Just eat, already

I've been packing the kids lunches this week.  I don't know, it was one of those moments of weakness that made me do it.  The complaints of "Mo-oom, the lunchroom food stinks." finally got to me.

I always envision myself packing those lunches you see in the parenting magazines.  Fruit and veggies.  Hummus.  Little pita pieces.  All artfully arranged and cut into cute little pieces, of course.  A juice box or bottle of milk, with the perfect cookie alongside.  In a chic, adorable, lunchbox.  My children beside themselves with anticipation that their lunch is gonna rock.

My reality is:  Cut the crusts off the bread.  Peanut butter and jelly for Nolan, or tuna; peanut butter no jelly for Ben.  Chips.  Capri Sun.  A cookie, fruit snack, or apple for Ben (oooh, an apple!); cookies for Nolan (extra to share).   Sometimes, they get a carton of milk at the cafeteria, but more likely, if I don't pack one, they buy themselves a cookie, and I look the other way.  Packed in Star Wars lunchboxes they've had for like 3 years.  It doesn't always represent the food pyramid like it should, but to them, it rocks.

And then there's Ryan.  He is my picky eater.  He makes his Dad look like a picnic (we'll get to him in a minute).  On the first day he said he wanted string cheese, chips, a Capri Sun, and that would be that.  I am still in the process of trying to get him to eat breakfast, and now I have to try and talk him into something more substantial for lunch?  I'm stressing about it, but then have a moment of clarity....

Fine.  I'll stop reasoning with him, and give him what he wants.   Even if it means he'll be a bit hungry.  I'm hoping that that would make him realize he needs to eat something for lunch that packs more of a punch.  And that he realizes breakfast is a good thing.  Hey, it may make me a bad Mom, letting him go like that when I know in all likelihood, it's gonna suck.  But I know he's not gonna be starving all day, that he can eat when he gets home.  Hopefully, a temporary hungry situation will make him more open to what I can pack him. 

Afterschool, I'm going through their lunches so I can pull out the ice packs for re-freezing, and I open Ryan's lunchbox.  I'd managed to talk him into half a sandwich that morning, so I was hopeful.  Hopeful for nothing, he brought it all back!  "We can go out to play after we eat," he earnestly explained to me, "and I wanted to have a lot of time outside."  Oh, sure, fabulous, son.  Don't eat, and go outside and bake in the 110 degrees.  Be my guest.  Not even his new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle lunchbox has excited him about eating at school. 

I can't even complain to his Dad about this, either.  He's picky too.  This is a man that will spit out a bite of a burger if he even detects a hint of onion, much less accidentally bites into one.  Who once said he didn't like a particular chain's pizza because it was "too cheesy," and the crust was "raw" (chewy).  Who told me this very evening that he didn't want me to make him a cheese crisp because I put too much cheese on it (I do not!).  Whatever.  I can think of more transgressions, but you get the picture.  For the love of God, he used to prefer slightly overcooked to al dente!  And because he himself is so picky, I've forbidden him from giving Ryan any lectures.  "He's just like you,"  I sigh, as I roll my eyes at Mr W.  

I'm going to continue to pack Ryan's lunch for him, to keep trying the first week of classes.  If he still is bringing me home a whole lunch's worth, then I'm gonna have to try something else, like the "yuck" cafeteria food.  I bet he'll eat it, too, knowing him, but......

The way I look at it, if he throws the "yuck" cafeteria food away, I don't have to see him do it, and at least drinks his milk, it'll be fine.

I can live with that. 

 

Patience is my middle name

I had to drive down to work today, for just a sec.  (had to get my blood drawn--and can I just say that while the lovely young lady who took my blood didn't hurt me, she bruised me...surprising, because I have a vein that resembles an anaconda, and there's no reason for there to be a bruise...whatever.)

Work is around 30 minutes away.  I had to be there at 9, the kids go in to school at 7:50, and what with rush hour, I knew I was gonna have to boogie to make it.  No problem. 

Got the kids to school--check.  Remembered to get gas--yes.  Sneak down a back way to get to the freeway--heehee, of course.  I'm turning onto the freeway, and I hear a little voice say:  "Mommy, my stomach hurts."  Ugh.  Nooo!  I know what the next words will be, and I was right:  "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Are you sure?  Because I'm on the road, and I can't really stop right this second.  Can you wait until we get to Mommy's work, or do I need to pull over?"  "Pull over."  "Mommy's work,"  I plead.  As I say that, though, I realize that it's not a guaranteed straight shot into work, it's gonna be a while.  And it's not fair to make her hold it.  And I need to stop or she's gonna have an accident and it'll be all my fault.  Sigh.  I stay in my lane so I can get off at the next exit, planning to pull into the first place I see with a toilet.

Unfortunately for both of us, we are in a residential area.  I have to drive a couple of miles before we get to a service station, and I am praying they have a bathroom inside, but have a sneaky suspicion that they don't, as I see no indications of one as we drive up.  I risk it anyway, park, and grab Audrey.  As we walk inside, I ask the clerk, "Do y'all have a bathroom?"  She hesitates for a split second, but she realizes that it's for the toddler and not me, and shows me to the back of the store.  I'm trying not to focus on what Remo refers to these places as ("stop and rob") while we are squeezing around crates of soda and maneuvering to the bathroom door.  I'm just grateful the lady let us back there, it's hardly the time to envision stocking-capped thugs storming the place.  It's a pee emergency, afterall.  Mommy needs to take a chill pill. 

The bathroom is small, but very, very clean.  (Yay!) It's painted a lovely shade of lilac and I'm ashamed to admit, nicer than the bathroom at work.  Foamy soap.  Nice towel dispenser.  It's loud in there with the fan, I can't hear anything but what's happening in the bathroom, so once again I have to tell my imagination to take a hike.

I plop the princess on the can, and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

You've got to be kidding me, I'm thinking to myself.  All that, and she's not going.  Not a drop.  Not a plop.  Hmm, was that beer I saw out there stacked up with the sodas?

"Honey, are you done?"  "Just a minute."  I wait a couple of more minutes before asking again.  "Yeah, I'm done."  Nothing is there, but I clean her up and flush the toilet anyway.

"Feel better?"  I ask her as I buckle her back into her carseat.  "Yes," she says, "much."

I figure we'll still make it on time, and it's better to risk the wrath of my coworker who set up the blood draws to begin with than to risk the wrath of my three year old should she have an accident, especially since I left her change of clothes at home.  Ooops!

It seems that I have been blessed with patience today. 

It's too bad that my short-term memory appears to have been sacrificed to get it.  

That little purple thing stuck to my dashboard?  It's a Post-it, with my list of things to do today on it. 

All three of them.

Writer's cramp

Last night, we went to the meet-the-teacher festivities at our school.  I see the teachers all the time, but it was nice to spend a minute or two saying hello.

Nolan is in sixth grade this year.  I'm a little hyper about it, because next year, he'll be in junior high, and we all know how quickly time will pass once he's there.  As we entered the room, I saw these two striking young ladies talking to his teacher, and then she said "come back and tell me all about jr high" as they left.  NO way.  These girls were just adorable, so mature looking, I looked at the teacher and said it out loud:  "You're kidding me, right?"  She replied "No.  They really were in my class last year.  You won't recognize half the kids in here by the end of the year.  Especially the girls."  Oh, that's reassuring.  I'm throwing him into the lion's den now, aren't I?  I was worried about the size of the class (27 students) when I should have been really worried about the size of the class (it appears the hormone train will just line up right outside the door and start dumping it on in.)  It's so hard with the oldest, as I remind him often, every time we experience something new with him, it's the first time.  And it's like we are new parents with a squirmy baby again, all inexperienced.

So in Ben's classroom, things looked just fine.  I was back in familiar territory, and I really like his teacher.  She is excited, she told us, because she has Ben, and two other younger brothers of two boys that were in her class with Nolan before.  The second set, she said.  I know everything will be fine.  Ben is Ben, my social butterfly, I don't really worry about him in the same way I do about Nolan, who is mr reserved most of the time.

And as for Ryan, he is also my little social boy.  But he's the baby (boy) and I was a little pained that we didn't get the teacher I'd requested.  I'm not too concerned, she seems very nice, but I don't know her that well, so the jury is still out on this one.  He's gonna be gone all day, a big boy now, and so I'll have to adjust.  (lol)

We were walking around, and I'd promised Ben's old kindergarten teacher I'd stop by with Audrey (she has a granddaughter the same age).  Mr W, Audrey, and I were talking to her outside her classroom when the boys came around the corner.  "Look at Ben,"  I said to her.  "Wow, he's so big now,"  she said, as she moved in to give him a hug.

And that's when it happened.  All this time, I've been wrestling with my feelings about tweendom, and feeling the pang of Ryan becoming a big boy, and not worrying about Ben.  I saw him standing there, next to his kindie teacher, and suddenly remembered how hard it was to leave that little five year old with her on his first day, a few years ago.  I had a mental image of his five-ness superimpose over him as he stood next to her.  Where did this lump in my throat come from, I thought, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath.  My big fourth grader.  Breathe, girl, breathe.

I'm such a baby.

Once we got home, it was a flurry of backpacks, supplies, "It's mine", showers and bedtime.  This morning was a frenzy too, and I'm proud to say that I got them there in time.  Oh, sure, it'll probably be the last time they are on time....but I'll take it anyway.

I was laying in bed with Audrey before Mr W woke all the boys up, and I asked her "What will we do all day, while the boys are gone at school?"

"Umm, you can paint my toes."

It appears some things will remain the same around here.  When we went to pick up the boys this afternoon, Audrey was sporting some lovely pink nail polish on her toes.

One other thing that was definately the same was the mountain of paperwork the kids brought home.  "We have homework,"  Nolan announced as he got into the car, "for you."  I just spent about 40 minutes filling out forms, reading all the missives that got sent home, and getting writer's cramp.  

The good news is I  finished  in time to write this entry at a relatively decent hour.

The bad news is I still have one more kid to go!  (Ryan didn't bring it all home yet~)

Reading, writing, 'rithmatic = relief

It never fails.  One minute, I'm indestructible, the next, reminded that I'm just a big goof.

I went in to work today, and when I got home, there was a message for me from another Mom.  We are sharing the helm of Art Masterpiece for the school this year, and she was calling to let me know that our curriculum night is this Thursday, and we have to give a little talk to the masses, stumping for volunteers.   During our chat, we realized I'd gotten some mail she hadn't from the district, so I went to her house, then on to the school to make copies.  

While at the school, I previewed Ryan's new classroom, and talked to a couple of teachers.  (Our meet-the-teacher night was early this evening, so I figured, what the heck, I'll poke my head in the door, and be social.)  Managed to make the copies, collect Audrey, and get home in plenty of time to round up the troops.

Wow, I'm SuperMom!  Work, school, kids, I've got it all under control!

"I'll be just a minute,"  I told them, as I ran into the bathroom.  (Even SuperMom has to pee.)  

I'm looking in the mirror, fluffing hair and assessing the damage as I've been up since five a.m., it's hot, and no one likes looking like a raccoon.  (Even SuperMom primps as she heads out the door.) 

What is that?  I wonder, as I get closer to the mirror to check it out.

Fabulous.  A great lurking white zit, right under my nostril, sneaky, in the corner.  A real attention-grabber.  I can only hope it's relatively new, and I haven't been sporting this all day.  Well, that explains the staring. 

Wow, I'm a big dork! 

Mr W's comforting words?  "Maybe people just thought it was a booger."  Gee, thanks, honey.

I will seek solace in the Six.

SaturdaySix - Episode 67

1. Who was your first best friend?  How old were you when you two met?  Are you still in regular contact with each other?

My first best friend was Jenny H.  We met in the womb, lol (our Moms knew each other/went to school together).  We were 8 years old when we first officially met, and she complemented my rather frou-frou Easter dress that I'd worn to school (the beginnings of a long line of wardrobe 'What was I thinking?' moments for me).  We are in regular contact with each other, even when we go through phases of not being on the same page.  She is the closest thing I have to a sister.  :)  She is credited (and sometimes cursed) with being the person who introduced me to Mr W.

2. Other than the "Saturday Six," what weekly or daily memes do you play most often?  (Please give a link to that journal.)

There's that word again..."meme."  I'm beginning to think that word is French for 'you are an idiot--don't you have a dictionary?'  Hmm.  I guess I don't have any other regulars, really; but I'll play along if it looks like fun, or I'm out of stories involving our latest foray into "your bodily functions and you,"  or am just copying everyone else.  (Oh, come on, we all do it, admitting it is the first step to acknowledging you have a problem, isn't it?)

3. Which of the following likely has the bigger mess underneath it:  your stove, your refrigerator, your couch or your bed?
Despite my best and most vigilant attempts, I'd have to say....the couch.  I move it all the time, to clean up under it, but I swear, Shadow sheds more hair than a middle-aged lounge act who forgot to take their Rogaine.  Hair, rawhide chew flips, toys, chewed up pencils, toys, spare pennies, toys, movie cases, toys....(to the trashcan, shh, don't tell).  Stove, fridge--not too bad, but then again, I've not looked under them lately; and as for the under-bed-mess, space is limited due to a piece of workout equipment I stub my foot on from time to time (not mine); a big gift wrap box, and whatever the cats have hidden under there.

4. Take this quiz:  How long does MSN think you'll live?  Then take this one:  How long does Blogthings think you'll live? MSN has me at 93.  Blogthings at 85.  Either way, too many things will be sagging.  And to think I was contemplating another tattoo...

5. Do either or both of these motivate you to make any changes in your lifestyle?

That tattoo isn't looking like a good idea anymore, hot or not; and now I'm thinking I'll take up smoking, drinking, and running around with the wrong crowd once my kids are out of the nest, because 93(85) is a very long time.  I'll need some scandalous stories for my twilight years. 

6. Name five things you would like to do by December 31, 2005.

Okay, in no particular order...

1)  Get kissed, under the mistletoe.  (Something that'll remind me I've still got it.  LOL.  In the spirit of Christmas, it doesn't even have to be Mr W.  Oh, I'm gonna be in trouble for this one...)

2)  Sleep.  For an entire day.  Okay, I'll take 8 hours, but no kids.

3)  Go to Las Vegas.  Because I have never been.

4)  A spa day would be nice.

5)  Have an overnight, away from the kids.  With Mr W.  (and I've redeemed myself for #1!)  

In a few short hours, I'll be whisking the small fry off to school.....  

I know I said I'd be relieved once school started up again.  

I'm not ashamed to admit I'll be a little lonely, too.   

(But I'm sure Audrey and I will find away to keep ourselves entertained.)

 

Heiress to the throne

Audrey has been doing really well with the whole big-girl using the bathroom idea.  So far, so good, no accidents, (except for a few dress hems falling in) and if anything, she's a little too enthusiastic about it.  She wants to go all the time, it seems.  I even had to pull over, just the other day, to take her into a restroom inside Starbucks because she suddenly had the urge.  Even though she swore she didn't when I'd asked as we left five minutes before.  That's okay, been here, done this.

She wants help, then sends you away.  Sometimes, she dresses herself; others I chase her down the hall: "Put your clothes on in the bathroom, not out in the living room."  "Privacy,"  she commands, pointing to the door.  "But sit on the bed," she adds.  We've been patient, and accepting of her demands, because we are very pleased that things have been going so well.

Mr W called out to me the other night, "Hey, come here for a minute."  I thought he was going to show me some long lost episode of COPS, so I dawdled.  And he hollered again, so I huffed on in. (I was making dinner, I don't like to be interrupted, because then I get sidetracked, and although I am a good cook, I burn things too.)

"Check her out," he mouthed, pointing to the bathroom.  Man, if he's calling me in here for the cleanup, I'm killing him with this spatula, I thought.  He read my mind, too, because he mimed what she was doing before I could threaten him with death.

I peek into the bathroom, carefully.  She's sitting on the toilet, with a catalog in her hands.  Thumbing through it, like she knows what's what, complete with knit brow, like she's concentrating on what she's reading.

Well.  I guess she has this bathroom thing down better than I thought. 

I'd have started to tease Mr W about who she got that idea from, when I realized it smelled like something was burning in the kitchen. 

Oh, yeah. I'm on top of things....