ella get picked
on last night. I was doing double duty, watching Cal's baseball game as
best I could while keeping an eye on Ella as she played at the nearby park.
I was close enough to see everything going on at the park but far enough away that I
couldn't hear any words being exchanged amongst the kids. So I don't
really know how it all went down. I probably never will. But I do
know what I saw, and I didn't like it.
Ella had already made a few trips back to our seats on the sideline to check in and finish eating her "snack" (her term; a more accurate term, which she didn't realize at the time, was "dinner") -- the second half of a sunflower seed butter and jelly sandwich and the three sandwich crackers of the six that I didn't eat. She actually took the sandwich with her back to the park only to return a few minutes later to inform me, complaining, "my friends told me my sandwich is stupid." (We don't use the term "stupid" -- Ella knows this very well.)
Nice friends. This was probably the first sign that playtime at the park wasn't as pleasant and friendly as it seemed from a distance. So I upped my attention to it a bit.
Between the batters and plays and instruction happening on the field, I scoped out the park area, my mommy radar programmed to hone in on a salmon, tutu'd dress and bold Elsa-and-Anna leggings. It was a 10-second cycle of tension followed by relief once I did spot the aformentioned dress-leggings combo scrambling up and down the slides, scurrying across the bridge, hanging from the monkey bars or sliding down the fireman's pole. Watch, scope, breathe easy. It was a 10-second cycle from which hindsight is telling me I probably should have spared myself by situating myself in the play area to watch the game from a distance.
And then I saw her little "friend," a five-year-old snot who, the week before, didn't have nice things to say to or about Ella even then, kick Ella... twice, maybe even three times. Yes, she kicked my little girl. I was shocked. I instinctively marched over there with no clue what I might say or do.
I
am passive aggressive to a fault. I virtually always choose the "high road" and as a general rule just avoid conflict altogether and don't have a use for it other than to set my kids on the right path to personhood. I believe there are "right" fights to pick. I also know that Ella can be bossy and
mouthy, two traits that wouldn't necessarily be a good base for a budding
friendship or even a friendly playtime. Lucky for me, I saw her throw
some wood chips as I walked over, which I used to interject myself into the
scene because this was a fight I was picking.
"Ella,
I don't want to see you throw wood chips again," I directed to Ella who was
standing on the bridge of the park playset. This isn't the first time
I've uttered this phrase, which clearly falls on deaf ears. She and Cal throw
wood chips all the time around the playset in our own backyard. It drives me nuts.
The little snot said something about Ella, I don't remember what. I do remember that it wasn't accusatory, where Ella's actions led this snot to react by kicking her. I do remember thinking it was just downright mean, and I do remember she was almost proud as she said it.
I really don't know how much I am allowed to scold another parent's kid. This is all new to me. I'm just making this up as I go. In a moment of weakness, I acknowledged Ella's... well... Ellaness, and added, still directing my words and pointing my finger at the snot, "Ella isn't always an angel,but that doesn't matter. We DON'T kick people. I DON'T want to see you do that again."
I then asked Ella if she was okay, and she responded that she was. So I started to walk away.
There's a scene in the movie Meet the Parents where Jack and Greg (father and future son-in-law) are sitting in separate cars at a stoplight. It's a race to get back to the house first. One of them, I don't remember which one, pointed his pointer and middle fingers at his own eyes and then his pointer at the other guy to say, "I'm watching you." I don't know that I actually made that sign to her, but I felt like I did. I was watching her.
I made it about 3/4 of the way back to our chairs and stopped to keep a closer eye on Ella and her "friends," which included the little snot, a boy maybe twice Ella's age and a couple of other little boys. I saw the little snot look back at me periodically, so my being there was keeping her in check. My attention was on that 8-year-old punk now -- he just seemed to be on the verge of doing something not so nice to my kid.
My legs were shaking. I watched Ella run to one of those bouncy horsey rides (I think it may have actually been an alligator or a dragon). The punk, the two other little boys and the little snot followed her. As Ella scrambled to get onto the horsey/alligator/dragon ride, her "friends" pounded and pulled on it to make it was unstable and difficult for her to get on. I wanted to jump in and jump all over these kids, but I resisted. I don't know if that was the right thing to do. My intentions were in the right place -- I wanted to let Ella try to hold her own, to battle through a situation herself and know that she can withstand it. I knew she was safe.
My legs were shaking. I watched Ella run to one of those bouncy horsey rides (I think it may have actually been an alligator or a dragon). The punk, the two other little boys and the little snot followed her. As Ella scrambled to get onto the horsey/alligator/dragon ride, her "friends" pounded and pulled on it to make it was unstable and difficult for her to get on. I wanted to jump in and jump all over these kids, but I resisted. I don't know if that was the right thing to do. My intentions were in the right place -- I wanted to let Ella try to hold her own, to battle through a situation herself and know that she can withstand it. I knew she was safe.
She eventually did get on to the horsey/alligator/dragon ride despite her "friends'" best efforts to prevent her from doing so. I still couldn't hear what they were saying. But eventually, I saw Ella scramble off of the ride and come running to me, crying. Once she reached me, I learned that she had bumped her head on the horsey/alligator/dragon ride because the kids had been mean to her. That she was hurt wasn't unusual -- Ella gets "hurt" often... not that I liked how this getting-hurt situation went down.
I hugged and kissed her and then told her that she could go back and play in the park and didn't need to play with those kids. I knew she was okay at that moment, and I really didn't want some mean kids to keep her from having her fun. To be honest, though, I don't know that she IS okay. I don't know how yesterday's non-friend-making went down, but I have my ideas. Not that anyone EVER deserves to be kicked or ganged up on, but I don't think that Ella's helping herself by being bossy or by being a tattle tell or by telling people she "hates" them, all behaviors or words that I wouldn't doubt Ella used during yesterday's stint at the park.
To date, I've been finding comfort in Ella already showing signs of being strong and her own person. Ella doesn't do things that Ella doesn't want to do. She certainly doesn't follow. These are going to be excellent traits for my kid when she's a teenager. But she's got to lighten up or she's just not going to have any friends to even risk following as a teenager.
Again, I don't know exactly what it was that resulted in Ella's "friends" picking on her; but I do know that I need to keep a closer eye -- and ear -- on it so that I can react accordingly, not that I know what that reaction should or will be. I'm sure it'll involve a little righting Ella's ship, so to speak, along with a little sticking up for her, not that she necessarily needs that. She does that pretty well on her own. But I need her to know I'm there for her, sticking up for her, too.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
We Won 11-7
"Mommy, we won 11-7," Cal told me as I walked toward him to give him knucks last Wednesday night, just minutes after he had finished playing his first official baseball game of what we hope will be many to come.
"I know!" I responded. I really didn't know. I figured we had won -- it just seemed like we had more baserunners over the course of our 4-inning game. I certainly didn't know the score. "I am SO PROUD of you, Cal!"
"I scored the winning run!" he added.
"You scored the 8th run?" I asked. I couldn't help myself. I knew what he meant.
"No, I scored the LAST run," he corrected me.
And then I took us down the path of explaining what a winning run really is and trying to make him understand that the last run isn't necessarily the winning run. Goodness. Just let it go, Mommy. He's six.
I was proud of him. Those weren't just empty words said just because I'm his mom and supposed to say that. I was proud of him for so many reasons.
He first came to the plate after three others had batted and gotten on base. Our righty
who naturally bats lefty, he swung and either missed or fouled off the seven pitches that Dan threw to him, the last of which was a swing and a miss. He struck out, or really just ran out of pitches. The kids get 7 to hit one fair. I cringed when it happened, only because I was afraid of his reaction. Cal doesn't like it when things don't go how he wants or expects them to. He doesn't like to fail.
His reaction was exactly what it should have been, one that a seasoned veteran would do knowing that even the best players actually fail 7 times out of 10, not that I'm suggesting Cal actually knew that. He set his bat down, took his helmet off, grabbed his cap and then walked to the end of the line of his teammates who were standing on the sideline in their batting order. And from there, he watched teammate after teammate get on base.
No tears. No loss of interest in what was going on in the game. No apparent jealousy of the successes of his teammates. And once we were done batting, he grabbed his glove and ran out to his 2nd-inning position -- shortstop -- to play some defense.
I was proud of Cal for handling his strikeout like a pro.
I watched him, dressed head to toe in baseball gear. Cap. Green, Dry-Fit jersey. White baseball pants with a green belt. Green socks. Cleats. He looked like a ballplayer. I wondered what he was thinking when he got dressed for his first game. Was he nervous? Was he excited? Was he proud? Or was it an opportunity for him to play with his friends? I'll never know. Even if I asked, I don't think he's yet capable of accurately recognizing and describing what he's feeling, what he's thinking.
I was that kid once. And my parents were me. All those years I played and they watched, I knew they were proud. They told me. I thought it was because I was a decent player, that I had some good games. I realized Wednesday night it wasn't really that at all. All it took was me stepping on the field, taking a chance, trying, listening, interacting, just being me.
I was proud of him for just being on that field and participating.
When it came time for his second at-bat, I worried. Just hit it fair, Cal. He did -- just fair -- and reached base successfully. I saw his smile from the other side of the field. He then stood at first, crouched and ready to run. He wasn't standing upright. He wasn't looking at the other game being played on the field behind him. And as soon as the next batter hit the ball fair, Cal then then tentatively, awkwardly advanced to second safely, getting a little direction from the coach in the field. He's got so much to learn, and I'll get to witness the wonder of that.
I was proud of him for getting on base, flashing his beautiful smile and then running the bases how he thought he should.
I watched him throw on the catcher's gear with a little help from one of the "assistant" coaches. There are a bunch of them, diminishing any role I could have with the team. I'll let others step up. There are many who want to. And that's fine with me. Work's pretty crazy right now, anyway. And, really, I just want to watch my kid play and my husband coach. I just want to be a proud mom. I'm on Ella duty anyway, which is a whole other story. But I digress...
A couple of weeks ago, Dan threw the catcher's gear on Cal who then "caught" while Ella batted and Dan pitched to her. He hated every second of it and let us know it. At that time, I really wasn't sure we'd ever see him in catcher's gear again. That it happened so soon after the initial debacle with it, i.e. meltdown, surprised me. I don't even remember how he did behind the plate -- I just remember he didn't complain.
I was proud of him for giving the catcher's gear another shot.
Cal ended up getting on base another time, which was in the inning where he scored the "winning" (11th) run. He had a stint in the outfield, too, playing right-center field as well as anyone could (no balls came his way). And between all of that, he cheered for and enjoyed the company of his teammates, fellow kindergarteners, all early and already at varying levels of abilities in their baseball careers. I watched him run on and off the field between innings. I watched him try to find his cap amongst a sea of caps without getting upset or frustrated. I watched him then put his found cap in his glove and set it on the sideline so he'd know where to find it when he was done batting. I watched him have fun playing the sport that both his father and I love so much.
I was one proud mom. I'm smiling just thinking back and remembering it.
On Thursday morning, Cal drew this picture. At the risk of being dramatic, I think it's very telling. That he drew it tells me he's excited about playing baseball. That he wrote all of the names of his teammates tells me he's a team player. That he knew the score tells me he's proud of their win.
"I know!" I responded. I really didn't know. I figured we had won -- it just seemed like we had more baserunners over the course of our 4-inning game. I certainly didn't know the score. "I am SO PROUD of you, Cal!"
"I scored the winning run!" he added.
"You scored the 8th run?" I asked. I couldn't help myself. I knew what he meant.
"No, I scored the LAST run," he corrected me.
And then I took us down the path of explaining what a winning run really is and trying to make him understand that the last run isn't necessarily the winning run. Goodness. Just let it go, Mommy. He's six.
I was proud of him. Those weren't just empty words said just because I'm his mom and supposed to say that. I was proud of him for so many reasons.
He first came to the plate after three others had batted and gotten on base. Our righty
 |
| Cal Batting |
His reaction was exactly what it should have been, one that a seasoned veteran would do knowing that even the best players actually fail 7 times out of 10, not that I'm suggesting Cal actually knew that. He set his bat down, took his helmet off, grabbed his cap and then walked to the end of the line of his teammates who were standing on the sideline in their batting order. And from there, he watched teammate after teammate get on base.
No tears. No loss of interest in what was going on in the game. No apparent jealousy of the successes of his teammates. And once we were done batting, he grabbed his glove and ran out to his 2nd-inning position -- shortstop -- to play some defense.
I was proud of Cal for handling his strikeout like a pro.
 |
| Father-Son, Coach-Player Pre-Game Selfie |
I watched him, dressed head to toe in baseball gear. Cap. Green, Dry-Fit jersey. White baseball pants with a green belt. Green socks. Cleats. He looked like a ballplayer. I wondered what he was thinking when he got dressed for his first game. Was he nervous? Was he excited? Was he proud? Or was it an opportunity for him to play with his friends? I'll never know. Even if I asked, I don't think he's yet capable of accurately recognizing and describing what he's feeling, what he's thinking.
I was that kid once. And my parents were me. All those years I played and they watched, I knew they were proud. They told me. I thought it was because I was a decent player, that I had some good games. I realized Wednesday night it wasn't really that at all. All it took was me stepping on the field, taking a chance, trying, listening, interacting, just being me.
I was proud of him for just being on that field and participating.
When it came time for his second at-bat, I worried. Just hit it fair, Cal. He did -- just fair -- and reached base successfully. I saw his smile from the other side of the field. He then stood at first, crouched and ready to run. He wasn't standing upright. He wasn't looking at the other game being played on the field behind him. And as soon as the next batter hit the ball fair, Cal then then tentatively, awkwardly advanced to second safely, getting a little direction from the coach in the field. He's got so much to learn, and I'll get to witness the wonder of that.
I was proud of him for getting on base, flashing his beautiful smile and then running the bases how he thought he should.
I watched him throw on the catcher's gear with a little help from one of the "assistant" coaches. There are a bunch of them, diminishing any role I could have with the team. I'll let others step up. There are many who want to. And that's fine with me. Work's pretty crazy right now, anyway. And, really, I just want to watch my kid play and my husband coach. I just want to be a proud mom. I'm on Ella duty anyway, which is a whole other story. But I digress...
 |
| Cal Catching |
A couple of weeks ago, Dan threw the catcher's gear on Cal who then "caught" while Ella batted and Dan pitched to her. He hated every second of it and let us know it. At that time, I really wasn't sure we'd ever see him in catcher's gear again. That it happened so soon after the initial debacle with it, i.e. meltdown, surprised me. I don't even remember how he did behind the plate -- I just remember he didn't complain.
I was proud of him for giving the catcher's gear another shot.
Cal ended up getting on base another time, which was in the inning where he scored the "winning" (11th) run. He had a stint in the outfield, too, playing right-center field as well as anyone could (no balls came his way). And between all of that, he cheered for and enjoyed the company of his teammates, fellow kindergarteners, all early and already at varying levels of abilities in their baseball careers. I watched him run on and off the field between innings. I watched him try to find his cap amongst a sea of caps without getting upset or frustrated. I watched him then put his found cap in his glove and set it on the sideline so he'd know where to find it when he was done batting. I watched him have fun playing the sport that both his father and I love so much.
I was one proud mom. I'm smiling just thinking back and remembering it.
On Thursday morning, Cal drew this picture. At the risk of being dramatic, I think it's very telling. That he drew it tells me he's excited about playing baseball. That he wrote all of the names of his teammates tells me he's a team player. That he knew the score tells me he's proud of their win.
 |
| Cal's post-win drawing |
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