7 and 10

When you are a 10 year old girl, you can be running around outside in a fuzzy cheetah vest and a lion mask meant for 3 year olds one moment, and lamenting that you are too mature to wear the pretty ruffled dress to church the next.

When you are a 7 year old boy, you can actually "forget" to use toothpaste when you brush your teeth, even though you were just reminded to do so

When you are 10 or 7, you can get up from the supper table and dance around or wrestle with your sibling.  Then, when being told you are behaving like a 2 year old, you can just giggle happily (after sitting down in order to avoid the Wrath of Mom, of course).

When you are 7 or 10, you believe that any parental question should be answered with a "meow", until a human answer is demanded.

When you are 7, you think that having a stomach ache entitles you to be able to lay on the back of the couch-cat style.

When you are a 10 year old girl, you can say that Tyler Lautner is your celebrity boyfriend in front of your parents without being too embarrassed.

When you are 7, it will ruin your entire evening if you can't find your Nintendo DS to take along on a trip to the store.

When you are 7 (or even 10) you tune your parents out when they tell you for the umpteenth time that when they were kids there weren't any Nintendo DS's, and they survived car trips just fine, by looking out the window.  Then you think about how boring life must have been way back then.

When you are 10, you can sing off tune at the top of your lungs in front of a crowd, and believe that you sound amazing.

When you are 10 or 7, you are able to become invisible when sneaking huge spoonfuls of Nutella or peanut butter unknown times each day.  The only evidence you were ever there is the gooey spoon stuck to the sink, and the empty jar (recently purchased), Mom finds in the pantry the next time she tries to make you a sandwich.

When you are 7, you can happily entertain yourself for hours with your Legos, action figures, or just about anything, if only your sister would quit trying to make you play school or act in her imaginary plays all the time.

When you are a 10 year old girl, if it's bright, has glitter, some type of animal print, and has colors that clash with each other-you think it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

When you are 7 and 10, you are caught somewhere between "big" and "little".  Sometimes you want to act grown up and sophisticated, other times, you just want to crawl around and pretend to be a dog.

Back To School Shopping

Image by arbyreed via Flickr

My kidlets return to school next week.  I'll have a second grader, and a fourth grader.  We all have mixed feelings about the start of school-I think they are a bit excited about returning to school and seeing some of their friends, but our neighborhood got redistricted (again), so they are going to a different school this year, so I think they are a little nervous, as well.  (This will be the third elementary school my daughter has attended, thanks to our rapidly growing town!) I'm not looking forward to the school and fall activity routines to start up again, but it will be nice to have some time alone sometimes.

We finished our school supply shopping on Tuesday, with apparently, thousands of other people.  Walmart was out of pencils.  Pencils! Who runs out of pencils? I'm not sure, but I think you can probably even buy pencils at the Quick Stop.  We had to run to Target to get our pencils and pink erasers, which Walmart also ran out of.

Yesterday was school clothes shopping day.  They don't really need much right now, so they only got a few things a piece  School clothes shopping was much more fun for me when my daughter took no interest in what she wore, and I got to dress her however I liked.  At some point last year, however, she suddenly became picky about her wardrobe, and let's just say that the two of us have vastly different taste and ideas of how a 10 year old should dress.  After looking at several stores, I'm left wondering why retailers think my daughter should be dressing like Who's That Girl era Madonna? Seriously, what's with all the black lace, raggedy looking plaid tunics, short skirts, and cone shaped bras? Ok, scratch that last part.

After showing my daughter several things, and her looking at me with a combination of pity and horror, I realized that I would need to change my strategy.  I started looking for trendy items (her style-type of choice, apparently), that I could actually tolerate, even if I didn't love them.  She'd point out something hideously ugly not quite right for her, and I'd quickly find a similar but less hideous item to distract her compromise with.  Things got even better once I realized that every time I said something was "cute",  that look of pity and horror came back again.  But if I said something was "cool", she'd at least look interested in whatever garment I was holding up for her to see. Semantics are a big deal when you are a tween, I suppose.  Honestly, I remember going through the same thing with my Mom.  But Mom, I don't want to look "cute", I want to look "good"!  I didn't understand her exasperation at the time, but I sure do now!

My son got a few things too, but honestly, shopping for boys isn't as much fun.  There are only so many variables-t-shirts, polos, shorts and jeans can only be done in so many manly combinations.  He really doesn't care much about new clothes, anyhow.  He even said, "I've already got enough clothes.  I don't need anymore." A statement I've never in my life uttered, despite the contents of my closet.

As the King of Random Conversation, Tot's purpose on the shopping trip was to keep us "entertained" with his constant chatter on the way to the mall.  His chosen topics flowed (as usual) rather confusingly from Pokemon characters, to Lego guys, to iCarly, and on to motorcylces and Camaros-all punctuated with excited stuttering. 

Honestly, I tuned out for a while, until I heard him say in all seriousness, "N-n-n-no offence to you Dad, and Mr. Fullen (our 89 year old neighbor,) and other old men, b-b-but..."  I didn't hear the rest of what he said since we were all laughing so hard by that point. 

Confused by our laughter, Tot turned his hands palm up and said, "W-w-what?! I said 'no offence'!" 

He quickly moved on to talking about the Jonas Brothers.  "M-m-my friend says they drive one of those cars, I think one of those Italian cars.  Y-y-y-you know, a Linguine!" (cue more laughter) 

"Do you mean a  Limousine?", I asked.  "No, it's a Linguine-it's Italian or French, or something like that."

"I think he means a 'Lamborghini'", my daughter piped up. 

"That's what I said! A Lamborghini!", Tot replied with a giggle before moving on to Mario Brothers as a topic for conversation.

All in all, it was a pretty good afternoon.  My daughter won't be going to school looking like an 80's MTV Vee-jay (not completely, anyhow), and my son has a couple of new shirts to spill ketchup on at lunch.  Next time, though, we're shopping for me.

Doggone Guilt

I like dogs.  I'm a dog liker. (not to be confused with a dog licker, LOL).  Other people's dogs, that is.  At least the ones who don't run off from home, the ones who don't jump on me and scratch me, and the ones who don't yap constantly.  Oh, and only the smart dogs-I've known way too many stupid dogs in my time, and I have no patience for them.  (Basset/beagle mixes, I'm talking to you!) I much prefer a laid back, friendly, cuddly, purring lap cat to a dog, most of the time. Cats are not dumb, either-they are moody, calculating and manipulative, and not easily distracted; these qualities prove their intelligence to me.

Anyhow, my children, particularly my daughter, love dogs, and want one badly.  We tried owning a dog a couple of years ago, and it didn't go well for us.  Scout was (and actually still is) a Border Collie mix, although we were told he was a Sheltie mix (yeah, I don't think so) when we adopted him from the shelter as a puppy.  We kept Scout crated at night, and while we were gone, but when we were home, we kept him in the kitchen.  He had a hard time realizing that carpet and grass were not the same thing, so it was...more sanitary...to keep him on the linoleum.  Scout grew from a tiny little baby pup to a big, goofy puppy dog in a matter of weeks.  Oddly enough, I was usually the only person who would hear his whimpers to go out at one in the morning, and also, strangely, I was usually the only one who noticed when he was out of dog food.  Despite my studious watching of The Dog Whisperer, I could not get Scout to walk at my heel (he actually pulled me down and dragged me a few feet once-good times.), or stop chewing on things.  We spent lots of money on Kong toys and rawhide, but he was still a chewer.  He quickly destroyed two dining room chairs, multiple shoes, blankets and towels, three dog beds, several stuffed dog toys, and gnawed the molding around our kitchen door, and the underside of the kitchen cabinets.  There were many other issues that kept Scout from being a good match for our family, so a year from the date we brought him home, we gave him away to a friend of mine.  Scout is now the star pupil of his dog obedience class, and has two doggie brothers.

Apparently, giving the dog away to a friend traumatized my daughter.  She seems to have forgotten that no one but me paid much attention to the dog when we had him, and still, two and half years later, cries over missing him late at night. (Yes, in fact I do feel like crap every time she cries over him, even though Scout is happy in his new home).  This Mommy guilt has not caused me to consider getting another dog, however, despite the pleas of both of my children, and even my husband (the traitor).  I've said many times that I'd rather have another baby than have a puppy, because if I'm going to put that much time, effort and work into something, then at least a child will grow up some day and be able to take care of me when I'm old.  Not to mention the whole learning to use the toilet thing....

Little Bit has gotten much more sophisticated in her frequent dog pleas-she is now drawing up Dog Care Proposals, and writing Dog Owning Contracts.  This is the latest, that she presented my husband with this morning.  I hope you can read it...

If you can't read it, the title is Things I Will Do if I Can Have a Dog, and she has written a checklist of dog chores that she will take care of.  My favorite part is towards the end, where she says, "buy it supplies (if I can afford it)" and "anything else that needs to be done for it (except I can't take it to the vet because I can't drive and can't afford it so you guys might have to do that)" Notice she uses lots of parenthesis in her writing like someone else we know? In order to make her case particularly airtight, she has included another document, nearly blank, where we are supposed to write in our own dog care demands for her to agree to.

Oh, boy.  I so do not want another chewing, shedding, barking, pooping beast in my home, but it's hard being the lone standout when this is what I'm up against!  Anyone know of a bread that is smart, laid back, smart, doesn't bark much, smart, doesn't chew things up, keep itself clean, doesn't need to be walked, and is smart? Oh wait, that would be a cat.

That's Sweet!

Ok, ok, so I said that I'd post on Saturday, but I didn't.  I can be such a loser like that. Anyhow, Saturday was busy, what with the whole Saturday-nowhere-to-be-sleeping-in thing, and then shopping and cleaning house for my daughter's tenth birthday party.  Sunday afternoon was the actual party-just for family, no "friend parties" this year.  I still can't believe that I have a 10 year old-that just seems so old to me! I'm sure in a few years, I'll be singing a different tune, looking back on when she was "little" and only 10.  She had a nice party, and thanks to the generosity of our relatives, she now has more cash to spend than I do.  The money is burning a hole in her pocket, but I am dreading taking her shopping to spend it.  When it comes to her own money, the girl is seriously picky about what she buys.  It will take her at least an hour of looking at the same 3 aisles of toys or video games before she decides that she needs to look at another store.  Three stores later, she will be begging to go back to the original store, where it will be another hour before she buys the first thing she looked at.  It's exhausting.

I really could use some retail therapy of my own lately-I've just had a lot of not fun to blog about here type thoughts rolling around in my head, and I don't know what to do with them all. Nothing bad, or earth shattering, just not entertaining, is all.  I've thought about starting a separate blog for the more serious stuff, but it'd just be a lot of whining-I tend to get pretty melodramatic from time to time, and then I get embarrassed about it later.

August 8th, it will be my 1st blogiversary, although I really didn't get down to business until January or February.  I'll try to come up with a fun post for that day-not sure what I'll do yet.... Any ideas?

Oh, and hey! A couple of weeks ago, Alisha, from Musings of a Manic Mama gave me the Sweet Blogger Award! I'm not sure if that's "Sweet" as in "Suuuhhhh-weeeett!!", or "Sweet" as in "Awwwww!", but either way, I'm excited to win another blog award! Where ese can I put forth minimal effort and be rewarded for it? That IS suuuhhh-weeettt, my friends!
Anyhow, thank you Alisha! Be sure and check out her blog-she's the lone source of estrogen in a houseful of boys, so you know she's got some stories to tell!

I'm going to pass this award on to a few blogs I've recently started reading.  These ladies are my favorite kinds of Moms-moms who aren't afraid of keepin' it real, and that's sweet! (As in suh-weet, of course.)
Second Chance Moon
The Adventures of JAMC
Figments of a Mom

Since I'm being linky and all, check out this site if you haven't already-it makes me laugh a little every day. Catalog Living

WWCHD? (What would Claire Huxtable do?)

The door from the garage opened abruptly, and slammed with a thud, as two pairs of kid-feet stomped into the house.

"I'm SO mad!" my daughter yelled, tears falling from her eyes, and she shook her fists in the air.

"Yeah, me too! They were being mean to us!", said Tot.

"What happened?" I asked as my husband, the ever-protective Daddy, stood up and looked out the front window.

"Calvin and his friends are outside, and they were spitting on our chalk drawings, and erasing them with their feet!", Little Bit replied in a loud, furious voice.  Tears were still falling, and her skinny little body was shaking with anger.

"They said my horse drawing looked like a cow with a unicorn horn! They were laughing at us!"

"Yeah! They were making fun of us and wouldn't go away!", Tot chimed in.

My husband opened the door, and stalked outside to confront the group of 12 year old boys, still standing in the middle of the cul de sac laughing.  Despite being skinny kids from the suburbs in their Little League jerseys, I'm sure to my husband they looked like a group of gangsters or a pack of wild, snarling dogs.

Calvin is a neighbor boy, who is usually very nice to Little Bit and Tot. I think my daughter has always had a small crush on this normally good natured  and sensitive kid, and Tot looks up to him. 

As their father was outside talking to the boys, I comforted my daughter as best I could, and then she and her brother went upstairs to watch tv, Little Bit still sobbing.

"I'd better come back inside before I say or do something I'll regret to those little punks!", my husband stormed angrily as he came back in the house.

"What did you do to them?!", I asked, worried now.

"Nothing.  I just told them that they shouldn't be teasing kids younger than them, and that they'd better leave them alone."

"Well, that sounds ok.  What did they say?"

"Nothing.  They just ran off laughing as soon as I turned around.  Those little punks.  I'm going to get myself arrested if I go back out there!"

"Boys that age are like that, especially in groups.  They have to try to be 'cool' with their friends around.  I'm sure they'll leave them alone now."  I tried to reassure my husband that Calvin, normally a very respectful kid around adults, probably took the scolding very seriously, despite his reaction with his friends.

"You know, every time I start to think he's a pretty good kid, something like this happens.  I don't trust that boy." My husband's motto tends to be "Trust no one" where our children are concerned.

Let me stop here to clarify that the last time "something like this" happened with Calvin, he was in 1st grade, and my daughter was in Pre-K.  They had been playmates for months, when Calvin saw us outside, getting in our car.  He was in his driveway with a friend, and enthusiastically called "Hi, Little Bit!" (ok, he used her actual name in real life, but you know...), and waved.

His friend loudly remarked, "Oh, Calvin, is that your giiiirrrlll-friend?", in the sing-songy tone that generations of kids have instinctively adopted in times like these.

Mortified, Calvin no longer would wave across the street, and rarely played with Little Bit after that.  Needless to say, her Daddy was incensed by his behavior.  But you know? The kid was only 6 for Pete's sake. Who holds a grudge against a 6 year old boy?

Daddies of little girls do, apparently.

So, as my husband was cooling off, I heard my daughter tell her brother, "I'm still SO mad at those boys! I'd like to spit in their faces and stomp on them, just like they did with our pictures!"

"Don't do that!", Tot replied, clearly horrified.  "You'll have to go to 'juvey'!"
How does my 7 year old son know about 'juvey'?

An hour or so later, after the kids had gone to bed, Little Bit came downstairs, still distraught and crying, but now more sad than angry.

"I can't stop thinking about what happened earlier.  They hurt my feelings and made me so mad."

I felt helpless-times like these are when I wish I could channel a little Claire Huxtable or June Cleaver and say something helpful that will make it all better, but I must have skipped that part of the parenting handbook.
Clearly, my husband was feeling the same way.  He looked at our 10 year old daughter with a mixture of helplessness and compassion, yet there was still a spark of anger in his eyes.

"Come here, honey", he said, and Little Bit curled up on the couch next to him with her Daddy's protective, loving arms around her.  Her sobs slowly quieted, and her fists finally unclenched, as she relaxed.

Two days later, as I think back on that moment, I realize that some day, she's going to have her heart broken by a boy.  She'll have disappointments, and people will do and say things that hurt her tender heart.  We won't always be able to shield her from the hurt, and I won't have any half-hour sitcom type magic words that make the pain go away before the next commercial break.  The mother in me wishes she could stay little and innocent, tucked away at home, sheltered from the hurts of the world, while the rational part of me knows that this is just all part of the growing process, and she will be fine.

My husband on the other hand (who is still stewing over the whole incident), is going to need some Xanax to make it through the growing years ahead. 


By the way, last night I realized that I had forgotten to accept a blog award that I recently received! I don't know how I forgot-maybe it was the heat (our AC is humming along nicely now), or this little situation with the kids-but I am grateful for the award, and will post about it tomorrow!

My Feet and Wiffle Ball

Happy Thursday! Wow-this week is flying by! Today, I am participating, once again, in Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop from Mama's Losin' it .  Every week, Mama Kat posts a few writing prompts, and anyone who wishes to participate can choose one or more prompts to write about, and then link up on her blog.  Click on the button below to visit more blogs, or to join in yourself!  (If you do decide to play along, leave me a comment, and I'll check yours out, too!)


Here is the prompt I chose:
2.) Where were your shoes? Write about an interesting time when you happened to be barefoot. Begin and end your writing with a description of your feet.

It was a sunny, spring Sunday afternoon.  Our family was gathered at my Aunt and Uncle's house to celebrate Mother's Day, and a couple of family birthdays.  (We're big multi-taskers.)    I had on my favorite pair of comfy, Born heeled sandals, which show off my pink toenails, yet hide the fact that my feet could really use some TLC. As we sat on the back deck, soaking up the sun, my Uncle Ron laid a couple of Wiffle Ball bats and some plastic balls in the grass.  You know, in case the kids wanted to play Wiffle Ball, or something.

Soon enough, Little Bit convinced me to bat so she could practice her pitching.  Pretty soon, I was jokingly running to an imaginary base after hitting the hollow plastic ball, so I had kicked off my shoes, and was running barefoot in the plush, green grass.  Ahhhh...I love going barefoot in soft grass.... Not long after, my Uncle had joined in, along with my 64 year old, arthritic Dad, and actual bases were established-a tree stump level with the ground, my nephew's jacket, a plastic bag of sports equipment, and one of my beloved sandals as home plate.  Now my daughter and my Uncle are pretty athletic-and somehow they ended up on the same team.  So very unfair. That left my Dad for my teammate.  We are not from an athletic stock of people.  At all.  Did I mention my Dad has arthritis? That left me pretty much to field all the balls that my uncle and daughter were Wiffling all over the far reaches of the yard.  I was basically a panting, sweating, laughingly complaining mess, and they were beating us badly.  My pleas for help to family members on the deck were politley, although laughingly, declined.  I think they were enjoying my pain...

Finally, we were up to bat, so I could sort of catch my breath.  I was first up  (out of two, LOL), and my daughter was lurking by playing first base.  I hit the ball in between first and second, and took off towards the stump that was first base.  My daughter got the ball and headed back to the base.  I stepped carefully on the stump right before Little Bit arrived.  First base made me a little nervous-remember, I was barefoot, and stumps have a tendency to be, well, splintery.  So, right as I gingerly stepped on the base, Little Bit went to tag me with the ball, and I lost my balance.  I tumbled to the ground in a disgraceful heap, and proceed to roll down the slope beyond.  My loving family, looking on from the deck, errupted in laughter and applause.  Nice, huh?

As a child, I remember falling, and just jumping right back up.  Falling is different as a 35 year old, out of shape woman.  I had to take stock of the situation before getting up.  As I lay there looking at the fluffy clouds (miraculously, there were no stars or tweeting birdies floating in circles overhead), I mentally went through each part of my body-amazed each time I discovered that it weren't in pain.  My laughing uncle came over after a while, and said "Are you okay? Did you twist an ankle or something?"  More guffaws came from the deck as I answered, "I don't know-I haven't gotten to that part yet!"

Anyhow, I was fine, and the game continued until for another 30 minutes or so, until my impatient Grandma decided she couldn't wait any longer to open her Mothe's Day gifts, and we quit.  As we headed for the house, I picked up my shoes, and looked down at my feet, which were now green on the bottom, and even much more in need of some TLC.  Who knew feet could get grass stained? I have a feeling that my daughter and I will both treasure memories of this day for a long time. Memories of Grandpa running (well, walking briskly with a limp, actually) bases, memories of the two dogs running around, trying to herd us as we went from base to base, and, of course, memories of me, tumbling down the hill.  Good times.  Really!

Fight! Fight! or There is No Fury Like that of a Sister

Hey-sorry about the long post, and the unusual absence of sarcasm and self-deprecation, but I'm in the midst of Mama Bear fueled angst that I need to get off my chest.  We'll get back to the regularly scheduled goofiness/snark soon, so bear with me! 

She's nine years old and about 50 pounds of skin and bones.  Anyone who tries to mess with her little brother has to get past her first-and she's tougher than she looks! He's 7, impulsive, mischievous, and....well...just plain mean sometimes.  I'm talking about the kid who made the mistake of trying to start a fight with my son (for the second time in a week) in front of his sister.

For years, I've told my kids to always watch out for each other.  Friends are good, but family is more important, I drilled into their little heads. For a long time, I was afraid that my words would never sink in.  My daughter and son are best friends, although they would never admit it.  Sure they argue and bicker, and do little things to annoy each other like all siblings do, but where one is, you are sure to find the other.  My only sibling was 9 years older than me, and we are not close at all.  I've always felt like I've missed out by not having a brother or sister closer to my age, someone I could relate to.  So naturally, it makes me very happy that my kids are so close.

Last week, Tot (my son) was at his Cub Scout Den meeting with his Dad.  Our Den meetings are always a frustrating mess of disorganized chaos. Especially for me, a former Kindergarten teacher, who likes order, routine, and control, especially when a group of easily hyped little boys are concerned.  But, I'm not in charge, and since I work during some of the meeting nights, I can't volunteer, therefore I feel like I don't have the right to complain.

Anyhow, my husband came home from the meeting furious.  During an outdoor "game", that resulted, not surprisingly, in the boys running around like madmen, as usual, Marcus (name has been changed to protect the guilty and bratty), a boy from our neighborhood, tackled Tot, knocked him to the ground, and held him down, out of the blue.  Marcus' Aunt Tracy (name changed to protect the clueless and idiotic), who is raising him, just stood by and watched, giggling.  Tot was able to roll himself over and get up unscathed, but my husband was angry-this kid has been on his "Daddy Radar" for a while already as a potential bully.  Our daughter was equally as angry as her father upon hearing what happened. She clenched her small fists angrily, growled menacingly, and vowed that Marcus was "going to get it!" I have to admit that this part was kind of cute-my scrawny, tiny for her age, little girl, ready to go after some mean boy for her brother's sake....  Anyhow, we calmed her down, and things have been peaceful around here since, until today.

This afternoon, they were playing with some kids in our neighbor's backyard.  Little Bit (my daughter) rushed home, burst through the door, and breathlessly announced that she just "protected" her brother from Marcus, who had invited himself over.  It seems that Marcus, who had already been making a general nuisance of himself, winged a tennis ball straight into Tot's eye with all his might.  My son, who will normally do anything not to cry in front of his friends, burst into tears.  Marcus laughed at Tot, who got up and kicked him in the leg.  Both boys were wrestling with each other, when Big Sis jumped in and "protected" her brother.

"I kicked him in the nuts, Mom!", my innocent little princess said proudly. *face palm*  I felt instant shock and revulsion (and if I'm totally honest, a teeny smidge of pride-hey I'm not perfect!) hearing those words (well, actually just that one particular word) come out of my daughter's mouth.  We don't use that word in our house (well, for that anyway), and we don't condone that kind of talk, yet I was proud of her for sticking up for her brother, so I didn't know whether to scold her for her language (which she honestly had no idea was bad-she probably learned it from Marcus), or thank her for taking care of her brother.  I think I did a mixture of both, as I ran outside to get Tot, who was now talking to one of the "bystanders".

Tot was fine, by the way.  (I really shouldn't have picked such a babyish nickname for him, because he held his own pretty well.) I think he'll have a pretty good shiner in the morning, but the tears were long gone as he thanked his sister for sticking up for him.  I had a talk with Little Bit (Little Bit of Fierce Rawrr!!, that is) about how it probably would have been better to go and get a grownup, and how kicking a boy there should probably be a last resort, but I did tell her that I was proud of her for taking up for her brother.

I don't want to raise fighters, but I do want to raise good kids, who love each other, and who can always depend on each other.  And you know what? I think it's working!

My Daughter, the Businesswoman

Are you visiting from The Ultimate Blog Party? If so, welcome! My party post is here .

I've never really used my daughter's name on here-I'm not really sure why, but for now, I'll follow that old Mommy Blog cliche and call her a cutesy nickname.  I've called her Little Bit since she was a baby, so we'll go with that.  I call my son Tot, even though at 7, he's probably way too old for that nickname, but he'll always be my Totty.  And I'll probably still be smelling his head when he's in college.  What? Sometimes (probably when his hair needs to be washed) his hair still gets that sweet smell it had when he was a baby.  It's a Mom thing.  Anyhow, I'm getting waaaay off track here, which I'm prone to do.  I'm supposed to be talking about what a shyster entrepreneur my 9 year old Little Bit is.

When she's not playing her DS, or pretending to be a cat or dog with her brother, or writing plays to make the neighborhood kids act in, she's dreaming up ways to make some cold, hard cash.  Need a household chore done? She's your girl, if the price is right.  (Although sometimes I make her do them anyhow, because "I'm the Mom and I said so", and all that).  When her brother had to sell popcorn for Cub Scouts, she was itching to get out the door and sell it for him (even though she wouldn't get the money).  When Girl Scout cookies season rolled around, she set a goal of selling 1000 boxes of cookies. It's so hard to tell your child that they are aiming too high.  "Set your goals a little lower, dear."  See, that's just not right!

The picture is of Little Bit having a Toy Sale last summer during our neighborhood's annual garage sale.  (No, we don't always keep our garbage cans in the driveway.) The stuff you see is only a portion of what she decided to sell.  She did pretty well, she's got the "cute factor" going for her.  One lady came by twice to buy My Little Ponies from her.  She didn't even have kids, she just said that Little Bit looked so cute and hopeful standing out there, that she had to buy something from her.  (Yes, if I've taught her anything as a mother, it's how to stand by looking cute and hopeful until somebody helps you. *Bats eyelashes* What? It's a great skill!)

We live in the 'burbs, in a safe neighborhood on a culdesac at the end of a long road.  There are other families with kids on the other side of the culdesac.  We sort of have an understanding with the other families-the kids can go from yard to yard, or ride their bikes in the area, and we all sort of look out our windows and keep an eye on the kids. As they've gotten older, their freedom has expanded, but they mostly have to stay within the culdesac.  When Little Bit was about six, unbeknowst to us, she took off down the street with another little girl, armed with an Easter basket filled with nail polish bottles.  I can't remember how we found out, but when they got about 5 houses down the road, we found out that they were knocking on doors, offering to paint people's nails for .50! They had earned some "sympathy money" from good natured neighbors who now probably thought we didn't watch our kids, but they were made to return it.  (Not one of my finer moments of parenting, that.)

Then there was last fall.  Little Bit had been busy for days, cranking out woven pot holders on her little loom.  (Remember those little square looms with the loops you weave?) Our neighbors had a bunch of friends over towatch a game, and again, unbeknowst to us, Little Bit made a sign, taped it to the mailbox, and set up shop in the driveway.  I figured out pretty quickly what she was doing and put a stop to it, but not before she had sold 2 potholders for $5 to a "grandparent type" visiting our neighbor.  Five bucks!!

Fast forward to Friday afterschool.  The kids are out playing, enjoying the sunshine and warmth after a long winter. Tot comes in with chocolate around his mouth (a fairly standard look for him), but I didn't make much of it until he mentioned that he needed more quarters.  Low and behold, Little Bit is out in the garage with her Easy Bake Oven making brownies, and selling them to the neighbor kids and her brother for .25 a piece!  I didn't make her stop-I figured if they are dumb enough to pay .25 cents for a nasty old Easy Bake brownie, then so be it.

What does she do with the money? Well, I'm proud to say that she is a very careful shopper.  She can spend over an hour in the toy aisle of Target, trying to decide whether to buy Magic Beans and a couple of packs of Pokemon cards, or a Webkinz, or to save her money.  She compares prices, and agonizes over these decisions forever.  (Unless she's spending our money...)

I was going to go into how she used to convince her little brother to trade her his paper money for her pennies and nickles (he's since wisened up), and how every year she cons him out of the best of his Trick or Treat candy (he happily goes along with it to please her), but this post is long enough already.  She says that she's going to be a teacher during the week, a vet on weekends, and a movie star whenever she has extra time, but we think she's going to be a CEO of a big company or a lawyer.  At least we know she can support us when we get old, although she'll probably put us in the "bargain" home....

A Whole New World

I got my first pair of glasses when I was in second grade-I think I was about seven.  They had light blue plastic frames, and I picked out a very grownup looking, blue floral polyester case to go with them, that I was quite proud of.  I remember the ride home from the eye doctor with my new glasses.  The world was a beautiful place! I could see the individual leaves in trees, the bricks in houses.  I could read signs that before had been just a blur.  I was amazed at how sharp and defined everything around me was.  My mother, a long time glasses-wearer herself, had enthusiastically tried to explain to me how exciting it was going to be-that first ride home with my new specs.  Since I had no realization of the fact that my eyesight was bad, and I didn't want to have glasses anyhow, I didn't believe her. But, wow-she was right! It was like a whole new, sharply detailed world was being unveiled before my eyes.  Even as an adult, I still enjoy that first drive home with new contacts or glasses, and I still marvel at the clarity and beauty of the world which had only recently been dull and ordinary.  I've exlained to my eagle-eyed husband that going from old glasses or no glasses to new ones, is like going from antennae television to high definition tv.

I have terrible eye-sight.  Seriously, when eye doctors think it's great fun to joke with you about how you might need a seeing eye dog (it's happened more than once, with multiple doctors) soon, then you know you have issues.  It's all my Mom's fault-her eyes are even worse than mine.  All I can say, is thank God for contact lenses, because even with the newest "feather weight thin-lens" technology, my glasses lenses are still at least a half inch thick.  So, I've always known that at some point, the bad eye genes I've passed along to my kids would rear their blurry heads.  Why is it that all the "bad" genes are dominant? Bad eyes, crooked teeth, fine, limp hair-bleh. 

My daughter is 9 years old and in the 3rd grade.  We've had an idea that she might need glasses, but we hadn't made it a priority.  She's always been a straight A student, reads constantly, and has never complained about not being able to see things, so we didn't think it was a big issue.  We were wrong.  My husband took her to the optometrist last week, who told us that "she needs glasses really bad!" and "she can't see a thing!" Yeah, she's a very straight talking optometrist, LOL. <insert Mommy Guilt here> Sigh.  So, my daughter reluctantly picked out some frames, and we waited a week for the glasses to be made.

She hadn't been very excited about getting glasses at first, but one day after school, she came home and told me that all of the "smartest" kids in her class all have glasses, so she felt a little better.  In order to help her get more excited, I tried to tell her about how exciting it would be to put them on for the first time, and how she would notice leaves on trees, and bricks in walls, and read far away signs.  My exuberance was meant with a disbelieving sigh and a claim that she could already see all of those things, anyhow.

Yesterday after school, we went to pick up the new specs. The Optometrist's assistant handed her the pink, flowery glasses, and she put them on.  Cue immediate smile.  "Ohhhhhh, wow", she said.  "Everything is so clear!" At this point, I was so giddy with happiness I was fairly bouncing.  As we left the doctor's office, she commented on how she could see all of the blades of grass.  "More than I can even count! I can see them all!"  On the way home, she was commenting on how she could see the outlines of the stones on the wall of a church, and was reading the logos of low flying airplanes in the sky.  She gleefully read street signs, and billboards, and the smile and look of wonder at the beautiful world around her never left her face. 

Although I'm sorry that she inherited the family bad eyesight gene, I'm glad that I got to pass this experience on to her, in a way.  She now has "new eyes" to experience the wonder of creation around her, and she looks pretty cute in them, too!

Life With a Drama Queen

I called my mother yesterday, and apologized for being such a drama queen as a child. "Why, you weren't a dram...." she said, and stopped talking, as she quickly realized that it was true. I was a huge worry wart, and maybe a bit indulged as the baby, and the "good kid" of the family, so I can recall many instances of over the top hissy fits I threw. I worried about everything, and would get myself worked up quite easily. " A Tempest in a Teapot" was a phrase my mother often called me, as she would stand shaking her head with an exasperated expression on her face. I also learned how to use tears and a dramatic turn of phrase to get attention-particularly from my Dad-when things didn't go my way. Other than my dramatic, anxious ways, I WAS a pretty good kid, so my parents mostly put up with my theatrics. And my husband mostly ignores my theatrics, when they rear their prissy little head (heads?) today. Wait.... did I really just admit that?

Anyhow, you know what they say about payback, being a b....well, you know. That's right. I am the mother of a 9 year old girl with some dramatic tendencies of her own. She wants to be a movie star-she doesn't want to be in drama class in high school, she informed us not long ago; she just wants to go straight to being a movie star. When we finally convinced her that was nearly impossible, she asked us to send her to acting school in New York or Paris. Um....hello? I don't think so, dear. We went to the movies this past weekend, and saw the movie The Spy Next Door. Seriously, the acting in this movie was so bad, that in comparison, the actors of The Dukes of Hazard should have won Emmies. Riley thought it was breathtakingly wonderful. She leaned over to me during the movie and confided, "Oh, Mom! This is just so fabulous! When the actors are happy, I'm happy! When they're sad, I feel sad. When they are angry, I'm angry with them. This is an amazing movie!"

This same future star has an unreasonable fear of all things medical. She had to have a finger prick once a couple of years ago to test her iron levels-really not a big deal, right? Wrong. She had to have chest x-rays taken last year-not painful or anything, just stand there and have your picture taken, right? Ummm.....no. She still has nightmares over the very benign experience. Let's not even talk about when she has to have blood drawn or shots. *shudder* When her little brother had to get stitches in his head (for the first time), she had trouble sleeping for months afterward, because she kept thinking about the medical equipment she saw in the hallways at the immediate care, even after we explained the harmless purpose of each item. Yesterday, she had to go to the Dentist to have impressions made of her teeth, so she can have a retainer made. Of course, she was a nervous wreck. She sat down in the hygienist's chair, sighed loudly, and said "WHY do these kinds of things always have to happen to ME?" Just wait until she has to go to the Gynocologist someday.

She's also learned how turning on the waterworks every now and then can sometimes change Daddy's mind when he's told her no about something. My husband thinks I'm mean, because I ignore her when she does this, but I'm not mean, I just know what she's doing! I did it first, and by golly, I did it better! But please, pray for me-the teen years are coming, and I'm scared!