She Lost It

The tooth. She really lost it. It’s been over a week, and still no sign.

In my last post, I wrote about how that thing was hanging on by a thread. How we were waiting for it to fall out with both anticipation (Amelia) and dread (me). But when it happened, nobody noticed.  Maybe because I was distracted by another sign that Amelia is growing up right under our noses. 

Amelia and our dog Bentley have an affectionate relationship. We call Bentley the President of Kissing because if he isn’t sleeping he’s probably kissing somebody, usually Amelia.  So there they were kissing and laughing and snuggling on the living room floor, and all of a sudden Amelia says:

“Mommy, Bentley is kissing me in French!”

WHAT THE HELL???? 

What are they learning at big kid camp? It’s bad enough that she’s learned the words to Taylor Swift songs (and thankfully still prefers My Little Pony) but she’s also heard of French kissing? From WHO??

So of course, I stammered something about Bentley being a French poodle and tried not to make this a big deal. But in my head it was disturbing enough to distract me from Operation Tooth Watch until at least an hour later, when Amelia just didn’t look quite the same.  I asked her to open her mouth and there it was – or wasn’t – the tooth was GONE.  Not even Amelia had noticed it falling out. 

Gone.

And so we searched. All over the house and yard. No tooth. Amelia was devastated because she wanted to see the bottom of the tooth. Sentimental me of course wanted to save that sucker in a little box with the lock of hair from her first haircut.  Yes, I have that. Don’t judge. And of course, we had to turn something over to the Tooth Fairy.

So Amelia wrote the Tooth Fairy a sweet letter of explanation. And the tooth fairy forgave her in a return letter and delivered some good loot and very authentic fairy dust, which proves beyond any shadow of a doubt that she was indeed in the room, dropping dust from her wings as she hovered above the tooth fairy pillow. So all’s well that ends well, and Amelia still believes. 

But what of the tooth? Yeah, Bentley probably swallowed it while they were making out. 

Please let’s talk about fairy dust again.

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Hanging On

Toothy treasure

This morning I made a very significant transaction at the bank. I withdrew 10 one-dollar coins. That should hold us for a while. 

Because as I understand it, a dollar coin is the going rate for lost teeth.  This tooth fairy's got the goods.

But this mama isn’t ready for any of it.

A lot has changed in the last month.  Amelia graduated from preschool. She started “big kid camp,” which she loves. She rocked her ballet recital. She can carry the dog without (my) fear of (him) falling. And just yesterday she announced that she'll be taking showers instead of baths, and she will not be needing my help. 

There were a few tears at the graduation, but otherwise I think I kept it in perspective. Proud mommy, a million photos, visiting grandparents, celebratory lunches and hovering outside the bathroom door notwithstanding.

The next milestone is one I don’t know how I will handle. It’s that damn tooth, just barely hanging on, wagging around and taunting me every time Amelia opens her mouth. She’s so proud of it, so excited. She’s expecting that when it falls out, she’ll be able to do all kinds of tricks, like stick a straw through the space and drink milk with her mouth closed. Look out, she might sell tickets at camp.

I’m expecting that when that tooth falls out, a big one will replace it. An adult tooth. My baby’s whole face will change. She’ll have a big kid smile. She’ll chew her wedding cake with this incoming tooth. It will still be with her when she’s an old woman. She didn’t even grow her first tooth – coincidentally, the one about to leap - until she was more than a year old, so they’re still white and so cute and barely used. All they’ve ever chewed is pasta and cheese, let’s keep them a little longer!

I know it’s crazy, she’s growing and she’s excited and she should be and I’m proud of her. So I’m going through the motions. I made a tooth fairy pillow with a little pocket, so the tooth fairy can retrieve it, conveniently hanging on her bedpost, without waking the slumbering (ha!) Amelia. I smile when she wiggles it. I make up stories about the tooth fairy and her house full of teeth. I tell her about losing my own teeth. And today I went to the bank. The tooth fairy appears ready.

But I’m hanging on more tightly than the tooth.

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Go Fry an Egg!

A few weeks ago, I heard Lenore Skenazy speak. If you don’t know who Lenore Skenazy is, search Google for “world’s worst mom” and you’ll learn all about the New York City woman who let her 8-year-old son ride the subway home from Macy’s all by himself. He asked to do it, they studied a map, and practiced the route. On the big day, they said goodbye in the handbag department and he went on his way with a subway pass. He made it home, couldn’t have been more proud of himself, and she never looked back. Until her blog post about this little rite of passage went viral and she became the World’s Worst Mom, exposing her son to all kinds of stranger dangers, germs, and death by giant subway rats. When the dust settled, she wrote a book called Free Range Kids and has become a national superhero of courage to banquet rooms of moms like me who are terrified to let our kids out of our sight.

So last week, when Amelia asked to make her own egg, I thought about Lenore Skenazy. 

What’s the worst that could happen? It’s an egg in our kitchen, not a Manhattan subway. So I gave her an egg and a bowl, and clearly I’ve made her terrified of breaking an egg, because she tapped it about a dozen times so gently it barely made a sound, let alone crack.  She finally whacked it harder, and surprise! Fingers in the eggshell.  Salmonella?  No, I told myself… let her keep going.  She proudly and carefully separated the shell and slid the yolk into the bowl.  Phew!  She did it right. Actually, she did it exactly as she’s seen me do it about a million times.  Hmmm.  
 

number 6 is Amelia's - ready to cook?

But back to the salmonella…go wash your hands twice, with soap. 

Only we weren’t finished. She also wanted to drop the egg into the pan and watch it sizzle. OK. We positioned a stepstool in front of the stove, and I placed a pan on the burner to heat. She climbed up, duly warned about NOT TOUCHING ANYTHING.  Raw eggs were no longer the biggest danger in the room, now we had EXTREME HEAT and I didn’t want to mention the potential for PAINFUL BURNS.  From about 2 feet away, she poured the egg from the bowl into the pan and got a satisfying sizzle. And that was it. She wasn’t interested in watching it cook, flipping it (thank God!) or anything else. She was off to play until it was safely on a plate on the table. 

Well, that wasn’t so bad. 

Before I had a kid, I read an article about having difficult conversations with children. It said to answer only what the child is really asking – so “where do babies come from?” for a preschooler is probably a pretty direct answer, without all the discussion a teenager (doesn’t) want.  Tell the truth, and be ready for her to change the subject.  Crack an egg, then go get the My Little Ponies.  Amelia’s growing up, sure, but this 5-year-old still has the attention span of, well, a 5-year-old.

She’s asking to do the things she’s ready to do, and I’m glad. Because coming up are a bunch of things that I’m not ready for her to do, so we’d better ease in. Things like ride a school bus by herself to kindergarten. Buy (and choose!) her own lunch. Go on playdates without me. Well, maybe that last one is OK.

So for now, when there is an egg to be cracked, Amelia is in charge. She hasn’t dropped one yet.

Thank you, Lenore.  You’re not the world’s worst mom. In fact, you're a lot like my own mom. Thanks, mom. And Happy Mother's Day!

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Some of Everything

Can working mothers have it all?
 

I’m writing this from our living room couch, while Amelia watches My Little Pony before bed. The dog is snoozing at my feet, dishes are in the dishwasher and the laundry is mostly folded. Jeff is across the room, reading. It’s kind of a postcard of suburban domestic bliss. But maybe I’m supposed to be in Pittsburgh. 

Today is the second day of the Association of Children’s Museums’ annual 3-day conference. I’ve attended this conference almost every year since 1995. It changes locations each year, and I’ve been going so long that I remember the last time it was in Pittsburgh. It’s a professional development and networking event, and since I’m officially a freelancer again, networking is key. It’s also an annual gathering of old friends and colleagues, an opportunity to stay up too late in the hotel bar talking about exhibits with a bunch of people who love them the way I do, without spouses checking their watches. Last year at this conference, I was at a career turning point and the solid advice, unwaivering support and valuable perspective of my ACM friends gave me the confidence to make a change I desperately needed. Last year I was a mess, and this year I’m better. I was looking forward to going to this year’s conference to say thank you, check in, and pay it forward.

But last night was New Parents’ Open House at the school where Amelia will start kindergarten. And my decision to freelance full time was all about priorities. 

A few months ago, I saw a job posting that sounded great. I inquired about it, and it sounded even more interesting. I was definitely qualified, and strongly encouraged to apply. But I kept hesitating. Finally, my husband ran out of patience. Look, he said, I can’t keep having this debate. I will support you either way, but do you or don’t you want to meet the school bus?

Wow. That’s easy. I do want to meet the school bus. It’s what I’ve always wanted. But I also love my career and we sure do spend my paycheck. So I looked around. I have two interesting, challenging, rewarding freelance projects that will keep me busy through the summer. I have two more pending for the fall. There’s no reason to think there won’t be more after that. So at least for now, freelance work is a viable option with a lot of perks. Not only can I have the joy of meeting the school bus, but the fact that Amelia is ON a bus at 3pm means she doesn’t have to go to after school care. If I can earn a living and also avoid 11-hour days for my 5-year-old, well, any other option just seems selfish.

Have I found the elusive work-life balance that mothers everywhere dream of? If so, it’s still not perfect. There are choices and tradeoffs, because doing both means you can’t give everything to either one. Working for myself means the time management decisions are mine, and there isn’t time “reserved” by an employer. I can watch ballet class, but I will be up very late writing. If I go to parents’ night, I’m also deciding not to go to the ACM conference. 

But here’s the thing – there will be another conference next year. In fact, missing a year is a great incentive to call some of my ACM friends and catch up one-on-one in the coming weeks. Those relationships are intact, and networking can still happen. But Amelia won’t be starting a new school next year, and I’ll never have a rising kindergartener again. I’ve missed enough milestones already, and now that time management is up to me, I've chosen to meet the school bus.  

So I think you can have it all, you just can’t have all of it. Tonight, I see from the photos on Facebook that I’m missing a great time in Pittsburgh. But this year I belong here, on this couch, with my family.  I’ll see you next year, I promise!

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Testing the Limits

My daughter is probably crying. Or she will be soon. What’s wrong, you wonder? Nothing at all.

Amelia’s never been much of a crier – a talker, yes. She argues relentlessly about issues she believes in.  Like whether or not princesses go to the potty, and the nuanced distinctions between ponies, flying horses, and unicorns.  She argues with remarkable logic, reason, and WORDS.  Not crying.

But suddenly, something has changed.  If her favorite dress is in the washing machine she gets all choked up.  Macaroni and cheese in the shape of shells instead of spirals is a crisis. Or if we insist that she stop singing in bed and JUST GO TO SLEEP at 10:30pm, here come the waterworks. I feel like this lady, who photographs her toddler in all stages of meritless meltdown.

But Amelia isn’t a toddler and I’m not taking pictures. I mentioned this new crying habit to some mommy friends the other day, and they all nodded in sympathy. The same thing is happening with their 5-year-olds. Amelia is testing me, and she might be winning. She’s wondering just how far I will bend the rules in order to stop or avoid the tantrum. Guess who is wearing sparkly party shoes instead of sneakers today to her tennis class? Call me lazy, blame the dentist appointment we were already late for, but I just wasn’t up for the fight this morning.  It’s not like she’s Serena Williams.

And I kind of understand. I’m testing limits too, wondering how far I can push before there are consequences. You might remember that in January, I started a 6-week Biggest Loser weight loss challenge. At the end of 6 weeks, I’d lost 17 pounds and won a hat.  A few weeks later I was down 23 pounds…and I went to a Bar Mitzvah and ate some cake.  Guess what? It didn’t matter. I still lost weight that week. So I had some ice cream. And I still lost weight. It felt like I ran a red light and didn’t get caught. 

And now, after nearly 2 solid weeks of “tasting” chocolate, pizza, frozen yogurt, and anything else I’ve wanted, I’m afraid to get on the scale. How much exercise will it take to hide bad kitchen behavior? How bad is the damage? I know what I need to do, and I know I’m not doing it. I found the limit, and I might have to cry.  Or pick myself up, tie my running shoes, and get back to the gym. I wondered how far I could push, and now I know. 

So Amelia, grab a tissue. Next week you’re wearing tennis shoes to tennis class.

Want more Mess? Check out A Crafty Mess over at Charlotte Parent, or visit my Etsy store, Made by Mommy. 

Home at Last?

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. 

We’re Jewish, so Easter doesn’t generally involve looking for eggs in the garden, or church, or much of anything really. This year it coincides with the end of Passover, so we’ll be unceremoniously dining on the broken sheets of matzoh left at the bottom of the box.

But Easter Sunday has a special meaning for us. Eight years ago, we first saw Charlotte, North Carolina on Easter Sunday. Jeff and I were newlyweds from Boston, and we used all our frequent flyer miles to come here, chasing a job. I’d been following the development of ImaginOn: The Joe & Joan Martin Center for over a year, and had finally landed a job interview. A phone interview. I knew I’d never be hired if I didn’t show up in person, so we flew south, uninvited.  And a few weeks later, we drove south, with a U-Haul-It.

So fast forward eight years, and here we are. We’ve added a kid and a dog. And a house. And more stuff than we’d ever want to schlep in a U-Haul-It again.  And the job? It was even better than I’d imagined and completely worthy of the chase, but if you’ve been following this blog you know I’ve made a few career changes since.

Coincidentally, I’m working on a consulting project in Boston, which brings me north every few weeks, usually with just enough time outside of meetings to have dinner with old friends. Who all want to know when we are coming back “home.”

Good question. Where is home, anyway?

Is it where you start, where your extended family lives, where people knew your grandmother and remember you as a kid?

Or is it where you go, where your new family plants roots and grows, where your children are born and everyone knows who you’ve become?

For the first seven years, we had an easy answer to this. Home is where our jobs are, so we have to stay in Charlotte. But at the moment, we’re both portable. We just like it here.

So for now, can we stay home? 

Want more Mess? Check out A Crafty Mess over at Charlotte Parent, or visit my Etsy store, Made by Mommy. 

One Week at a Time

This morning I drove to a big building and signed some forms. And just like that it was over. Amelia is registered for kindergarten.  

When she was born, people told us time would fly by. I secretly cursed these people, sure they were just taunting the sleep-deprived new parents with the impossible promise of a walking, talking, sleeping child right around the corner, one who would dress herself and handle her own personal hygiene.  

Five years later we’re still not sleeping, but otherwise it was true. She knows more than I do about the ipad, dresses herself, puts herself in the car, helps herself to a snack, and continues to grow like a weed – proof that time does indeed fly.

The passage of time isn’t lost on Amelia.  In fact, she’s pretty obsessed with it lately.  She counts down days until birthdays, playdates, trips, even a new episode of Princess Sofia. That songabout the days of the week – sung to the tune of “The Addams Family” - has become part of my subconscious playlist. I don’t even remember the original version, it’s all about “there’s Sunday and there’s Monday”…you get the idea.  And if you have an almost-kindergartener you’re snapping your fingers and cursing at me right now. 

Anyway, this last year of preschool is all about getting ready for kindergarten, and that means the days of the week – and the schedule they dictate – are very important.  So we made a dry-erase schedule chart. 

Really it’s just a fancier version of a dry-erase office calendar, but instead of the date of the month, this one features the day of the week. I’ve seen versions of this on pinterest and elsewhere over the years, so when I came across a 5-opening frame missing some glass in the clearance bin at Bed Bath and Beyond I knew exactly what to do with it.  Buy it, sneak it into the house, and finish this project before Jeff could question the purchase of a broken frame!

Fixing the frame was easy, I replaced the glass with glass from another one.  Next, Amelia and I went through our basket of fabric scraps and picked out five patterns we liked. The key here is to choose patterns that are not too dark or too busy to serve as backgrounds for your dry erase marker.  You could do this with paper too, but we have to use all that fabric for something!

We wrapped the backing from each frame with fabric, taping it tightly on the back. And then we re-inserted the fabric-covered backgrounds behind the glass.  That’s it!  We used sticker letters to add the days of the week (snap, snap!), hung it over the row of hooks that hold all of Amelia’s school bags, and filled it in with her schedule.  If we were really fancy, we’d hang the ballet bag under the ballet day. But we’re not that fancy.

So we’re ready. Bring it, kindergarten. What day does school start?

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