I'm wondering when kindergarten became the new third grade. This kid has about an hour-and-a-half of homework per night. I pick him up, we get home and he is Free Range Kid for about 30 minutes, then we get right to the work. He generally has two worksheets a night, I need to initial his accountability folder, we go over the letter he's working on and the memory verse that goes along with it, and BAM, it's 5:00. Time to start eating dinner for these guys. And I haven't even started making it yet. It's 5:30 now and he's finishing his number sheet and this has been the easiest day so far. Yesterday? And I'm NOT EVEN EXAGGERATING we had an epic homework battle. One of us was lying on the floor moaning, "I HATE KINDERGARTEN!" and the other one was on the phone with DPlayer, out of earshot, hollering, "I HATE KINDERGARTEN!"
You'd think that was the nadir, right? Well, you'd be wrong! From there, it actually devolved. It was ugly. There may or may not have been stomping, tongue-sticking, screaming and general mayhem. There were multiple time-outs and door-slams just as exclamation points at the end of tantrums. All in two hours! We're gifted in this house.
Today has been so much better. As I finish this, we just put away the folders and he rocked four worksheets in the same time it took to plod through 2 yesterday. Ohhhhhhhhh...I just realized yesterday was Monday. YAY ME! Note to self, and to those who will remind me - Mondays take extra patience and will usually be difficult as we adjust to a new school week. I really do love his school, I better, since we're paying for it. Extra, on top of taxes, that is. He's in a small private school this year, which we chose for a myriad reasons. Because you are just RIVETED, I will expound on that in another post, but for now I will just say - small. private. school. and leave you hanging. It's time to feed the zoo.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
I promised!
So my new resolution is to set aside the time that the kids are "doing homework" to update the blog. And by "doing homework" I mean that the 5-year-old brand-new kindergartener whines about having to scribble with crayons all over his coloring sheet that is apparently of überimportance in the formation of his formal schooling, while the 2-year-old chatters and colors his coloring book and the 8-month-old alternates between screaming, grabbing at the papers on the table and racing for crayons to eat as they hit the ground. Somewhere in there, I've also been trying to make dinner. And cure cancer.
Now, instead of getting grilled chicken with pie nut couscous and some edamame for dinner, the Dawgs are going to have to be content with frozen pizza and a carrot and a mom who has spent a few minutes doing something adult and that makes herself feel autonomous. Quelle horror! They're going to be thrilled.
Now, instead of getting grilled chicken with pie nut couscous and some edamame for dinner, the Dawgs are going to have to be content with frozen pizza and a carrot and a mom who has spent a few minutes doing something adult and that makes herself feel autonomous. Quelle horror! They're going to be thrilled.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
O HAI!
Dear blog,
I am sorry that I've neglected you. I'm sorry that I left you bereft. I thought of you many times, but as time passed, and distance grew, I became more and more convinced that what I had to say would be trite, meaningless, after such a long separation. I'm finally taking a deep breath, and typing these words in the hopes that you and I will manage to repair our breach, the chasm that has developed oh yea these many days. I look forward to visiting you often, to breaking free of the chains of fear that have kept me silent.
Until tomorrow (oh yes, I shall return tomorrow),
The One Who Missed You
I am sorry that I've neglected you. I'm sorry that I left you bereft. I thought of you many times, but as time passed, and distance grew, I became more and more convinced that what I had to say would be trite, meaningless, after such a long separation. I'm finally taking a deep breath, and typing these words in the hopes that you and I will manage to repair our breach, the chasm that has developed oh yea these many days. I look forward to visiting you often, to breaking free of the chains of fear that have kept me silent.
Until tomorrow (oh yes, I shall return tomorrow),
The One Who Missed You
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Enjoying it while I can
About a week ago, Sir H. informed me that in Finding Nemo, "their Danielle died". As my name is Danielle, I was surprised, because I usually remember when characters in movies or books share my name. I asked him to repeat what he said, and he told me again that "their Danielle died". When asked to elaborate, he said, "You know, Nemo's mom and Marlin's...um..." "Marlin's...you know, his Danielle." I asked, "Marlin's wife?" He said, "Yes! Marlin's wife. You know, their Danielle." I realized, he was talking about their - ME. Wife/Mother/Female = ME. I'm a generic now, like Kleenex. It made my heart swell an insane amount.
A few days after that, he drew a picture at preschool of our family. He told me that he drew me "like an angel". When I asked him why, he said "because angels are sweet and pretty". Y'all. Seriously. Could I be any happier? Also? Totally reminding him of this when he's 15.
A few days after that, he drew a picture at preschool of our family. He told me that he drew me "like an angel". When I asked him why, he said "because angels are sweet and pretty". Y'all. Seriously. Could I be any happier? Also? Totally reminding him of this when he's 15.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Head Pats and Snuggles
I give 'em all the time. I want some. Boo-hoo, me. Tonight, I did get a little petting. Baby Taz turned 2 on November 1st, and his big gift was a bunk bed that rocks my socks. We got Sir H the canopy for his top bunk, which, when the lights are out, reflects ambient light on the little white spots and makes it look like stars, or snowflakes. Y'all, it is heaven on earth. Sir H was coming into our room every night about 2-3 am, and as he prefers to sleep his-knees-to-our-kidneys, it was getting really old. He informed me that the canopy "doesn't let bad guys or bad dreams in", so he's all set, thank you very much. Taz (no longer Baby, fill in all those conflicted maternal feelings we feel as our babes grow up), has eschewed the awesome and comfy lower bunk (whose mattress sits directly on the floor, ergo, making me feel as if it is safe enough for him) in favor of sneaking up to Sir H's top bunk and entangling himself in Sir H's limbs, there dozing off into blissful sleep. Sir H loves it. Honestly.
Point being, my now 2-year-old, my almost five-year-old, my 33-week pregnant belly, and my 5'9" self were all crammed into the top bunk (yep, it's a twin size!) reading tonight. I turned the light out and as Sir H was juuuuuuust this side of sleep, I wanted to stay until he dozed off all the way. I was lying in between my precious boys, one mostly asleep and still, and the other just wiggling and humming and whispering stuff that I could NOT understand, but he didn't care, and I already felt blessed. Then, these tiny 2-year-old hands reached out for my face, and started patting my cheek. He sucks his thumb, so he was madly getting after his thumb with one hand, and with the other, rubbed and patted my hair and my face for a solid minute or two. I just about swooned. Then, his fingers wandered to the front of my face and he attempted to drive his pointer finger into my eye socket, so I figured that the patting and snuggling was over. I just love them.
Point being, my now 2-year-old, my almost five-year-old, my 33-week pregnant belly, and my 5'9" self were all crammed into the top bunk (yep, it's a twin size!) reading tonight. I turned the light out and as Sir H was juuuuuuust this side of sleep, I wanted to stay until he dozed off all the way. I was lying in between my precious boys, one mostly asleep and still, and the other just wiggling and humming and whispering stuff that I could NOT understand, but he didn't care, and I already felt blessed. Then, these tiny 2-year-old hands reached out for my face, and started patting my cheek. He sucks his thumb, so he was madly getting after his thumb with one hand, and with the other, rubbed and patted my hair and my face for a solid minute or two. I just about swooned. Then, his fingers wandered to the front of my face and he attempted to drive his pointer finger into my eye socket, so I figured that the patting and snuggling was over. I just love them.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Taking care of Mama
I've been really struggling lately. I was reevaluating my medications, my sleep habits, my diet, all the things that can make one feel off or grumpy or just plain weary. Everything seems to be in order, and I'm not having any emotional or physical symptoms that would be red flags for depression or anything, so I was really confused for a few weeks, wonderful what the hell is wrong with me. It clicked a few days ago: I'm all tapped out. I'm touched out, I'm pregnant-ed out, I'm giving-ed out, I'm patient-ed out, I'm altrustically void. And guess what? That's.....OH-KAY! It was actually a really interesting (to me) way that it clicked, I kind of have to be smacked in the face to really get that I'm not taking care of myself. So many of us are other-focused, especially with young kids and a household to run, or a career, that we neglect our own care until we are in shambles. So, I needed a big old SIGN FROM THE UNIVERSE, apparently.
I was putting away some papers into my obsessive-compulsive outlet file folder that keeps me from going crazy, and I stumbled across a few pages of notes that I made about a year ago. It was the first meeting of my new group that I was heading up at our old church, which focused on praying for our kids. I really feel passionately about moms taking care of ourselves, so my whole first group meeting was focused on taking care of yourself so that you can take care of your kids. I sat on the floor and realized that for the last (how long have I been pregnant? Thirty-billion years?), I've been putting the oxygen mask on the kids over and over and not only putting myself last, but neglecting to put it on at all. You know, like in the event of an emergency, on a plane? No? Okay. Just me, then.
Rereading my notes, I rediscovered this story. I don't remember anything about the origin, I don't remember finding it, but I remember that it made me feel the same way then that it did today.
A few hikers in the forest came across a man attempting to saw down a tree. They offered to help, but he politely declined. Upon their return trek, five hours later, they saw the same man, at the same tree, still sawing, and not having made much progress. One of the hikers suggested, "Why don't you take a moment to sharpen your saw?" And the man frantically replied, "I can't! I'm too busy sawing!"
How many times have I sat there and tried to parent, tried to clean, organize, accomplish, change, and I am left feeling thwarted and frustrated? But if someone comes along and suggests that I shine up my parenting, cleaning, organizing, et. al, tools, my immediate response is one of shock and denial. I CAN'T go get a massage! I don't have the time! The money! The willingness! I can't get my hair cut! I don't have a babysitter! But when I plan ahead, and make those things happen, my tools are sharpened, and I think we all know how much better we feel and how things just seem to go much more smoothly. It doesn't have to be indulgent stuff like manis and pedis, either. I have given up feeling guilty for napping when Baby Taz naps, when I could be foldinglaundryvacuumingpickingupknittingmakinglistscooking the list is, literally, endless. I stop and play cars when Sir H asks me to. But guess what? If I really don't want to play cars? I don't. And I'm working on not feeling guilty about it.
A while back, I was talking to my daddy about the anxieties of parenting and the worry I carry around about screwing up my kids. Another common concern among mothers, I know, and because I already deal with an anxiety disorder, I can really allow myself to get bogged down in it. I was having a great conversation with my wise father about it, and I said something quite close to, "Because, you know, taking care of my kids is The Most Important Job I will ever have." He became quiet for a moment, thinking, then responded, "I disagree. I think your most important job is taking care of your kids' mother."
As if that weren't kick in the pants enough, I was talking to my mother last night about some difficulties, and she said, "It breaks my heart that I can't take care of your problems for you. So, will you do something? Will you take care of my daughter for me?"
Okay.
Okay.
I don't know how, but I'm learning.
I was putting away some papers into my obsessive-compulsive outlet file folder that keeps me from going crazy, and I stumbled across a few pages of notes that I made about a year ago. It was the first meeting of my new group that I was heading up at our old church, which focused on praying for our kids. I really feel passionately about moms taking care of ourselves, so my whole first group meeting was focused on taking care of yourself so that you can take care of your kids. I sat on the floor and realized that for the last (how long have I been pregnant? Thirty-billion years?), I've been putting the oxygen mask on the kids over and over and not only putting myself last, but neglecting to put it on at all. You know, like in the event of an emergency, on a plane? No? Okay. Just me, then.
Rereading my notes, I rediscovered this story. I don't remember anything about the origin, I don't remember finding it, but I remember that it made me feel the same way then that it did today.
A few hikers in the forest came across a man attempting to saw down a tree. They offered to help, but he politely declined. Upon their return trek, five hours later, they saw the same man, at the same tree, still sawing, and not having made much progress. One of the hikers suggested, "Why don't you take a moment to sharpen your saw?" And the man frantically replied, "I can't! I'm too busy sawing!"
How many times have I sat there and tried to parent, tried to clean, organize, accomplish, change, and I am left feeling thwarted and frustrated? But if someone comes along and suggests that I shine up my parenting, cleaning, organizing, et. al, tools, my immediate response is one of shock and denial. I CAN'T go get a massage! I don't have the time! The money! The willingness! I can't get my hair cut! I don't have a babysitter! But when I plan ahead, and make those things happen, my tools are sharpened, and I think we all know how much better we feel and how things just seem to go much more smoothly. It doesn't have to be indulgent stuff like manis and pedis, either. I have given up feeling guilty for napping when Baby Taz naps, when I could be foldinglaundryvacuumingpickingupknittingmakinglistscooking the list is, literally, endless. I stop and play cars when Sir H asks me to. But guess what? If I really don't want to play cars? I don't. And I'm working on not feeling guilty about it.
A while back, I was talking to my daddy about the anxieties of parenting and the worry I carry around about screwing up my kids. Another common concern among mothers, I know, and because I already deal with an anxiety disorder, I can really allow myself to get bogged down in it. I was having a great conversation with my wise father about it, and I said something quite close to, "Because, you know, taking care of my kids is The Most Important Job I will ever have." He became quiet for a moment, thinking, then responded, "I disagree. I think your most important job is taking care of your kids' mother."
As if that weren't kick in the pants enough, I was talking to my mother last night about some difficulties, and she said, "It breaks my heart that I can't take care of your problems for you. So, will you do something? Will you take care of my daughter for me?"
Okay.
Okay.
I don't know how, but I'm learning.
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