A Challenge for Mommy

One would think that a "tough" Mommy who takes karate would be able to handle a little Kindergarten orientation without being reduced to tears.  For a stay at home Mom who has been with her daughter almost every single day since the day she arrived on this Earth, orientation is rough.  In fact, I know it was harder on me than it was on Big I. 

Orientation started out just fine.  Big I sat with me in the auditorium and we listened to the principal talk for a while.  I happened to take a look at the schedule for the morning and noticed that the kids would be going off to meet the other kids and teachers.  I whispered to Big I what the plan was and she looked at me with apprehensive eyes.  I told her it would be o.k. and that I wasn’t leaving the building and would be there to get her in just a little while.  She settled in beside me again.  I thought she’d be with me for a bit longer, but all of a sudden they called for the kids. 

Most kids willingly ran off to line up for the trek to the classroom.   There were a few stragglers who seemed to suddenly develop a gravitational pull to their mothers legs.  There were a few tears and some whining.  None of that came from Big I.  When it was time, she stood up, took a deep breath, and then killed me.  She leaned towards me, gave me a hug, kissed me on the cheek and said simply, "Bye Mommy."  I instantly teared up and found myself choking back the tears.  My eyes were flooded and I sat there swallowing profusely to keep them at bay.  My mantra became, "She can NOT see ME cry."  I repeated it at least 20 times.  My eyes welled, but they did not spill.  As the kids finished lining up, most of them faced forward.  But Big I turned around, smiled at me and waved. 

I don’t think I’ve ever been so proud of Big I and of myself.  Since the day I brought this little girl into the world, there were people who judged the way I was raising her.  Family bed?  Bad idea.  Guess what?  It worked for us and she’s a fabulous sleeper.  "No pre-school?  Is she crazy?  Her child will be socially behind."  My Big I is one of the most socially mature 5-year olds I know.  Today proved that.  Today was like an affirmation that I’ve done a good job with her. 

Back in the classroom, Big I approached a little girl who was playing with some blocks.  She started to play with her.  The little girl said something about how she was playing with them.  Instead of getting upset with the girl who was lacking sharing skills, Big I ignored her and instead took the high road.  She introduced herself and asked the girl what her name was.  She then started playing with her. 

At another point during the orientation, the kids were listening to a story.  Two little boys were moving around and getting in her way.  So, she moved away from them, but into the space of two little girls who didn’t feel like sharing their space.  They told her so.  She explained to them that she was moving over because she didn’t have any room.  Had it been me?  At her age?  I would have been sobbing in a corner. 

At this age?  I spent most of the refreshment time fidgeting and counting the minutes until I could go get my daughter.  I felt like an outcast, not knowing any of the other parents who were already pretty familiar with each other.  I counted minutes, and hoped that she was having a better experience than I was. 

When I went to the classroom to pick her up after 45 minutes (that felt like an absolute eternity), she was sitting at a desk coloring and writing her name by herself.  She was thrilled with her drawing, and I was thrilled to see that she wasn’t crying.  She then told me about the two little girls who told her to "go away."  "WHERE ARE THEY?" I whispered to her as I scanned the room for the little brats.  She didn’t even remember what they looked like. 

As we were leaving she said, "I think it was kind of fun."  She quickly made sure after that statement that she didn’t have to go back for a while.  I assured her.  She then said, "I don’t think the kids liked me."   Can I just tell you the million ways my heart broke when she said that?

People can spit on me.  They can call me names.  They can throw things at me or tell me to "go away."  They can even send me hate mail or write rude comments meant to hurt my feelings.  I learned today, that nothing anyone can do to me can even begin to compare to the physical pain that I experienced when I saw that my daughter’s feelings were hurt.  It was so visceral, so deep and sharp that it made me feel physically sick.  I felt emotionally spent the entire day. 

After we got home and Lil C was napping, I held Big I on my lap, rocked her, and told her that everyone deals with new situations differently.  Not everyone can walk up to someone they don’t know and introduce themselves the way that she did.  I told her that some kids will put up a wall, so to speak, and act mean before they act nice.  I told her that some of the kids will already know each other and therefore think they only need that one friend.  I told her that anyone who chooses not to be friends with her is missing out BIG TIME on spending time with a great, sweet, bright, fun, wonderful person that she has become. 

Tonight my husband asked her if the girls hurt her feelings, and do you know what she said?  "Actually Daddy, it made me a little mad.  They weren’t very nice."  When my husband asked her why she didn’t tell the boys to move, she said "I didn’t want to hurt their feelings." 

I think that Big I is going to be just fine at school.  For me, it’s going to take some serious time to get used to it (and a whole boat load of tissues).

Habits: Start one, Break one (or something)

I’ve told you about my work out motivated husband.  Often, he’ll head off towards the basement and ask Big I if she’d like to go "work out" with him.  Their work out consists of sit-ups (or in Big I’s case "lay downs" which look like she’s been glued to the floor as she tries to sort of lift the back of her head maybe a half inch off the mat), push-ups (also known as stationary horsey ride on Daddy’s back), a nice game of leap frog (or squats according to my husband), and pull ups for my husband (hang from the beams for Big I).  My husband defends this "work out" as a good one for both of them. 

Today, my husband when to the gym.  Lil C was sleeping and after reading all of your comments and emails saying how motivating I am. . . I figured I better fit the part and go work out or something.  So, I told Big I that she was welcome to join me and she did.  She suggested warming up with some jumping jacks.  We did some spirited jumping jacks, followed by punches and double punches in Nai Hanchi, followed by snap kicks: obi level (belt or stomach area) and to the head on my heavy bag of course (Big I used her Scooby Doo punching bag.)  That was just the warm up. 

We then moved on to Kata one and push-ups.  At this point, Big I decided to quit and requested we play a nice game of Memory instead.  She even volunteered to get the game from the closet herself.  I told her that I was working out, and that I wanted her to work out with me.  Her response?  "No Mommy.  You’re work out is way harder than Daddy’s." 

Can I tell you how many ways she made my day by saying that?  My warm up is a harder work out than Daddy’s?  Oh yeah, you hear that darling husband?  That was all the motivation I needed to continue with my work out.  I’m an extremely competitive person; and there’s no one I’m more competitive with than my husband.   I sailed through the rest of my kata’s and waza’s.  I churned out my push-ups and pushed past the pain that is still haunting my arms and chest.  I did the sit-ups and even did the pilates 100 instead of plain sit-ups.  I did the squats and got to 10 without even a thought about which treat I would reward myself with afterwards. 

After I was finished, I was sweating.  I hadn’t showered yet so it wasn’t a problem.  Big I and I decided our post work out cool down would be a nice game of Scrabble Junior.  No cookie today. 

Despite the fact that Big I told me mine is the harder work out, deep down I know that it’s because mine involves karate.  She saw me doing kata and mentally shut down.  When I was talking about her coordination the other day, I stated that I really think it’s more of a paying attention issue.  Tonight, my theory proved true. 

We went to visit some college friends at their house.  These are the type of friends who make you wish arranged marriages were an option for the common folks (and I’m not just saying that because I know they read my blog religiously).  They have two awesome kids who are so incredibly sweet and fun.  Their son, a year younger than Big I, is a doll.  Our kids have never had a disagreement.  They always get along.  They usually cry or complain profusely when our little visits are over.  Their son calls Big I his "girlfriend," and we can only hope that it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Back in college, we used to party with our mutual friends and shoot the you-know-what. About what, I’m not really sure.  It was college after all.  These days, we have dinner and the conversation at the "adult table" usually revolves around poop and other various bodily functions and mishaps involving our kids and pets.  After all, that is what parents talk about.  We’re thinking that a wedding reception would bring back the college days if only for one glorious night.

Our friends have a large yard and enough animal friends to fill a small zoo.  Big I immediately went off with her "boyfriend" to play in the yard, visit their pet horses, and play on the new swing set.  Within five minutes, the child was screaming that she hurt herself.  I checked out the latest injury (yet another knee boo-boo) and asked her how it happened.  "Were you running?"  She says, "No, just walking."  So, I cleaned up her knee and sent her on her way. 

Fifteen minutes later, she enters the kitchen sniffling.  She’d been hit in the nose with a wiffle ball.  That issue was resolved and off she went again.  So, it was time to eat dinner and she came inside to get her plate.  My husband told her to go wash her hands in the bathroom.  Big I walks over to the pantry closet door and grabs the handle.  We all start telling her she’s at the wrong door, but she continues to open the door, staring out in our direction.  We continue telling her she’s at the wrong door, and she actually backs into the pantry closet and starts to close the door.  Had she not had an encounter with some instant tea and canned soups, I fully believe she would have shut the door and stood in there wondering where she’d gone wrong. 

She is a smart little girl.  She knows everything there is to know about fossils, dinosaurs, and the rotation of the Earth.  She just does not pay attention to her surroundings at all.  I’m going to continue to ask her to work out with me, in the hopes that she’ll become more focused on the task at hand.  And maybe, just maybe that will translate to other things in life like avoiding close encounters with canned goods when all she’s looking for is a sink and some soap.

Revenge (of the work out and other stuff)

It is amazing that I am even attempting to write a post today.  Why?  Well, writing a post requires me to lift my lap top up, and move my arms.  Both of these activities are causing some serious pain today.  You know that work out?  The one that I did for about 15 minutes?  The one that involved push-ups?  Well, if I didn’t know any better, I would think I was in having a heart attack because my chest is KILLING me today, along with the arms. 

Doing that work out didn’t feel like a big deal when I was in the process.  The encouraging thing is that the work out didn’t really feel like anything and I’m sore, which means it was doing something it was supposed to be doing and I didn’t have to feel the pain. . . at least not immediately.   Lil C is taunting me because deep down she KNOWS I hurt.  She is even more determined than usual to stand on my lap and jump, jump, jump, jump, oh, and jump.  It is causing some serious discomfort today and I’m dreading tomorrow, because the second day is ALWAYS worse than the first day after a work out. 

Despite the fact that I can hardly move my upper body, I was tempted to use my martial arts for revenge today.  My family and I were taking a walk.  As Lil C and I were crossing the street, a car driven by a teenager came around a 20 mph corner at about 60 mph.  He had to skid to a stop.  He would have hit us had I not stopped in my tracks and pulled the stroller backwards.  And then, my daughters got a lesson in profanity like no other.  My husband, who had already crossed the street, started.  After my heart moved down from the nice little nook in my throat, I joined in as well.  Their car windows were open.  I know they heard every word.  They also heard the landscaper a half block down the street from where we were who also gave them an earful. 

Had the boys retorted in any way, shape or form, I seriously think I would have dragged the driver out of his window and practiced some kata.  I was SO upset.  Fortunately, I think the driver was a little shaken himself; and I sincerely hope that our little incident and subsequent name-calling extravaganza made him think a little about slowing down.  I came home from the walk and fired off an exasperated email to our township police department who I’m hoping will do something about this very dangerous street. 

I have never wanted to use what I’ve learned at karate for anything other than to protect myself and my children.  I’m not the type of person to walk around and say things like, "I could kick your you-know-what."  I am not an instigator in the physical sense; Never have been-never will be.  But, in my (what seems to be to teenagers) old age, I have often fantasized about teaching a teenager (or anybody acting like one) a lesson or two, especially the ones who drive across store parking lots like the lines are there as merely a suggestion.  Becoming a Mother opens and enlarges your heart; but it also enrages your temper against those who might do potential harm to your off-spring. 

Martial Arts workout and my (poorly) adapted version

It’s in the genes

From the very moment we found out each of our baby daughter’s were on their way, we started thinking about who she would look like, what she would be like, and most importantly, whose nose she would have.  There was no question that our girls would be born with blue eyes, but both of our daughters definitely got my eye color(darker blue) and shape.   Personality begins to show itself after a few months.  We always thought Big I was a fairly low maintenance baby until we had Lil C who is the most laid back child on the face of the Earth.  Big I required miles worth of bouncing while walking to get her to sleep.  Lil C, when tired, requires only the "twi" from the song "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and she’s out like a light. 

Other traits are more likely learned.  Big I’s fear of bugs probably comes from the fact that every time there is a bug in the house, Daddy is called to deal with it.  Mommy wants no part of that whole scenario.  Eye rolling seems to be a learned behavior too; and unfortunately I am also responsible for that lovely trait.  Over the last few months though, it has become very clear that Big I has inherited something else wonderful from her mother. 

Apparently, being a clutz is in the genes.  Let me start by saying that I am one of those people who can rub my stomach and pat my head at the same time.  Yes, I can.  And, when I was a teenager in jazz dance class I learned this thing where one arm goes up and down while the other arm goes up, out and then down and I mastered it, faster than anyone else I know.  Obviously I do not suffer from a complete and utter lack of coordination.  It seems to be more related to the inability to pay attention when it matters. 

Take my first date with my husband for example.  We were walking on a lovely tree-lined street on our way to a movie theater.  We were sharing little niceties and getting to know each other, when a tree branch rudely smacked me in the forehead Wizard of Oz style.  It practically gave me whiplash.  It was a great laugh for my husband and remains so to this day.  At the time, it wasn’t so funny for me.  My forehead was a little red and the worst part was my bruised ego.  It was a first date after all, and I REALLY liked the guy.  Obviously, things worked out considering he’s been my husband for going on eight years, but still I could have done without the little smack back to reality.

Consider also, what happened to me a few months ago.  I had just left a doctor’s office building after an appointment and was descending a set of about six steps down to the parking lot.  A cold swift wind blew my hair in front of my face and I missed a step.  I came down hard on my straight right leg, which sent me catapulting forward.  I stomped my left foot out in an attempt to save myself the fall, but the momentum that the top part of my body had was a bit too much.  It seemed to happen in slow motion, but when all was said and done, I was a good 6 feet away from the steps, having skidded across the parking lot on the palms of my hands, and knees before I finally came to an abrupt but welcome stop on my back.  My first reaction was to look around and see if anyone had noticed.  No one was around, so I took my time getting up, shook off the gravel, took inventory of the injuries and then began to collect my belongings that had been strewn about in the parking lot at two foot intervals representing the path of the fall. 

My little missteps provide great fun for others, but for me, they’re pretty embarrassing.  Now, it appears that Big I has the same problem.  She has always been an injury prone kid.  She is constantly bruised on the shins and occasionally on her back.  She likes to "dance" in the living room and by dance I mean combine dance moves with karate and gymnastics that usually end up shaking the living room floor if not the whole house. She inevitably ends up throwing herself on the floor somehow resulting in these mysterious bruises.  Her most famous saying as of late occurs after one of these dance falls where she stands straight up after a body twisting fall to declare, "I’m o.k." Mary Catherine Gallagher style. 

Last week we were all taking a walk.  Big I was doing her dance moves in the street which involve jumping, twisting, and spinning with karate knife hands.  Next thing you know, she has a knee full of gravel and a nice hole in her capri pants.  Not even a week later, the child runs out the front door, trips and goes crashing into the pavement, attaining yet another boo-boo to add to the knee collection.  Last year, she wiped out so badly while playing at a playground that my husband and I were both thanking Sam’s Club and that great first aid kit we had picked up just days before.  Otherwise, I really don’t know what we would have done.  Big I went to ballet class the next day looking like a warrior: scraped chin, lip, knees, hands, etc. etc. etc. 

I know she’s accident prone, but until today I didn’t realize how much so.  For Easter, we bought the girls those make your own stone kits.  We took advantage of Lil C’s long nap and started mixing it up outside.  We mixed the concrete-like material and poured it into the mold.  I had just finished getting all the air bubbles out, and leveling the material.  I just wanted to clean up the bucket and then we were going to start decorating.  I set the mold on the one step, out of the way, and told Big I to be careful she didn’t get anywhere near it.  No sooner than I turn around and pick up the hose nozzle, do I hear a feeble, "Mommy?"

I turn around to see Big I standing with the heel of one of her brand new $48 sandals firmly planted inside the mold.  Concrete is spilling onto our sidewalk and the bottom of Big I’s shoe is coated in it as well.  "OH MY GOD!" I screamed.  It had been only SECONDS since I had turned my back and given instructions to be careful.  I helped her remove her foot, cleaned off the sandal and went to work on the mold once again.  It all worked out, although our sidewalk has a little extra to it now. 

People are always looking at us like we’re overprotective lunatics when Big I is playing outside or with other kids because we are constantly reminding her to "be careful" and "watch where you’re going".  It’s for good reason though!  She has often been so involved in telling us something that she neglects to watch where she’s going and has ended up walking into doors, walls, etc.  It is obvious that she has inherited yet another lovely trait from her mother.  (I won’t even bother to go into detail about my encounter with a screen door a few years back.) 

Because of this, my husband and I have been questioning whether giving our baby the middle name "Grace" was really a good idea.   Only time will tell.

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