as in, Magoo.
Union negotiations dictate that they are required to participate in twice-yearly cute breaks (to break up the monotony of the emotional and physical torture they inflict the other 99% of the year). Unfortunately, it is only January, so I now only have one left for the rest of this year.
Look, this is no worse than the shingled-cabin-camper-shell my parents carted me and my sister around in when we were kids.
Stella’s 2009 soccer season began, and let’s just say that this season isn’t quite the same vibe as last year, but we are making the best of it. As is pretty typical for this age bracket, aimlessly wandering the field, kicking dirt at one another and picking up the ball and running off the field tend to be the predominant skill-set of the boys, and hogging the ball at all times is the predominant skill of the girls. Combine this with a coach that pretty much gave up after the first practice and you have an odd combination of girls actually trying to play soccer and boys either trailing behind them on the field or sitting on the sidelines refusing to play. As you will see from the photos, their uniforms make them look like a bunch of pylon cones running around on the field, but I think their ensembles will work to their advantage at their last game on Halloween day. When they solicited names for the team, Stella was the only one who would speak up, and thusly they became the Orange Tigers – even though my choice would have been the Cal-Transients. No such luck.
(click photo to see the entire set)
My son. Oh, my son. Oh, my 3-year-old-son. We are inching or should I say millimetering ourselves towards that champagne-popping moment when we realize that we have purchased or final package of Pull-Ups. Last check of my watch, it breaks down a little like this (be sure to get out your calculators): He now wears underwear about 96% of non-bedtime hours. His accident rate during these non-bedtime hours is about 2.5% (Yahoo!) HOWEVER, it is important for me to document that we have just this week started to abandon the practice wherein he would walk to the hall closet, grab himself a Pull-Up, take off his underwear, put on the Pull-Up, go in the spare bedroom and close the door so he could poop in privacy, then call to us to come change him. Yes, really. But to our delight, in the last week, he has voluntarily, and without any provocation begun using the toilet for all of his bodily needs – both at home and at school. No amount of bribery or cheering or threats made a single bit of difference. I am thinking of having a shirt made for myself that has the single word ‘Powerless Minion’ written across the front in neon lettering. Just so I can continue to remind myself of my current role in my sons life. As for the night-time routines, he is waking up dry about a 90% of the time. We still have no rhyme or reason as to when or why accidents will occur, so we still send him to bed in a Pull-Up – but I consider it a very tiny price to pay for being so very, very close to the end. This picture right here, is the view that I catch most often these days, and it instantly puts a smile on my face:
Stella’s transition to kindergarten has been far more traumatic on us than it has been on her. Helloooo, Walstons? Wake up and smell the rest of your life. thick weekly packets of paperwork to sort through? homework? baked goods? mandatory attendance? bus schedules? before-school care? after-school care? lunch money? school fundraisers? share days? library books? back to school night? new friend play-date requests? fall carnival? GAME. ON.
It’s not so much a complaint as a realization that our life is just continuing to bump up in these incremental steps and I had better not take my eye off the ball. Showing soon: extra-curriculars and bad hair days and all-night science fair project marathons. Overall, she is handling the transition with all the grace and awesomeness that I would expect. And to be perfectly honest, as I sit there on the front steps every day and see her come skipping off the bus with her pigtails and backpack I can hardly keep my heart from beating out of my chest.
Progress update on voluntary haircuts for Porter: Fair to Poor. Basically, whenever we have this conversation I just need to put on my new Powerless Minion t-shirt because that is about how successful those conversations go.
Oh, and Stella has decided to grow out her bangs. Someone kill me now.
I can’t remember exactly when Stella started asking about having her ears pierced, but from the moment she started toying with the idea I told her my position on the issue: “You are welcome to get your ears pierced any time after you turn 5. However, I am not going to suggest it, or try to convince you to do it. It is your decision, and as soon as you are ready I’ll be happy to take you. But you need to come to me. I am not coming to you.”
So, she thought about it, we had conversations about it, she talked to her friends about it, she talked to my friends about it, she talked to her Grandfather who suggested she bite on a piece of wood to tolerate the pain. Then, once she felt she had gathered and assessed sufficient information about the hurt-factor (her ultimate analysis: it only hurts for a teeny minute), she told me she was ready. I suggested we make a Girl’s Day of it and invite Doré along. Then, as we settled on a date, we realized my mom would be in town as well – girls it would be. We found a non-mall place that does the both-ears-at-the-same-time piercing procedure and headed out for our grand adventure. As we were sitting at lunch, I all of a sudden realized that of the thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment we own I had left the house without a single solitary method for capturing photos (at any given time I have at least 2, if not three cameras on my person). So, we hustled down to Longs to buy a disposable PRINT camera (I know!), and after a bunch of “Ugh! When are we going to be there!” comments from Stella we pull into the parking lot. It is at this point that she stops, looks at Doré and says, with a much more apprehensive tone “We’re here?”
Gulp.
She peruses the selection of earrings, settling on a sparkly pink/purple flower (which she will later tell me requires a whole new wardrobe so that everything will match them). The ladies at the salon are kind and enthusiastic without being overwhelming. Turns out, one of them is the aunt of one of Stella’s friends, which helps distract the conversation away from the real task at hand. They draw the small purple dots, and we all agree they are perfectly placed. Stella gives us the nod. She is ready. As they get into position, I can tell that Stella has rehearsed this a million times in her mind. Her main point of defense is to hold her breath. And so she does. In less than a second it is over and she doesn’t so much as flinch, then a gigantic smile spreads across her face as she is spun around in the chair to witness her beautiful new accessories.
(click photo to see the entire set)
Friday: I get the suspiciously familiar feeling of a sore throat coming on. I switch from coffee to double quantities of decaf tea, and keep it on the DL.
Saturday: Not going away.
Sunday: Not going away.
Monday: Not going away. Drag my butt into work anyway – make concerted effort to stay holed up in my office. At home I all of a sudden start craving 7-up. Which can mean only one thing: Fever.
Tuesday: Stay home from work. Still hacking. Debilitating fever.
Wednesday: Stay home from work. Still hacking. Debilitating fever. Start wondering if I am going to die. Drag myself to the 1/2 hour Volunteer Orientation at Stella’s school (if I don’t attend I lose the opportunity to volunteer this entire school year). Sit by the door. Start seeing spots 25 minutes into the meeting. Make an early exit – but qualify as having attended. Barely survive the 4 minute drive home.
Thursday: Wake up without a fever! Stay home anyway. Strip the bed, wash the towels. Fever back by 9:am. Still. Hacking.
Friday: Reality finally begins to sink in what is going on. Vow to eat as much pork as possible to punish them for this awful virus. Still hacking. Still feverish. But somehow manage to convince myself that the fever is less bad than before. Obviously desperate.
Saturday: Wake up without a fever. Still hacking. Consuming massive quantities of cough meds. Take shower AND DRESS IN REAL CLOTHES! Still unable to leave the house. Still feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Praying I get to go back to life on Monday. Praying my family – or anyone I know, for that matter – is spared from this.
So aside from hauling the kids back to their trailer every night during their visit, my in-laws also entertained them with pre-planned, coordinated, age-appropriate, creativity-inducing, skill-building, MENSA-entry-level activities including (but not limited to) the bubble extravaganza that ’bout near drove my poor father-in-law to drink straight from the wine bottle. Massive quantities of WATER and SOAP were involved and so were my children– need I say more?
(click photo to see the entire set)