This blog blossomed and flourished and now it is time to move on to other things. You can still find me on Facebook and Twitter, and other places, too.

Stay in touch. Enjoy life. Me and the the rug are doing fine. I hope the same for you.

- Molly

…this time in the marsh grass of Southern Maine

Once we agreed on this strategy, it became immediately apparent that there was no place in her room suitable for something like this, being as it was packed with plastic bits and a stuffed animal population that had exploded exponentially. So we realized we’d have to do some serious cleaning up… and we set right to it. There’s nothing like an unopened playmobile set to motivate a nine-year old person to tidy up.

The girl and I filled two bags with her junk, which I swiftly brought out to the trash, lest there be any second thoughts. Then we swept and mopped the uncovered area, which had not seen the light of day since the extravagant gift-giving binge of Christmas  2008.

And then she happily set up her playmobile set in the corner, with room to spare.

At one time I saw these play sessions as opportunities to teach morals and good citizenship, but I’ve long given up trying to impose any ethical direction. The scenarios are much more complex than most foreign political situations and often there is no moral compass: it boils down to who ever is biggest and strongest gets to stomp on the other one. That’s life in the forest.

But there is one trend in her play sessions that I find objectionable. It concerns Mumble the stuffed penguin. Mumble always seems to get assigned the part of the scapegoat. He is the one who gets punished, yelled at, and sent to the back of the line. He isn’t particularly strong or powerful, but he’s always the one who gets caught doing something wrong. No one seems to like Mumble and he has no friends.

Of course, I am assigned the job of playing Mumble. Recently I have started to refuse any scripts that put him in the position of ‘bad penguin’. This frustrates my daughter, but I am holding my ground. Mumble has every right to play the star and shine sometimes.

It irks me how much she wants to use a scapegoat. I wonder if its hard-wired into human nature. Even so, its still worth fighting against.

She attached the animals together with an elastic band and then they go off riding across the savanah.

But before he’d had a chance to tie it down, the plane started rolling backwards. Poul peered over at me on the other side and said, “Stop it with your leg until I get a chance to tie down the wings.”

So I did. I stuck out my leg and stopped it from rolling backwards.

This morning, I was riding my bike past a field of grazing cows. One of them must have gotten spooked by the bike, because suddenly as a group they began lumbering disgruntledly away from me, further up the meadow. It was a halfhearted stampede: they seemed more annoyed than scared.

When they got about 50 yards away, they turned, as one, and looked down at me with aloof frowns. I continued biking along the road and yelled up at them, “I’m big and I’m bad!”

Unimpressed, they began grazing again.

click here to play

Notice the left hook for initial propulsion, followed by the single arm finish. ‘Swing’ is really at the top of her game.

Rare footage from last year shows the beginnings of an approach which now, in the player’s second season, comes to full fruition.

She’s not a very good loser so I usually let her win the first few games. My strategy is to play the game in earnest until I’m just about to checkmate her, and then stop trying and let her ‘catch up’ and eventually win.

This time she started out as usual, chatty and silly, making the kings and bishops have little conversations. But a few moves later, interestingly, she got me into check. I quickly recovered, and returned to planning my strategy to ‘almost’ checkmate her,  only to have her put me into check again. I recovered once more, but a few moves later she put me into check a third time and I realized with a pang that I was cornered. She’d checkmated me.

I was flabbergasted and annoyed. What a little twerp: who did she think she was, beating me at age 8, huh?

On the outside I was all proud and happy… “wow, sweetie! What a great job. Well done!”

But I continued to feel the uncomfortable surprise of having been sucessfully ambushed by someone of whom I’d always thought myself smarter. Gradually, however, a grudging admiration emerged. For the first time she had beat me fair and square. Way to go, girl.

(I guess I should soak it up now, might not be hearing much of this when she’s 15…)

First Rada straps on her knee pads and I unlock the cables and u-locks. After this, we pull the bikes off the porch,  put on our helmets, and attach any relevant cargo to the front platform of my bike.  We do a final pre-flight check to make sure we’re set to go, and then head off.

We have a route. Rada always goes first. We start off on the sidewalk in front of our house. She stops 15 feet before every intersection. I consider telling her she can stop a bit closer but change my mind.

When we hit the playground we cut over to the path that goes behind the basketball court. This is the best part of the ride: no cars, no walkers, just our bikes and the asphalt river that takes us along.

Towards the end, we hit the sidewalk for one last leg of the journey.  She purposefully yells out, “to your left,” to any pedestrians up ahead.

When we get to school, the knee pads are tucked into her backpack. I cable her helmet to her bike on the rack by the school’s back door.

I send her off with a hug and a kiss, get back on my bike and head towards work.

Rada enjoys music, but has showed no interest in the piano. Last winter she developed a yearning for the trombone and asked repeatedly for lessons. Worried that its weight would physically overwhelm her 4 ft frame, as well as in dreaded anticipation of the sonic emanations that would come from such a structure, I stalled and deflected for months.

Finally last week Rada turned her sites toward the violin. My ears perked up. String instrument, lightweight, fairies in the woods…? I went for it.

So last weekend we went to Johnson’s Strings for the rental. The store has shelves and shelves of violins of all sizes…. starting with little bitty ones no more than 10″ long and extending through violas, cellos and big bass viols.

We picked up a small violin for her, outfitted with bow, rosin, and shoulder pad. All the pieces fit neatly into a ultra-indestructible case.

In preparation of her first lesson Rada spent the week taking the violin out of its case, assiduously rubbing the bow with rosin, and then dragging it across the strings of the instrument. The resulting sound was excruciating like nothing I’d ever heard before: words fail me.

I’m sure that the lessons will soon infuse Rada with new skills, new techniques, new sounds.

Suzie, however, hung on for another week before passing away. By that time it had gotten quite cold and we decided to wait a few days for the weather to get a little better. So we preserved her in the freezer for a day or two. The weekend went by and we still hadn’t gotten the chance to do it. Then, over the next days, the temperature unexpectedly got even colder. The ground was now frozen solid, and I realized that we had missed a deadline: the burial would have to be deferred until spring.

Suzie rested quietly in the freezer the entire winter, largely forgotten except for repeated reminders to babysitters who might have mistaken her for leftovers and occasional moments when I would see the folded napkin in the baggy and temporarily forget what it was.

Last week with the beautiful weather and the ground soft from rain, Rada & I took our shovels, dug a good hole next to Sally and finally closed the loop. Rada said “goodbye Suzie, thanks for being my pet”. We filled in the dirt, patted it down, and went back into the apartment, quiet for a while, each in our own thoughts. It was an ending, and however minor, it was still noted.

And WITH NO TRAINING WHEELS.

Here she is with Pata Suyemoto,

the bike whisperer who made all it happen:

Elizabeth follows along behind her daughter Emilie, carrying school backpacks, extra shoes, snacks, emergency medical supplies and often food for the evening meal.

I, too, am the sherpa in my daughter’s life. Rada and I recently came back from a plane visit to my mother, and I experienced new meaning to the words ‘one carry-on bag per person’. As my daughter ran up ahead clambering off the plane, I followed behind with my carry-on, my personal bag, her carry-on, her personal bag, and two stuffed animals.

There is some poetic irony, however, to this. While visiting my mother, I went on a very productive shopping spree, and acquired way too many purchases to bring home with me on the plane. My mother graciously agreed to bring them back for me in her bags later this month.

The coach led a small group of motivated boys (oh yes, and one girl… guess who) through a sequence of exercises, explaining, demonstrating, and guiding as he went. The coach was clearly someone who had lived and breathed baseball all his life, and who, from the clarity of his directions and the quality of his enthusiasm, loved to teach.

I was prepared to be bored, but instead watched fascinated as kids threw balls to each other, occasionally experiencing the satisfying feeling of one landing squarely in their gloves. I found myself wanting to be out there tossing the ball back and forth, experiencing the pleasure of a tight throw and catch.

As I watched the teacher show them their paces it seemed almost like he was dancing… the grace and agility was so similar. The movements were practically balletic in some cases. And the joy of watching natural athletes play their sport started seeping in on me, and I found myself less dreading the ensuing games and practices that Rada’s interested will invariably lead me.

And Rada was truly enthralled. She has been yearning to throw a baseball around for months, years, really. This clinic is probably just the beginning. Does anyone know of girls softball or T-ball team in the Somerville/Cambridge area?

… from the Akumel Lagoon in Tulum, Mexico.

Rada, Poul and I saw yellow striped fish, bright blue parrot fish and big grey ones. The lagoon was a naturally situated ocean pool with limestone rocks and landscaped with lush shrubbery and modern sculpture.

Rada did most of the snorkeling on her own… but when tired, she resorted to the nearest avialable back for a break.

This is why they’re so smart: lots of circulation to the brain.

The campers are gathered around the fire.

The easy chair is part of the campsite, and the crocodile is tame.

Jan  18-19: daughter remains groggy, coughy. Mother feels onset of fatigue and slight sore throat – immediately reverts in to ‘rest’ mode… long naps, abbreviated social schedule.

Jan 19: lapse in judgment — Mother and daughter go to local indoor pool for a swim… in 25 degree weather. Both get chilled.

Jan 20-22: daughter lapses deeper into sneezes and chills. Mother feels persistent fatigue and sore throat.

Jan 20-21: daughter stays home from school, mother attends conference out of town, begins survival mode on ibuprophen and acetaminophen.

Jan 22: mother returns home, daughter returns to school.

Jan 23: Mother collapses into cloud of sickness, lying immovable for hours at a time.

Jan 24-26: abbreviated social schedule: daughter getting antsy, mother still weak and coughy.

Jan 25: mother slowly regains energy. daughter ever more restless.

Jan 26: back to normal for both parties.

Duration 10 days.

Well, the DVD was pleasantly bland enough: lots of 16-somethings dancing around behind lake and mountain vistas. But the real horror is the soundtrack. Rada has been playing the music CD incessantly. This morning at 5:30 am I am hearing “Oh baby I’ve got to find me, you’ve got to find you-ooo-oo”. The songs are stunningly insipid: the lyrics an ersatz-rock genre, sanitized for language and content. And the music is teeth-gratingly bad: think High School Musical but without the pretty chord changes.

Let me count the ways –

When the cold slush of a rainy day turns to ice,

gritty with soot and dirt: how blasted lovely.

When the grimy snow melts, partially freezing to an outer shell,

with no warning now slick and cold: how damn exciting!

When the puddles that were once muddy mush now turn stiff

and the wind swells to a cold roar

ripping under coat flaps and prickling into mittens:

sweet effing challenge it is!

but finally… when the day softens to silence

and another snowfall descends

white and cool, for a brief moment crystalline and pure…

I lapse silent,

reluctantly accepting

the beauty.

At school, Rada conforms to a very strict dress code, but at camp the kids wear whatever they want to. Rada could show up in polka dot pajamas with striped tights if she wanted to.

And that’s pretty close to what she did.

… Happy New Year, by the way!

What am I supposed to say about that? How do I interpret this seemingly illogical chain of events to an 8 year old who still believes?

And then there is the problem of the chimney, or lack thereof. Fortunately, I may have solved that one last year with a long talk about how he can get in through the windows, or keyhole (which is a little creepy, actually).

But now this year, there is the additional problem of when Christmas happens. Because several relatives are leaving at 6 am on Christmas morning, it has been decided that Christmas will be moved ahead a day. So ‘Christmas’ will be on Dec 24th. And ‘Christmas Eve’ will be on Dec 23rd. I’m not sure whether to try and explain this all somehow, or more conveniently, just ‘lose’ a day between now and then.

She asks me could she have the book next to her on the table while she ate? Knowing that my answer will spawn a lifetime of reading while eating (known through my own experience) I say yes. She neglects her meal, having a stronger appetite for the words than the food.

I stand by proudly, watching the reader in her as it emerges full force: the complete absorption in the story, the intensity of concentration.

Another parent might angrily point to the uneaten food, and the book at the table. But not me! I’m thrilled.

So I’m enjoying the affectionate mood and drinking in all the good energy.

But my enjoyment is also tempered by the knowledge that her mood could change rather quickly, and I could soon find myself in the company of a very different child.

Last year’s low point was when I had told her she could not bring her plastic caveman bat to school. She was so angry she said was going right back to the baby house to get herself another mother, one who would ‘understand’ this perfectly reasonable request.

Nice to be on the upswing for a little while.

The removal procedure was kind of neat: they used a thing similar to a blade saw (don’t worry! keep reading!) but with such a blunt edge that you can put it directly on your skin with just a slight tickling sensation. It bites through plaster, nothing else.

After the removal, we went to Radiology for an x-ray to see how it was healing, and then they said something about coming right back for the ‘next cast’. Oh sure, I thought, some kind of temporary splint that comes off at night. No problem.

Um… well… not exactly. They put another cast on her. This one for another 3 weeks. After that there’s a temporary splint and then finally she’s a free girl.  I thought she’d be on the monkey bars by Christmas but it looks more like it’ll be Martin Luther King Day.

The new cast is slightly shorter, so she has a little more mobility. Rada chose a patriotic theme and here she is with her favorite dog-friend Zeus:

photograph kindness of Zeus’s person, Poul.

I got the call at noon on a Friday and rushed to school to find a sobbing girl cradling her arm in the nurse’s office.  A series of trips to primary care and Children’s Hospital resulted in the fine cast you see below, with a lovely soccer pattern for its decor.  The prognosis for her wrist is excellent: the cast comes off before Thanksgiving, and by December, she can return to the monkey bars.

After an initial few days of pain and discomfort, Rada quickly settled into the life of royalty:

Everyone in her soccer team signed her cast; in school she is assigned a daily helper to assist with getting her coat on and off and carrying her backpack around school; the lunch ladies pick up her tray for her in the cafeteria; and her teacher lets her miss spelling tests and math quizzes.

At home, she no longer has to clear plates from the table or put on her own socks. I also comb her hair and ‘prepare’ her toothbrush.

Rada’s return to normalcy happens in 2 weeks when she gets the cast off.  I’m counting the days until the princess reverts to civilian.

My Kazakh-born American daughter is growing up in a world where people of all colors and genders are leading our country and leading the world, hopefully to a better place. It is a truly wonderful day today, such a good day to be an American.

I stood looking over the school yard this morning as my daughter filed in with the rest of her classmates and teachers, such a rich group of nationalities and ethnicities in the school. I noticed another mother standing next to me, and we turned to each other in wonderment, sharing the amazement and joy. She said “I told my son this morning he can do anything he sets his mind to, he can be anything he wants to be”. I nodded, agreeing, tears in my eyes for some reason.

Such a nice day to be an American.

Years later I swore off sweets and desserts, but instead developed a nightly peanut butter and jelly sandwich habit.

And last winter I could not go to sleep without a dish of maple syrup yogurt for a night cap.

My newest obsession is Honey Crisp apples. I’m not going to tell you how good they are, because I don’t want you buying up the local stock.

However, I will reveal that they can only be purchased from farmers markets. Yesterday I got a bad hankering for one. Searching for a farmers market on a Tuesday, I saw one listed in Copley Square. Taking a huge detour on my bike trip from Kendall Square to Longwood, I stopped and got a bag of them. I was five minutes late to where I was going but had a tidy little stash of juicy sweet orbs tucked into my backpack and I felt smug and satsfied.

Anyway, one of the problems I’ve been avoiding is telling my daughter’s teacher about a vacation in mid-October which will necessitate my daughter being out of school for a day. Those of you who are parents know that a vacation day such as this is an unexcused absence, and no laughing matter in the arena of elementary school.

Another problem is a ‘teacher professional day’ that is also happening sometime in mid-October. I detest ‘professional days’. The school closes down arbitrarily, and working parents are supposed to I-do-not-know what… beg babysitters? Bring ones child to work? Who knows. Anyway, I’d been avoiding thinking about it but this week I finally looked it up in the calendar.

It was incomprehensible. I checked and double checked. The vacation day and the professional day are the same day.

The school psychologist and I talked on the phone last week and although she had many lovely things to say about Rada — her personality, her enthusiasm, her verbal intelligence, etc. — the psychologist also brought up what appear to be several pronounced limitations around visio-spacial ability, hand-eye coordination, and extremely weak upper-body muscle tone. Apparently some of these can be ameliorated with continuing OT and PT, but with all the kindness and compassion that she could muster, the psychologist saw clear limitations to Rada’s ability to participate in serious athletics. Hearing this felt like a gate clanging shut for Rada’s future. I listened with tears in my eyes, and kept telling myself that this fabulous daughter had many other talents, passions and skills. A life without athletics would still be a full one.

But the next day on the soccer field as I was sitting watching Rada play, I realized that the gate was in no way shut… in fact it was very much ajar.

Although fully 4 inches shorter than the rest of her team, Rada streaks down the field, opportunistically steals balls from the opposing team, throws lob kicks that completely reverse the ball’s direction, and then stands there only slightly-out-of-breath ready for the next challenge, while team members and fans scream, “Way to go Rada!”

Visio-spatial challenges? Hand-eye coordination?

Whatever.

Recently, Rada took ‘Ben’ under her wing. Ben is a lovely dull brown earth worm who appears to have been residing in the back yard. Rada and I found a plastic container, punched holes for air, filled it with earth and leaves and brought it into the house with Ben inside. Rada spent the rest of the afternoon, talking to and training Ben.

“Come, Ben. Come here! No, Ben! Bad worm. Ben, listen to me… don’t do that… come here. Good worm! Hey, Mom: I trained him to come when I called!”

This morning however, Rada informed me that Ben’s ‘cage’ smelled awful. ‘He must have pooped’. So we decided to re-release Ben back to his natural surroundings. Hopefully Ben is doing fine and has moved on to other habitats, though Rada was sure she saw him among the hostas this afternoon when we came home.

We’d seen some cute little green ones owned by our neighbors, and they seemed easy to care for. So after a long discussion on responsibility and ownership, we headed to the pet store. Rada had already picked out names for them and was very excited.

The clerk, however, was scandalized at our request, informing us that turtle ownership was illegal in Massachusetts. “You might buy them under the table in Chinatown,” he said, “but you won’t find them here.” Thinking back, I remembered that those turtles we saw did belong to a pleasant Asian family…

Anyway, there we were, stalled in the pet store. Rada looked crestfallen and ready to cry. But instead, like a “phoenix rising from the ashes” of her disappointment, I saw a stubborn determination emerge. And then it slowly dawned on me. I wasn’t going to get out of the place without bringing home some sort of living being in a cardboard box, bowl or plastic bag.

Rada started looking around purposefully for her Plan B pet. Hoping to sway her choice, I pointed out the colorful the betta fish ($1.99 each) but instead she looked admiringly at some bearded lizards ($39.99). Negotiations continued as I ooh-ed and aah-ed over the golden hamsters ($4.99). But she turned up her nose, promptly leading me to the ferrets ($55.99).

Worried that we were headed for a stand-off, I noticed a cage full of white mice. Scrawny little things with red eyes and pink tails, but at $2.29 a piece, I was game. Rada immediately took interest. We found a clerk to help us with our purchase. He was quite surprised and whispered to me that most white mice were purchased… um… for food (the store had a large reptile section).

I nodded pleasantly, assuring him that we definitely wanted them as pets. So he set us up with a cage, wheel, food, bedding, etc. And we took them home.

The next day, they were still there, but more downtrodden:

And today there was still an echo of color in the street:

The team:

The strategies:

Aikena climbs.

On Rebecca’s shoulders, Rada picks cherries that would otherwise be out of reach.

Here is the result:

Worried that she would not be able to spend such a long span ot time away from me, I brought Rada to my sister’s house with the tentative plan to leave her there, but only if she was doing OK. After 4 days, it looked like she was pretty comfortable. We had a slightly teary goodbye and then I went off to enjoy a few days of child-free time. 

I’ve been calling every day to check in and so far the reports are good. Rada loves camp and is comfortable with my sister. They went to the town festival and Rada played all the kid games: bean bag toss, relay races, and even entered in the pie eating contest (!?!) The last few times I’ve called, Rada has either been too busy to talk or has been off playing with the 4 year old next door.

I was worried she would miss me too much, but now I’m worried she won’t want to come home.

“It is a procession to see the Queen”

and…

“Friends come to visit the bird in its nest.”

Its a Celtics player slam dunking the ball. Note the arrows pointing its trajectory. The player is #20, apparently of great meaning to a devotee such as Eric.

The inside of the card further celebrates Celtics pride:

with a trophy in the upper right corner.

This week has been different. My daughter is in special day camp in Winchester and my mom is taking the train to Philadelphia.

This is what I did on Monday:

Trip started in Somerville, proceeded to Winchester to drop off daughter, on to Concord via Rte 128 to pick up mother, from there to train station in Westwood to drop mother off, and then back into town via Rte 93 and 3. Traffic was sluggish on Rte 93 north and there were bad traffic jams on Rte 128 and Rte 3. Total trip time 3.25 hours.

On Tuesday the circle was in the other direction:

First was the warm-up trip to Winchester and then back to Cambridge; from there proceeded to Newton for afternoon conference at BC, after which I tackled the 128 ‘C’ up to Winchester to pick up daughter and then back to Somerville. Exacerbated by rain and hail, the traffic on 128 slowed to a crawl. Trying to skirt some of the horror, I cut off to Rte 3A south only to run into a bumper-to-bumper parking lot from Woburn to Winchester, and adding insult to injury: 93 South was jammed going in to town at 6:15 in the evening. Total trip time 2.45 hours.

Today is Wednesday and I am driving the streets with constant homicidal urges and barely constrained civility. Rte 93 at 8:45 am will do this to a person, as will Rte 128 at 5:15 pm and Rte 3A south at 5:45. I do not understand how people can drive these roads day after day and remain halfway sane.

Unicorn with plastic bottle.

Polar bear with hair clip and elk.

Dance party.

T-rex giving two baby bears a ride.

She sets them up absentmindedly, and then forgets about them. Aren’t they cool?

After that, she decided she wanted to lick the floor to clean it, like any good dog. I quickly stopped her, explaining I didn’t want her tummy to get sick from the germs. Turning to the fridge door, she said”OK, I’ll lick this instead”. But I had to stop her, since the fridge door had not been cleaned since, um, the previous millennium. Then she said, “OK, I’ll lick the folding chairs by the table.” But I had to stop her from that for the same reason.

I offered plates and pans, but they weren’t what she wanted. Frustration finally overtaking her, ‘Shadow’ collapsed in the middle of the kitchen floor, sobbing uncontrollably, looking at me with intense betrayal and anger because, horrid mother that I am, I had been unable to provide her with furniture or a part of the house to lick.

Realizing that there was nothing I could do (short of a purgative cleaning which was unlikely to happen in my lifetime, let alone hers) I told her to snap out of it, stop being ridiculous and would she like to listen to her Chitty Chitty Bang Bang CD. She nodded yes. Sniffling, ‘Shadow’ sat down and started to eat dinner.

Ten minutes later she’d forgotten about it. I write these things because they are so implausible. Who knew that I would have ‘Shadow’ the dog in my kitchen this evening?

Blinking, I looked at her, uncomprehending. What was she talking about? I always kissed her goodbye in the morning. She said, “No, its OK, Mom. Please don’t kiss me. You don’t have to. I’ll say goodbye to you here.”

Shaken, I helped fasten her backpack on her shoulders and waved goodbye as she walked the rest of the way alone.

Of course, I don’t have to kiss her goodbye. Of course she doesn’t it need it anymore. But I do.

I was counting on a few more years before she pulled away. What do you think? Should I insist on planting a goodbye kiss on that deliciously chubby cheek of hers … or should I let her go?

… and here is the show:

You can just see Rada’s arm and forehead behind the ‘stage’.

“Caio!

…peace out.”

When I play with Rada, however, its hard to take it very seriously. She jumps up and down when her favorite piece gets to move. She makes a face when I take her piece or growls when I do something she doesn’t want. And she has her king and queen play lovey-dovey while waiting their turn. Rada likes to win, but mostly chess is a just a way to pass the afternoon.

Though we appear all relaxed and easy going on the outside, Poul and I are deadly earnest, each in it to win. But Rada plays it as something to do: a diversion.

I was good today.

I like my self.

Furious, I considered the lunacy of people who ride the wrong way in that treacherous gutter between the cars and the sidewalk. I prepared to lash out at him with some terse words about: “making the streets unsafe for everybody” and worse: “drive on the right side of the street you jerk!”

And then I noticed him. I saw who he was.

With stained pants, teetering on a rickety bike, he was holding a huge plastic bag so packed full that it dwarfed him. It had the bulk and mass of what must have been 50 empty soda bottles. And then I noticed his swarthy face, and calm vigilant eyes, and saw that it was trash day and he was obviously bringing in a haul of soda cans for reimburse.

In that moment I realized he probably didn’t speak English, and that he could very well be getting cash for food for his family. And that he was, in whatever way he could, making a living.

In that split second, I decided to keep my sharp and righteous words to myself, swerved to avoid hitting him and continued on my way.

… and the audience is assembled.

When I was a kid, I made a million of these for appreciative aunts and grandparents.

Don’t say anything, but Rada’s grandmother is going to get one for her birthday this weekend.

…after a long day on the construction site.

Anyway, I noticed that my daughter didn’t really like playing with the brown set of chess pieces. She always preferred the white set. But I forced her to alternate with me, so that each of us got equal chances at the two sets. She complained about it, and tried at every opportunity to wheedle herself more games with the white set.

About two weeks ago, I decided to mess with her head a little. I made it so that every time we played a game, no matter who was playing what color, the brown pieces always won. (I can do this because I still play a better chess game than her, though the advantage is fast diminishing). After a few weeks of this, my daughter started wanting only to play with the brown pieces. Nothing was said. She just ‘decided’ it was what she wanted, and once again tried to wheedle her way into more games with them.

Now I’m going to play with her head even more. I’m going to make it so that color advantage is totally random and winning has nothing to do with the color of the piece.

My questions for you are:

Will these mind games mean she’ll need more therapy later in life to cope with the emotional scar?

….or am I raising a child of the future, attuned to a more perfect union if you will…. a world where the rainbow rules and all colors can win?

I went to my study. Some whooshing noises came from the kitchen, and then a little while later the water went on and off. It was quiet in the house and it was easy for me to settle into some work at the computer. All was peaceful except for a few more soft swishing sounds. After a while, I got up to check on things.

My daughter was on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor.

Delighted but alarmed, I wondered if she had taken ill. (This was the child for whom picking ones clothes off the floor appeared diametrically opposed to her essential her nature and for whom the simple task of removing her plates from the table and placing them on the counter had required 1,247 reminders.)

I checked her forehead. It was cool and dry. I pinched myself. I was not asleep. My dream child was cleaning the kitchen floor.

It’s a meeting. Diplomatic negotiations are underway.

Rada (noticing that people leave their cars running to warm them up): Thats wasteful

Me: Yes, it is.

Rada: Its bad for the earth.

Me: Yes.

Rada: God must see this and be angry.

Me: Perhaps.

Rada: How can God see everything?

Me: Well, I think God is everywhere.

Rada: No, it can’t be! You’re wrong.

Me: Its just my opinion. You’re welcome to another one.

Rada: God has one hundred eyes.

Me: Oh really?

Rada: Wait a minute. No, God’s got one hundred children. And each child is using their eyes to look out for God.

At Kidstock, Rada gets to try on several new identities.

I love the Burger King Whopper with bacon, cheese, tomato and extra pickles.

I love the cool mayonnaise on hamburger and the sweet-tartness of the pickles. I love the salty chewiness of the bacon, the meltedness of the cheese and the crunchiness of the onion. And I love the side of onion rings dipped in ketchup washed down with an ice cold carton of orange juice.

Every month or so, Rada and I have dinner at Burger King. Usually it is predicated by some urgency of schedule requiring us to stay ‘on the road’. This week was one of those occasions and BK did not disappoint. Rada relished in the chicken fingers and the happy meal toy (isn’t that Macdonald’s? … well, whatever… ) and she maneuvered a pick-up playdate with the girl in the booth behind us who showed Rada how to assemble her toy.

At dinner time, there are people in Burger King and they’re all… eating dinner. It amazes me that some people actually treat it like bona-fide food. I know this is both an irony and a sad commentary on the health of the nation and the economic realities of some families.

And for someone like me who verbally blasts Burger King at any possible opportunity averring that I avoid it like the plague and that because I’m such a good mother I’d NEVER let my daughter eat that stuff… I’m now confessing I was secretly glad we ‘had’ to eat at Burger King this week. My heart sang a little song in anticipation of my whopper with bacon, cheese, mayo and extra pickles.

While listening to the bored whines of my daughter, I perused the snow on the ground, considered the moderate temperature… and decided this would be the day to go cross-country skiing.

I had to practically drag Rada out the door. All she really wanted to do was to sit around and complain about not being able to roller skate.

But we made it to the ski place, and when she saw the big skis with poles, she got a little more interested. I signed her up for a beginning lesson and we put on our skis and poles and went out for a spin before the class started.

However her first minutes on the skis were a debacle. She could barely stand up, let alone propel herself forward. After 3 falls and a backward slide, she threw her poles on the ground and crying bitterly that she’d ‘sprained’ her ankle, wailed, “I quit! I’m never never ever coming back here EVER again. I QUIT.” She stood there with furrowed brow and crossed arms.

Cajoling and threatening, I brought her inside for a early lunch/snack… trying to keep her coherent until the lesson. My hope was that the lesson might illuminate the mysteries of skiing enough for her to stay with it. I’d made a hefty investment on rentals and passes and was damned if I was going to leave 45 minutes after arriving.

Through a series of threats, pleas, leveraged bargaining and downright coercion she arrived at the class. The instructor was a cheerful young skier who slid along pole-less. She relieved the three kids in the class of their poles and immediately started playing a game…where they fell down deliberately and waved their feet in the air liked capsized turtles. I sat watching for a few minutes, and realized with relief that my daughter was not tantruming and actually seemed to be enjoying it.

Quietly sliding off to ski on my own, I stayed within yelling distance of the class, keeping a watch for any meltdowns or catastrophes. There appeared to be none… just alot of laughing and lying in the snow with ones skis up in the air. A half an hour later I looked over and to my amazement saw my daughter ski down a small incline.

When the lesson was finished she came up to me breathless, wanting to show all the stuff she could do. We took a spin on the ski trail, and again she slid effortlessly down the gentle slopes.

Soon it was time to go, but she made me promise we would come back. She was hooked, hook, line and sinker.

2/24/08 17:39:04…

Beth, Jo, Amy and Meg.

Shown below is the dreaded ‘double-upside-down-rook’ move…

My new job is in a building 3 blocks closer to home and my daughter’s school.

And those 3 mere blocks change everything. From the old building, it would take 29 minutes to walk from work to my daughter’s school to pick her up at extended day. And that was just a little too long to do, so I never walked. I rode the bike, took the bus, or drove.

But from my new job in the new building, its now just a 24 minute walk and somehow it doesn’t seem so bad. And here’s where Pythagorus makes it even better:

Since I had always traveled to my daughter’s school on a wheeled vehicle, I had entirely ignored a diagonal shortcut street because it was one-way in the wrong direction. However, since I now entertained the notion of walking to her school, I noticed that the shortcut was in effect a hypotenuse, thus diminishing the two major legs of the commute by an additional square root of the sum of the squares of the two other legs of the trip. If you work out the numbers, you save an additional 8.062 minutes.

Which makes it 15.938 minute walk at the end of the day.

Hailey’s dad Marc took photos of the girls playing with dress-up clothes. Here they are in their wigs, making their fashion statement, with grandparents looking on in the background.

In any case, treasured routines (like writing in blogs, washing dishes, and chatting on phone to friends) are left at the wayside.

Fortunately, Rada is in good form, more and more self-managed, and navigating school, extended day, and life in general very well.

So I just wanted to post a quick note here so you all wouldn’t think this blog had become a dead link!

And the pace will calm down at some point (um…. maybe 2009?) but in any case I will post more. So don’t remove me from your RSS reader quite yet.

Unable to finesse turkey preparation for another year, I landed the job of cooking. Rada helped at several stages: folding napkins, setting the table, and preparing the meal cart in Ritz dining-room style.

Not sure where she picked this up (since my idea of haute cuisine is S&S deli) but she posed as elegant waiter, complete with white shirt and apron.

While waiting for the turkey to cook, we visited the park down the street. I furtively looked in direction of my house every ten minutes, convinced that an un-monitored turkey would surely erupt in flames (even though placed in deep dish in middle of oven).

An extended family was there trying to work off their earlier meal, and I was invited to a pick-up game of touch football with them. The grandmother sat by watching, and Rada played with the younger kids.

Its nice to think about that day during this snowy rainy slushy darkness of mid-December.

My daughter, looking around wide-eyed, said “wow…its like a soft white blanket.”

I stopped for a moment to peer out from under my scarf and hat. She was right. It was utterly beautiful.

There is an irony to snow.

We arrived at the rink 20 minutes ahead of time and got her laced up and ready to go. Then we sat and watched what appeared to be the end of a group skating lesson. The children were about my daughter’s age… stumbling and falling but nonetheless trying very hard with an encouraging teacher who had them bending their knees, making babysteps and falling gracefully.

At 2 pm, the time that Rada’s class was to begin, we went out onto the ice and met the skating instructor. He said, “Oh we didn’t see you in class”.

Perplexed, I said,”what do you mean? We’re here to start the lesson”.

He said “Skating school is over. It goes from 1-2.”

My spirits fell. Somehow there had been a mistake in communication and we had missed her lesson. Looking at the crestfallen child next to me, I apologized to the teacher and said as cheerfully as possible, “well, we’ll do free skating now (thank goodness it was free skating) and we’ll see you next week.”

The instructor looked at Rada for a moment and said, “Wait here”. He went over and spoke to the school director for a minute and then came back to us and said to Rada, “Hey, lets you and me take a spin on the ice.”

And he proceeded to give her the equivalent of a 1/2 hour private lesson. It was pretty amazing. She ‘skated’ the entire length of the rink, she fell with grace and got up again. She bent her knees and she did little bunny steps.

I thanked the instructor. My daughter was beaming. “I can skate!”

It was pretty neat.

How many girls can fit on the bed in Anne’s cottage…? Six.

Count them!

However, after considering the day’s schedule, it became clear that voting just wasn’t going to be possible. I had recently started a new job and did not think it would be good form to skip out mid-day for a visit to the polls. Furthermore, I was in the middle of trying to get over a nasty cold and didn’t want to be running around the city in the rain. Lastly, I didn’t want to drag my daughter to the polls with me after a long day when she’d be tired.

So I accepted that I wouldn’t vote.

Then, as I sat at a red light waiting to get my daughter from after-school, I looked over and happened to notice that I was idling right in front of my neighborhood polling place. Not only that, there was an empty parking space right next to me. Looking at my watch, I calculated a 12-minute window before having to get my daughter from school. I pulled into the parking space, walked briskly into the polling place (no line), cast my vote, got back in the car, and picked up my daughter with 6 minutes to spare.

However, a recent and fortunate set of circumstances has given me jurisdiction over two new computers, one Dell PC and one MacBookPro.

Here’s what happened when I tried to attach a camera…

to a Dell Inspiron:

“Huh? what the…? Oh yeah, so its a USB. Never seen one of these. Nope, not on our list. Sorry lady, go to the internet and see if you can find a set of drivers and then maybe we can do business. For now, Scram! Get off the OS.”

Compared to the MacBookPro:

“Good morning; I see you’ve attached a Nikon Coolpix 990. May I suggest routing your files to iPhoto? And… there they are. Lovely. Would madam like to view in thumbnail or preview mode?”

It was like night and day.

MacBook: please take me to your leader. I am ready to undergo conversion.

Bill supplied excellent loaner camera at the 11th hour. For which I am so grateful because I wouldn’t have known how to begin describing this 7-year old princess who is cuter than a button.

However, either in deference to national individualism or perhaps just to give parents a break from repeated launderings, the school allows a non-dress-code day once a month. And to further give the students a reason to break out and cheer, the non-dress-code days usually have a theme such as Whacky Hat Day, Pajama Day, or – as regards to today – Crazy Hair Day.

Planning has been in the works for months for Crazy Hair Day. Our stylish friend Clare (who regularly shows up for work at local venerable institution of higher learning with blue, green and purple splashes in her hair) has an ample selection of coloring materials, and she graciously gave me a sample of colors for my daughter.

Last night my daughter and I tried out the colors, and learned that the coloring is thick and slow to dry, but extremely bright and visible.

So this morning, we got ready to apply the colors all over her hair. However, things did not go as planned. Rada was extremely worried that she just didn’t look crazy enough and – even worse – that people just would not laugh at her.

I assured her that she looked absolutely outrageous and that everything would be fine, but she insisted on making numerous adjustments, adding several extra pony tails, more color on top, and at several point collapsed into sobs, worried that she just didn’t look right and that it just wasn’t CRAZY enough.

But finally we set out to school… she looking worried and tense.

When we got to the school yard, friends and teachers reacted with awe, amazement and glee, and Rada lit up as if she was an actress stepping into the limelight.

All her earlier grief of the morning had been akin to that of the moody star who throws fits and tantrums in her dressing room, only to finally emerge stunning and brilliant to the awe of her public.

And as lowly costume attendant, I was just glad to get her off to school in time.

I assumed, like the UPS folks (just love those guys and gals in their brown shorts), that DHL would come back later in the afternoon or early evening, but alas there was no sign of them. So I called the DHL number and after battling the menu system, finally talked to a human, and told her I don’t get home from work til 5:30.

“Ok, ” said Virginia, “we’ll have them come after that.”

But Tuesday evening, there was another DHL slip saying they’d again tried to deliver at 12:30.

I called again, and spoke to Samantha. She apologized for the confusion and asked me what was the earliest that I could be home on Wednesday. I said if I rushed, I could get there by 5:15.

So Wednesday afternoon, I ran through yellow lights, rushed to after-school, nudged my daughter into the car, and high-tailed it home only to see another attempted delivery slip on my door.

Now beginning to feel the rise of temperature, and the smoke coming out my ears, I called DHL AGAIN, and asked Brian exactly what WAS the problem, and did he know that I’d called THREE times already about this VERY situation. Brian apologized sincerely for the mishap and assured me that there was a truck in the area that could swing by sometime that evening before 8:45 pm.

8:45 came and went, and as is my wont on Wednesday evenings of a busy week, I collapsed into a dreamless sleep at about 9:15, disappointed, wondering if I’d ever lay eyes on the equipment that I had so dearly payed for, and contemplating what I would have to do or say tomorrow to get them to deliver it to me.

Several hours later I was awoken by a tap tapping noise. I bounded out of bed, ran into my daughter’s room, thinking she was trying to escape out the window. But she was resting peacefully. I looked up at the ceiling thinking perhaps it was starting to fall down, but it was sitting there holding up the kitchen walls very nicely.

I heard the tap tapping again. It was coming from the front door. I crept fearfully to the door and asked “who is it?”, looking at the clock and realizing it was 11 pm at night… thinking it could very well be an axe murder.

“DHL” came the answer on the other side.

DHL??? at 11 pm?

I opened the door fearfully, stuck between fear of being murdered and the hope that this actually might be my new computer. There at the doorstep stood a man with a medium sized box in his hand. I signed on the dotted LED screen, and took the box inside. It had the words Dell on it. Not sure whether to laugh or cry, I went back to bed and tried to go back to sleep.

Apparently it was the main topic of discussion at after-school that day. There was going to be a night game and although the Sox were not playing the Yankees, it was going to be a really good game. Everyone at after-school was going to tune in and and watch it. Rada wanted to watch, too. I looked at her, smiling blandly, feeling a desperate horror. (Does one watch baseball on TV?? Is it network TV or must one subscribe to cable? Isn’t it at ungodly late hour at night? How do I find out about this?)

And of course I suspect watching the game on TV is only the beginning. Images of Fenway Park loom leeringly in my consciousness, with the smell of hot dogs and beer. How did this happen to my daughter? What a surprise!

And how will I cope? Is it possible to learn how to understand baseball scores late in life?

Ayce took these from the next booth. She asked Rada to make some silly faces, and Rada dove into the task with sincere abandon.

To mark the event, Rada and I took a celebratory trip to Target. In an extravagant mood and I got her a:

• cheetah halloween costume
• pumpkin halloween candy bucket
• set of pink, purple, and green bunny barrettes
• pack of socks in vibrant pastels
• 5 multi-colored hair bands

She wore her cheetah costume all evening and spent hours trying on her new hair care items. She was in great spirits, probably infected by the festive mood and energy.

I’m a lucky person. Sometimes the planets do align.

What started out as several phone calls turned into a logistical nightmare: Babysitter is to pick up daughter at school. Babysitter cannot leave van unattended with other children inside. School is located on street that prohibits double parking. School requires children be ‘escorted’ from schoolyard to waiting vehicles. What to do?

And another:

Parent’s employer discourages employees bringing motor vehicles to work. Parent rides bike. Pick-up of child from babysitter requires vehicle to transport child. Parent’s employer requires a 9 hour day. Babysitter has commitments limiting evening availability. How to switch transportation modes on-the-fly and reach the goal within babysitter’s temporal parameters?

I did figure out solutions to both of the above, but only through the strategic use of cell phones, the targeted placement of grandmothers, and the merciful serendipity of traffic. The challenge of it finally convinced me once and for all, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that motherhood IS rocket science, and that I am a genius.

Who is aided by one rockin’ grandmother.

Rada’s 7th birthday party was a study in chaos and redemption. Planned for the outside, it was on one of those days where the weather never figured out what to do: threatening, hinting and teasing at rain, but never actually down-pouring. Party guests ran wildly over dinosaurs and hippos played miniature golf while dark clouds swarmed over head with occasional droplets, so we bailed to a nearby pizza parlor for lunch.

When we arrived, I discovered to my horror that they were in the process of going out of business and refused to serve a party of 24. I begged and pleaded, assuring them that all we needed were 4 hot pizzas. I had plates, cups, drinks, napkins, and basically everything else, due to the original preparations for outside picnic. Finally, I laid a $10 bill on the server’s hand, pointed to the 12 hungry children streaming in the door, and said “I am at your mercy”.

They were merciful. 4 pizzas arrived 20 minutes later.

Gwen took lovely photos of the event. I can’t stop looking at them:

Here is Rada teeing-off. Note dinosaur and hippo in the background.

Talented Marjorie led guests in Simon Says… and saved the day during the long wait for pizza.

Casey and Rada played movie star with their bad-girl sunglasses.

No sooner did the birthday hubbub die down, but preparations for school began.

Rada has been in 1st grade for 4 days now and beside her initial push-back to the notion of getting up early and out the door, she’s been doing well. She heads into the big red brick school house every day, and I don’t really know much of what goes on, except scattered and vague reports about the new music teacher’s crocodile, and lunchtime when chicken nuggets have value as local currency, traded among students for chocolate milk and extra ketchup.

But this time it was different. She seemed to warm up to the other people, and she held her own in several conversations which did not even focus on horses or lions. Furthermore, in order to accommodate the differing points of view, the other guests generously alternated between discussing real-estate pricing and playing ‘telephone’ around the table. So everyone got a little of what they wanted, and no one felt unduly left out. My daughter listened quietly while condo fees were discussed, and the other guests sportingly played ‘telephone’ with the same enthusiasm as if they’d just played it yesterday, instead of 20 years ago.

At one point, the host disappeared with my daughter to the other side of the roof-top deck, behind a wall, where the dining table was. In her absence, I enjoyed being able to give the other guests my full attention. The minutes ticked by and there was still no sign of my daughter or the host. Finally, about a half an hour later, Rada re-appeared and announced that dinner was ready. She and the host had brought up food, plates, and other tableware to the roof, set it up, and served the meal.

I was amazed. How can I get her to do this for me every night… at home?

After what seemed like years of frowing fings on fursdays, she just started throwing things on thursdays. She was so excited she had to show me. ‘Look mom, look!”

And I watched as she put her tongue just under her upper teeth and blew out, and there it was, a faltering ‘th’ sound, but it was, nonetheless.

We danced around the kitchen celebrating that she’d got it.

I would have burst into The Rain in Spain, but the risk of getting one of those ‘oh mom you are too crazy’ looks constrained me.

Rada got to try out the controls on Poul’s plane.

These are the excellent clothes of a six-year old at mid-summer.

The condition of what she’s wearing offers me concrete indicators of how she spent her day. I get clues about what she did, where she went, etc. and I learn more from what her clothes than from what she remembers to tell me.

One day, a few weeks ago, she came home with sparkles all over her. Earlier that afternoon she had decorated her clay sculpture and she’d gotten sparkles on her clothes, face, and hair. I noticed, after a few days, that the sparkles were still in her hair. An extra vigorous shampoo succeeded in getting out most of them but a few were still there. A few days later I did another vigorous shampoo, with more scrubbing, but several sparkles still remained. They appeared to be glued to her skull. It is now 4 weeks later and the sparkles are still there. About 10 of them are on her head; you can see them if you look from the top down.

Should I scrub harder? Is there a special shampoo for getting out sparkles? Am I a bad mother for not being more worried about this?

The reception was in an airy barn overlooking blueberry and raspberry fields. When young guests grew weary of the wedding protocol, or got hungry before the meal was served, they wandered out to the berries and snacked.

All this past week, my daughter has been systematically marrying off her stuffed animals. Her dragons have taken vows, several plastic cows have walked up the aisle, and this morning two hobby horses stood up in front of an officiating minister (who simultaneously ate cereal while dispensing the vows). Later the same minister swept floors while exhorting the wedding couple to “have and to hold” (its amazing how far the reaches of multitasking can extend).

For the curious among you, this morning’s horse bride looked lovely in a white tulle veil (formerly used as a ballet outfit) and the groom wore a golden crown decorated with Elmo stickers.

What would I call it?? Well, its an individually annotated map of rugslife’s locations of interest.

You can do it, too, for your own neighborhood. Make sure you’ve got a google account (which is easy, just sign up, its free). Then go to google maps, go to ‘my maps’, sign in, and start experimenting. Its not hard to do. Took me a half hour. (OK, maybe 45 min).

Here they are putting out fires.

… and with their great uncle/grandfather.

Being on vacation and in new surroundings made me forget this blog. While away, I occasionally visited the local wi-fi cafe on the main street of a very small town in upstate New York, but just wasn’t in the mood to write. I was too busy reading novels, taking naps, doing projects with my sister, swimming in the lake, working in the garden, and sleeping for hours on end. It was divine. I don’t think I’ve been that relaxed since before my daughter came into my life.

The pace was slower: there was lots of space and fewer people.

Rada had a wonderful week, too. She went to a small day camp nearby. The cabins for the camp were nestled under a canopy of trees on a wooded hillside on the shore of Lake Cayuga. The counselors were kind and fun. She went swimming, sang songs, painted prayer rocks, learned about the golden rule and the idea of a ‘higher power’, ate lots of cookies, and swung for hours on the swing from the huge oak tree in front of her cabin.

I’m back now, and I’ll be posting more. It seems like my vacation was years ago, and in a different universe. But the memory of it lingers like a shadow in the back of my mind, and I can still retrieve parts of it even here and now.

R: There is a boy in my group at camp named Duncan. But his last name is not Donuts.

M: Hmm.

R: Graham and I are going to name our first son Duncan.

(Graham is her 5 y.o. fiance)

M: Oh, how nice.

R: And his last name will be Donuts.

M: But thats not your last name.

R: OK, we’ll name him Duncan Donuts Gusterson. Yes, I like that. Duncan Donuts Gusterson.

coming off the field…

And yesterday when we unexpectedly came upon a traffic jam on the way home from Judy’s house, Rada said again, “what the…?”

Her turn of phrase certainly summed up my feelings about the situations. But I’m pretty sure Rada doesn’t realize there is an implied third word, and thinks, rather, that the phrase is complete as is. I can think of several colorful endings, and I’d like to hope that she won’t catch on to any of them for at least a few more years.

So I’ve started using this same turn of phrase. When something doesn’t go my way, I frown and mutter “what the…?” hoping that if I give it some credibility, she’ll forgo any further curiosity.

I’m not overly committed to shielding her from life’s more colorful phrases. I’m just not sure how to give adequate definitions to some of those third words.

Rada’s team has improved immeasurably since their first few practises. All the kids know where they should be kicking the ball, and every once in a while there is some teamwork where the kids actually pass the ball to one another.

The first few games of the season seemed to end without scores. The middle games had scores of which the Bears always lost dramatically. This was because almost all the players on my daughter’s team remain artists at heart, only marginally interested in the logistics of the game. Most of them still run up and down the field looking more often at their parents than at the ball. And many of the players get frequently distracted by some interesting insect or unusual flower in the grass.

However there is one triple threat on the team. He is a delightful and mild mannered six year old who has legs that go on for miles. When he runs, the field disappears beneath him, and when he kicks, its like he was born kicking soccer balls. This shy sweet boy also towers above the other players, looking more like a fourth grader than the kindergardener he is. Our coach purposely held him back during previous games, I think, so that there would be some competition between the players on the opposing teams, and thus more interesting games. However, for the last game, he let him loose and this boy ran down the field repeatedly scoring goal after goal after goal. Rada was delirious with joy, not realizing that she had little if anything to do with her team’s success. But with the final score at 12 – 0 , the Bears erupted in a jubilation that only an underdog can feel. Giving hearty thanks and friendly handshakes to the opposing team, the Bears left the field in a blaze of celebration. Rada was beside herself and kept wanting me to repeat the score.

I’m not really interested in cultivating a competitive spirit in her, but it was fun to see her so happy on their last day.

Seen on Susie’s blog.

It was a wonderful experience, and she learned alot about music, art, acting, movement, and dance. The product of the week-long camp was a DVD video, which finally arrived last week. The DVD lasts about an hour and is comprised of a series of vignettes containing at least two cameo appearances for every participant in the camp. Rada has several 20-second spots of fame interpersed throughout the production, and she has been avidly watching herself as frustrated artist, evil pirate, and officious TV news anchor, as well as enjoying her many appearances as singer/dancer in the chorus and member of the TV audience.

Besides the magic of seeing oneself singing, speaking and dancing on TV, there is also the epiphany, I believe, of discovering that we can be part of something which is bigger than ourselves. It seems that Rada is enthralled by the entirety of it: that she was part of a complex venture, and that she had her own place and role.

The production is very cute and I enjoyed it immensley for 2 or 3 viewings after which I was ready to move on. Rada, however, is transfixed and has insisted on watching this same DVD for the past 6 days straight.

I am flattered that she likes the sound of my voice, though I’m not really that worried about her stomach.

As my daughter and I approach the train bridge just before her school, we hear a rumbling in the distance, signifying that the 7:32 is on the way.

As we cross the bridge and look down Webster Ave, we see the attractive young couple waiting for the 91 bus, which is usually wending its way up the street. After my daughter and I say our goodbyes, 3 turbaned men round the corner headed towards the intersection. And the mother of one of Rada’s classmates, with a Dunkin Donuts coffee cup in hand, nods hello as she crosses the street.

These events happen in almost exactly the same order, day after day. It feels like I’m living my life over and over again.

And do these people notice me in the same way I notice them? When I see only 2 turbaned men, I wonder if one is sick. And if the rumble of the 7:32 isn’t heard in the distance, I check if my watch stopped.

Its bizarre.

But she looks awful cute, too!

(Note those neatly folded shirts and sweaters on the shelf…)

Some mornings she jumps out of bed, alert, interested, and happy to start the day. She’ll contentedly eat her fruit and cereal, calmly reading a book while I take a shower, and then will help me put on her school uniform.

Other days she’ll be totally unreasonable. Like the day she went into deep meltdown because we had run out of bananas. Or the morning she insisted that it was OK to go to school in her soccer outfit (when she’d been wearing her school uniform the prior 136 days… ?!?)

Sometimes, I think I can predict her state of mind. For example, I’ll factor in what she was like when she went to sleep, how long she slept, whether or not she had a bath, and then weigh the result against whether or not her stuffed animals slept with her. But it has been impossible to come up with a reliable equation. There appears to be no rhyme or reason. She is as mercurial as the weather, or maybe its just that the variables are too complex and I am unable to optimize them.  

Where does she get these ideas? 

One wears the helmet at all times – even indoors – in order to be ready to jump on trusty steed at moment’s notice.

 (…you have to sit through 30 seconds of car commercial before you get to her song)

I believe it is partly because she doesn’t have to be ‘on’ when she’s with me. She doesn’t have to rise to the occasion as she would when other children are around. And she seems to like my undivided attention. It gives her the opportunity to pepper me with questions. These questions always leave me pondering whether I learned anything in college, let alone high school.

We took the entire afternoon to visit the children’s museum. We took the subway, and we didn’t rush. We wondered what was in the water of Fort Channel. We explored the various subway entrances at South Station. We stopped to look at dandelions growing between the cement on Boston sidewalks, and when we got to the museum I went with her to any exhibit she wanted to visit and stayed as little or as long as she liked.

The afternoon left both of us pleasantly tired but not overstimulated. I realized my daughter is becoming more of a companion and less of a responsibility.

Drop by and say ‘hi!’ if you have a moment…

Her pics of her adorable cat, Shadow, always make me wish I wasn’t allergic. 

Earlier that week I had bought cleats and shin-guards. Rada was so enamored she wore the cleats out of the store and through the apartment all that evening. When she woke the next morning, she made sure they were in the same place they’d been left the night before. 

Soccer practise was a loosely organized affair with six kids and a friendly coach. The finer points of coaching involved reminding players where the ball was. Hints such as “turn around” and “go in the other direction” were also helpful. Younger siblings of the players kept running on and off the field, sometimes participating in the practise.

And then we learned that not only was there practise on Friday but there was a game on Saturday.

The day dawned cool and breezy. We showed up at the same field, which was now crowded with 40-50 kids and their families and with games going on in 3 fields.

Rada’s team was the Bears and she is player number 8. During the game she ran up and down the field, very proud, very happy to be running, mostly looking at me and smiling. I suspect that some of the finer points of the game still elude her. Nevertheless, several times during the morning she kicked the ball, and once she got to throw it from off-field. All the teams cheered for all goals. And the best part was the break with fresh cut oranges.

No one really knew the score but at some point the game was over. Every kid was congratulated for doing a great job, and the parents finished up their relaxed conversations, picked up their lawn chairs, dunkin donuts coffee, bid their hasty goodbyes until next week and headed off for the rest of their Saturdays.

M: I don’t want to go to work, either. But I have to, so we’ll have money for food and clothes, and you have to go to school because it’s the law.

R: I want to change the law.

M: In that case, I suggest you become a lawyer.

R: Ok. How do I become a lawyer?

M: You need to read a lot and write a lot… and cultivate an argumentative personality.

R: Fine, no problem.

M: If you were a lawyer what would you do?

R: Change the laws: kids only go to school one day a week and people work one day a week.

M: Does that mean everyone would only work one day a week - even doctors, teachers, and bus drivers?

R: Yes.

M: What if you got sick on a day that the doctor wasn’t working? Who would take care of you?

R: I would let the doctor come over in his or her shorts and sneakers.

M: What would happen if we had to take the bus and it was on a different day than the bus driver worked?

R: No problem. Take the car.

M: What would you do about mean bosses and nasty teachers?

R: Throw them in jail.

M: Hm….. well, get in that school of yours and do lots of reading and writing. But try and hold off on the argumentative personality for the time being.

R: OK! Bye, mom.

There were people who stood on their head and allowed people to stand on top of other people who then stood on top of them. These very same people then took their right arm and waved it to the crowd, eliciting gasps and ‘oohs ‘from the audience.

There was a woman who stood in the middle of the ring with a smile and a whip and herded a group of bejewelled horses in a circle.

There was an acrobatic troup that performed inside cylindrical structures dressed in phosphorescent painted leotards. At one point, the tent went dark, and nothing was visible except the green, yellow and orange swirls on their costumes.

I loved every minute of it. 

Rada, on the other hand, was squirmy, and whiney. She complained about not being able to see, even though on my lap she had a great view. She talked about the lights being too bright and there being too many people. Not far into the second half she started asking when it would be over. And not too long after that she asked to go home. A few minutes later she asked again. So we did.

And Rada was happy to get home. She curled up in her favorite quilt and watched one of her favorite videos. It was comfort time. And the circus had not been.

I had really *really* not wanted to leave the circus, but it didn’t seem right forcing her to stay.

Rada said, “Look! its ‘Out of Service’ ”

And it was, but it actually had a purpose. It was driven by a student bus driver. The LED screen on the front and side said ‘INSTRUCTOR BUS’ and there was an earnest-looking man in the driver’s seat, looking to all the world as if he was taking the queen to Buckingham Palace. Beside him another man was standing by, looking on parentally.

I became sick after the first day of an educational technology conference. I’d been having a great time, and really wanted to go back for the second day. 

So, on the next day, after dropping Rada off at school, I went home and lay down for 30 minutes, hoping to feel a little better. And I did… just a little. I gathered my belongings, got in the car, and headed for Worcester, an hour drive away, where the conference was being held. Three blocks from my house, something in the dim recesses of my mind told me to make a u-turn and head home. I spent the rest of the day in bed, not feeling deathly sick, but glad to be lying down… and near a bathroom.

That very same day, Rada’s school sent her home early, with a sore throat and cough. They called at 1:00 pm. If I’d been in Worcester, she would have had to wait over an hour. Instead I was there 10 minutes later to take her home.

This is the only time that Rada’s school has ever sent her home sick. Was there a part of my mind that knew this, and knew that I shouldn’t be far away from home that day? Is there a homing instinct between mothers and children that tells us these things?

On the way to the beach.

 In the sun.

In the water. It really was that sparkly, and so will the deep-green waters of New England be in a scant 2 months.

As I looked back on the visit, remembering good times with family and friends, I realized that some of the best moments with my daughter were on the long plane ride home.

The flight had promised to be a grueling one: 3 hours to Chicago, a tricky transfer, and then 2.5 more hours to Boston.

However, surprisingly it turned out to be a very pleasant trip… and one of the reasons was because my daughter and I endured it together. We became a team, making our way through the airport jungle, putting up with noisy passengers on the first leg of the trip, grabbing a quick snack in Chicago, congratulating ourselves on finding a play area to briefly burn-off steam, running for the next plane, and finally, enjoying the extra empty seat on the last leg.

Several times, as we were standing around waiting in line, or smushed into our seats during flight, my daughter and I found ourselves in conversations that we never would have had at home. At home there is almost always something to do, or some distraction to focus on. During the trip, however, it was just her and me. And we got to know each other a bit better, as fellow travellers.

Finally he arrived. (photo taken by Nathan’s dad.)

Yesterday, I noticed I’d taken out a book that was much too simple for Rada’s tastes. It had very few words, and it was quite short. Rada likes stories rich in description, action and intrigue. She enjoys plots with seemingly insurmountable problems that get resolved through extraordinary means: young girl crawls under villian’s cart to free beloved pet chicken; heroine rides horse through the night to save the village from disaster; etc.

But this book was a simple story about a cat, what it saw, and where it went.

I sighed, and started reading the story outloud to her. And then Rada stopped me.

She said, “I’ll do it”.

She read: “Tuna the cat. What did Tuna see? Tuna saw the rain.” (I helped her with ‘rain’) We turned the page.

She read: “Tuna ran outside. Tuna felt the rain.” (I helped her with ‘outside’ and ’felt’.)

She read several more pages and then said “Ok, you finish.”

I tried not to make too big a deal out of it, but it was the first time.

She’s reading.

We’ve walked with the stroller, we’ve taken the car, and today we took the bus.

It was a new bus, one that neither Rada nor I had been on before. The bus, the 91, had a stop 2 blocks from my house and seemed custom-designed for our needs. It would take us right into Central Square… a scant 5-minute walk to Tracey’s apartment.

The longer I live in the city, the more I love buses. Although they are often late, frequently in ramshackle condition, and even break down sometimes, I like them. I like the social interaction and I like that they’re something that people in a community share, like a library.

As we were waiting at the stop this morning an ‘Out of Service’ bus went by, always a disapointment… so I asked Rada to be on the lookout for the 91 so we’d be sure to catch it when it came by.

Sure enough, a few moments later it rounded the corner at the end of the street. I just love it when buses are on time. It fills me with hope for the future and deep a sense of rightness in the world. Anyway. Rada started jumping up and down, waving her arms and saying “Its here! Its the 91! See that, a ’9′ and a ’1′…Oh, Mister bus driver… please stop for us… stop! We want to get on!”

And of course the bus stopped. The driver smiled (how often is someone so happy to see him?) We climbed on, happy, content, and ready to start our journey.

Looking at Rada playing in Tracey’s living room was a shock. I remembered my 3-year-old little girl in that environment and this morning I saw the gigantic six-year-old that she has become. I couldn’t believe how much she’d grown.

I would be bored to tears spending the day in Tracey’s living room, but Rada has been looking forward it and has been enjoying the week.  Rada first met Tracey when she had been in the US less than 10 days, which makes Tracey is one of Rada’s longtime connections. Sustaining a key relationship like this is important, I think.

There is snow forecast for this evening. I wonder what the walk home will be like. There are several bus routes we can take, if need be.

And Aikena got in some snow-boxing, too.  

It was fun to be safe and cosy inside the apartment and Rada enjoyed having an afternoon to laze around with nowhere to go, and nothing that had to be done. There wasn’t much work I had to do either: I attended a meeting through teleconferencing and answered a few emails. The rest of the time I hung out with Rada. We frittered away the hours chit-chatting, taking long baths, reading books, playing with her animals, getting caught up with the laundry, and watching a few more videos than we usually do.

It was a great afternoon. I can’t wait til the next snow storm.

Last year, Rada’s pre-school studiously refrained from celebrating Valentines Day. The rationale for this was related to the notion of Valentines Day as a religious holiday. Given the diversity of cultures and ethnicities attending the pre-school, by not celebrating any religious holidays the hope was that no one in the community would feel left out or unduly favored. I understood the logic, but the idea of Valentine’s Day as a religious holiday seemed silly to me.

Anyway. This year in kindergarten, Valentines Day has loomed on the horizon and has been breathlessly awaited for weeks. Preparations have been on-going and both the teachers and students are very excited. Ms C has prepared all lessons and worksheets to have a heart theme, even the math and science modules. The students have been preparing valentines for their classmates and the day will culminate in a Valentines party wherein the students exchange valentines with one another. The rule for the class is: if you want to participate, you must create a card for everyone in your room (a great policy, I think).

Rada decided to participate, and we purchased a set of valentines last week (next year we’ll make them from scratch…) Rada picked out the theme, which was Strawberry Shortcake, and we brought the cards home and started addressing them.

It was a laborious process. Rada’s handwriting is only now begining to emerge. But she kept with it. Over the course of several evenings, she chipped away at the class list and by last night had addressed a valentine for every child in her class. (Way to go, Rada!)

In order to facilitate the recognition process, I re-wrote the child’s name on the back of each card. (Rada’s writing is big and un-disciplined and still wanders over the page.)

We lovingly put the cards in a plastic bag, and put them in her backpack. We also brought two roses for her teachers. She went off to school excited, breathless and ready to enjoy the day.

Happy Valentines!

Last night she told me that tomorrow was ’100 day’ and the kids in class were asked to bring 100 things to school. She and I browsed around the house, looking for 100 good things to bring and settled on a jar of colored toothpicks. She methodically counted out 100 toothpicks using benchmarks very different from what I would have chosen. She’d stop at 27 and then at 49 and at 63 and each time she’d ask me to write a note showing how far she’d gone and then she’d start counting again. But she stayed with it. She was on task … totally focused on the project. When she got to 100, she laboriously picked up all the toothpicks and put them carefully in a plastic bag, then put the bag in the back pocket of her backpack.

Why am I telling you all this? Because she’s starting to organize her life, make decisions, handle responsibilities.

Last week my daughter lost her sneaker at Chuck E Cheese’s. It was located the next morning.

The next day, I lost my necklace in the athletic facility at work. Some one returned it to the front desk later that afternoon.

Today I left my glasses in a classroom. They were there when I went back 2 hours later.

I am feeling eerily lucky about all this but sense that at any moment it could change. I am trying not to lose anything else. This is easier said than done.

Anyway, Rada and I were there for a good-bye party on Saturday. It was fun to surrender to the surreal atmosphere for a while, and to talk with like-minded grownups at a table somewhat removed from the action. Through a series of convoluted events, Rada ended up losing a sneaker in the crawling tube. It was not found until the next morning, so we had to go back and get it.

I made a deal with her that she’d only have 5 tokens for the Sunday trip, enough for a brief visit. But when she made her purchase, the clerk was in a charitable mood and gave her half a cup’s worth. I forced a painful smile, realizing I’d been suckered into another round of games, rides, and candy. But Rada was in her glory. In many ways, for a kid, it gives a taste of an emancipated life. You get your cup of tokens, wander around playing games, earning tickets, and making all the choices.

I sat there, staring blankly into space, wishing I’d brought a magazine. 

…and here are just a ‘few’ more additions to my birthday list:

• bigger TV
• combination VCR and DVD player
• new winter boots
• quieter fridge
• better take-out in my neighborhood
• fresh watermelon in February

(when I started the birthday list, a little voice inside of me said, “its a slippery slope, are you sure you want to go here?” and I blithely continued on. But its becoming hard to stop… the list is out of control, and of course the truth is that none of these things is anything I absolutely need, except perhaps the cement foundation for the basement but even it can wait a few years before getting critical.)

Does anyone else out there have a birthday list they’d like to share? It might give me some more ideas…

Along with half of Boston, my car would not start. When my daughter learned that we would have to walk to school instead of take the car, she was irate and tried to blame the failure on me. I testily explained that although I can call the shots on many things, I have no say in the weather. Not my department.

My daughter had dressed for non-dress-code-day at her school and had taken an inordinate amount of time getting into her pretty frock with its cinderella sleeves, white tights, and patent-leather party shoes.

So we went back inside and added layers. Over the white tights went a pair of sweat pants. The party shoes went in her backpack, to be put on when she got to school. For the walk, she wore boots. I added an extra scarf around her neck and one around mine, too.

Now, looking more like egyptian mummies than new englanders, we set out again. Trading on her interest in polar bears and penguins, I encouraged her to develop the ability to walk in the cold in order to someday enjoy arctic exploration. She meditated on this for a while. When we got close to school she said philosophically that she had lost interest in polar bears. I admitted that my interest in polar bears was also at a low point.

Trying to find some exposed skin upon which to lay a kiss, I bade her a quick goodbye. Turning to my bike, I put on my helmet, added a face mask, and set off, looking like a terrorist. Arrived safely with all fingers and toes intact, I sat down at my desk, and took a deep breath.

Once again, the question presented itself: what’s not to like about Arizona? And why am I not living there right now?

Here it is:

• a high-quality, user-friendly mid-range digital camera
• an ipod (but will settle for an mp3 player)
• a laptop for my home office

… and a new cement foundation for my basement

Whew! that was easy. Its so good to get these things on paper.

Its been fun for me to get back into dancing, especially during January when there’s not much else to do. The photos below are from last weekend.

Rada observes the scene:

Though its not clear if she wants to dance, getting some quality on-floor time with her dear friend Kayla is fun, nevertheless:

When Rada woke up, she glanced sleepily out the window and broke into a huge smile.

I told her if she got dressed and ready for school quickly, we would have some time to play. She scrambled through her morning routine, brushed her teeth in record time, and we headed out the door.

We had a fine snowball fight. She did not help me shovel the front walk, but rather pelted me with snow balls. I retaliated when I could and kept her at bay. Afterward, we wrote our names in snow on an un-sullied side street.

As we walked to school, she ambused me from behind, turning my black coat grey with snow. I returned the volley with some great hits on the back of her pink jacket. By the time we got to school, we both looked pretty ridiculous, with snow dust all over us.

It was a perfect morning in some ways: not too cold and not too much snow, enough for playing, and for a little desultory shovelling to get the body warm. Walking to school in the fresh air and with the world so silent and white, seemed magical. And the humble streets of Somerville had an aura of enchantment.

I am relieved to see snow, relieved that winter is actually here.

One cute reindeer.

3-year-old Shravya and I jammed. She danced; I accompanied.

“What are you doing?”, I asked.

“Trying to fly.”

…..you go girl!

Friday, however, she came home from school with dim eyes and a wan face. Going to sleep early did not help the situation and she woke up Saturday morning with a full-scale stomach bug.

It was a horrible thing, really. My daughter spent most of the day vomiting, or getting ready to. I rubbed her back, patted her head, and fed her toast and apple juice, hoping that she’d be OK.

By Sunday morning she was weak, but on the mend. I breathed a sigh of relief for her that she was over it, and for myself for circumventing it. Sunday evening, however, to my horror, I began to descend into ‘the abyss’.

It was a vile, utterly horrid bug. I will spare you the details. Luckily my mother was available to help.

Now, several days later, I’m feeling better, on the other side… but it took a while to feel like looking at food again, let alone eating it.

Rada was in her classroom, deep in conversation with her kindergarten teacher, Ms. C. I’ve grown to like and respect Ms. C. over the past few months. She is young enough to be my daughter, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders (unlike myself at that age). Ms. C. genuinely likes the kids in her class, and as far as I can tell she hasn’t been absent one day since the beginning of school.

Slowly but surely Rada has been amassing a foundation of knowledge with Ms. C., and it has been happening with no stress or worries about whether she is ‘good’ enough, or ‘smart’ enough. The learning environment in the classroom is low-key and down to earth.

Ms C says to me, “oh dear, the classroom is really messy right now”. I look around and see signs everywhere of activity and industry. There are art projects drying on the walls. Bins of well-used sorting toys are stacked neatly on the shelves. There is a goldfish in its tank on one table, and a few hand-made books on another. I thought the messy classroom looked great.  

After talking with Ms C., Rada and I wandered downstairs to say goodbye to the extended day teacher, Miss Anna. The kids in extended day were in the cafeteria, scooting around the room in a few wheelie-rollers. Some kids were riding the wheelie device, while others were pushing it along. There was lots of running, yelping and activity. And for a cold winter night, I was glad to see the kids so animated.

As we left the building, Rada and I said a quick goodbye to the front desk person Miss Myda and her daughter who hangs out with her at the end of the day.

I realized that I felt at home in this school. I felt a part of the school, that it was my school.

We’re having a good year.

And then sat back to enjoy the procession.

…which went right through my kitchen.

Several times.

They travelled to Kazakhstan to meet Ethan earlier this year, and Gwen just recently returned from fulfilling final legal obligations and bringing him back to the US.

This past weekend, Rada and her old friend Nuri were having a playdate reunion (both of them being former Kazakhs, themselves) and Ethan joined the group with more enthusiasm and energy than I’ve ever seen in a newcomer. He ran with the pack and acted like he’d lived here all his life. He absorbed, digested, and expressed words in English with an alarming speed and accuracy.

And when he smiled, oh my goodness, ships sank and the stars came out.

Welcome to this world, Ethan. Its wonderful to have you here.

This year I am going to Live The Dream. But what that means I am not completely sure.

Last night I dreamt I lost my toe shoes for ballet class and ended up running barefoot with the track team…. or something like that (not sure I want to live THAT dream).

Well, we’ll see. The year is still young.

Even now, all I can say is thankyou thankyou thankyou for the children’s play area next to the observation deck. It had several climbing structures and there were various kids in similar situations to my daughter. Pick-up playdates were quickly organized and then quickly disbanded as weary parents, consulting their watches for the umpteenth time, finally got ready to leave.

One of the other ‘highlights’ of the 6.5 hour stay was the discovery of a matrix of moving ramps which transported people to and from their parked cars. One does not realize what potential for exploration a moving ramp offers until one is presented with the situation where there is absolutely nothing else to do.

Periodically we returned to the play area to see what new prospects had shown up and to try and drum up more play sessions.

Eventually the sun went down and the play area took on an other-worldy aura. The children ran and jumped in the dim light while airplanes took off and landed in the background.

At one point my daughter took a break and I read story books to her. There was a man singing softly to his newborn baby not far from us. His singing was sad and touching, with an ethereal middle-eastern tinge. The sweet, dark melodies seemed to blend well with the stories that my daughter and I were reading. For a moment I lost track of time.

When it finally seemed that we would always be living in Baltimore airport and that our lives would forever be entwined with moving ramps and fast food, we learned that our plane was on the way. We eagerly lined up to get on board, relieved to see Baltimore drift into the background as our plane sped into the night.

As it jingles, someone looks over their glasses from a desk in the back. You step inside politely, at once sensing the orderly chaos, the accumulation of paraphenalia, and the impression of a hey-day many years gone by.

Everywhere is stacked the detritius of the analog office. You see rolodex files, metal swivel chairs, and ball point pens. Am I visiting a well-preserved museum? No. This is the real thing. I relish its aura, breathing in the aroma of multiple carbon copies and white-out.

I’m in the presence of the great ancestor of Office Max: the pre-cursor to Staples. It is a small stationary store, a rare breed that is not quite extinct. It exists in a store-front sandwiched next to the oh-so-uber Middlesex Cafe and across the street from the bland body-sculpting palace.

In this store, I am transported to the 70′s. I want to get ribbon for my selectric typewriter. I want to pore over the weekly planners for 2007. Ah! here is one with a maroon cover and light pink pages which are separated by shiny crimson tabs.

I drool for a moment, salivating over the crisp unused pages and their fresh new beginnings.

Wistfully, I turn away.

I purchase my non-standard size envelopes and head back to my office with its state-of-the-art computer, its the palm pilot, its electronic annotation devices…

There were several parks we would frequent, and we got used to seeing familiar faces. Often, in the late afternoons, the children would be accompanied by their nannies or babysitters. The nannies would sit on the park benches chit-chatting while the children played. That is, all the nannies except one.

There was one young woman who tirelessly played wonderful, imaginative, games with her charges. Rada would often get interested in the games, and she’d be invited to join in. And I would find myself involved in the activity, too. I learned alot from observing how this nanny/babysitter involved the children in dramatic play and how she handled conflict between the kids.

I eventually met one of the parents who had hired this nanny and the mom could not say enough nice things about her. Since the family was preparing to move out of town, I decided, then and there, to find out if the nanny/babysitter was available for occasional evenings with my daughter.

She was. And the first time she came over, Rada jumped up and down with joy. “Rati!” she exclaimed. And from then until now, Rada and Rati have had their own special relationship which has endured over 3 years. I feel very lucky to have such a responsible and creative person looking after Rada.

Rati grew up in Nepal, and has not been home in 5 years. Today she has an appointment at INS to see if she qualifies for a green card. With a green card, she can enter and leave the country with confidence that her papers will not be questioned.

No matter how you feel about immigration, rest assured that this young person is everything that you want to see in this country. If you can send some good thoughts her way at about 1:30 this afternoon, I know she would appreciate it. And I would, too

Good luck, Rati.

Its here (code monkey dance) and here.

At one point in the afternoon she decided that she really really wanted to go play in the playground. I was surprised to see so much energy in a sick child but was willing to go out for a little while.

However, I needed a short rest. So I lay down for a few moments to renew my energy. My daughter was impatient. She wanted to go to the playground ‘right now’. She did not want to wait for 10 or 15 minutes of rest.

She sat on my bed complaining and whining for a while. Then she lay her head on my side, and was quiet. I lay there, relishing the silence, happy that she’d finally calmed down. A minute later I looked over and she was fast asleep. She slept almost 2 hours.

When she awoke it was dark and she was groggy. She ate some dinner, watched a video, and went back to bed.

The weather was lovely with sunny days in the mid-fifties. We walked alot and went to playgrounds. We visited a real live prairie and participated in a uniquie Illini custom called the ‘turkey trot’. Isabel showed saintly patience towards the 6 year-old that shadowed her every move and Dede made chicken meatballs that were phenomenal.

Here are Rada and Isabel having fun on Isabel’s trampoline.

Isabel and I working hard playing music.

Rada and Dede got in lots of hugs.

And Oscar took the wonderful photos.

When I first learned about ‘homework in kindergarten’ I was dismayed. I didn’t want my daughter encountering the rigors of scholarship so early in her academic career. There would be plenty of time for serious study when she got older and I wanted kindergarten to be a soft transition from pre-school. So I looked into sending her to other schools. But several compelling factors contributed to this school being the one she ended up at. And homework in kindergarten became a reality.  

Here’s the bizarre fact: when the first few assignments came in, I would feel a small clutch of fear just before I looked at the page. Would I understand it? Would I be able to figure out the answers?

I knew that my child was in kindergarten, but a neurotic part of my brain would still panic in much the same way it would back when they handed out problem sets in programming class (back when I was young and foolish and actually thought I could understand programming). And who does one go to for help in kindergarten? Are there TAs? Study groups?

Thankfully, so far there have been no trick questions. I’ve been able to help her through pretty much everything that they’ve sent home. And even when she doesn’t do the job quite right she still gets a star. In fact, it appears that she pretty much gets a star for handing in anything on her homework.

I would have liked to have gotten a star in programming class.

But when we pulled up to the church that houses this venerable institution, it was immediately apparent that KidsSpace was cancelled for the day. A dad with his very disapointed toddler turned away from the xeroxed note on the door and explained to me that ‘there was a scheduling problem with the church’.

I sat in the car in the pouring rain and wondered to myself, what next?

Seemingly out of the blue, but probably dug up from ancient memories, came the word ‘bowling’.

Dimly remembering that there was a basement alley behind Davis Square, I called a friend for help. Sitting in front of a computer, the friend was quickly able to locate ‘Sacco’s Bowl Haven’. I made a call on my cell, learned that there were free lanes, and headed over.

Once the shoes are rented and the minimum amount of strings are played, bowling is not cheap. But it was well worth it. Just the experience of being in ‘Bowl Haven’ was worth the trip. The decor was straight out of my childhood, and the wooden lanes had the worn veneer of many polishings.

It was perfect for two fidgety 6-year-olds. It combined the satisfaction of throwing things down a long corridor with the interest of keeping score which they did very well.

As we headed out the door, the sun had gone down and it was dark. Day was done and we’d gotten through a rainy one.

Sometimes that’s all you need to do.

So I prod and cajole, and we slowly go past the house with the stone lions, up the hill with the cement wall, and then over the wooden train bridge.

Once she rounds the last corner and sees the other children gathering in the school yard, some deeply-seated social gene in her begins pumping adrenaline. She scans the crowd, spots a few friends, hollers some barked hellos, and is ready to head into the fray. She can barely take the time to say goodbye to me, planting a wet kiss before running off to her turf, her life, her friends.

• I stop at red lights, even when no one is around for miles.
• I pick up trash from the playground, and abstain from littering.
• I don’t peek on tests, cheat at my taxes, or park illegally, and when I do, pay the ticket promptly.
• Sometimes I nauseate myself with my good behavior.

However there is one area of my life where I am insufferably self-serving and undemocratic. It is at the soup line in the cafeteria. I am the person who scoops up all the chicken from the pot and pours it into my little cup. I’m the one who siphons the interesting pasta from the mix, leaving everyone else the mushy celery; and you do not want to know what I do with beef stew. So I’m warning you, don’t ever get behind me in the soup line. I’m not a very nice person.

And there is no hope for rehabilitation. I’ve been doing this for years. Each time I approach the arena of temptation, I tell myself ,”this time you’re going to be ‘good’, this time you’ll share nicely with the other people.” And each time I viciously appropriate huge amounts of the best soup stuff for my own.

I’m not proud to admit it, but at least by telling the truth, others are forewarned.

I stepped away from this blog for a moment and two weeks went by. How did that happen?

It is the busiest time of year, from Labor Day to Thanksgiving. So much is going on, and it’s certainly the case with me, my life, work, family, and friends

A friend is in Kazakhstan with her soon-to-be son; another has sold and bought a house; another friend’s photography business is taking off. My daughter is learning astonishing amounts of things at school, and me, I’m learning Library Science (goody gumdrops!) and back to riding my bike to work.

Rada is days away from reading. She is sounding out letters, putting strings of them together to form words. She writes words and numbers, and counts and sorts and groups.  She even colors within the lines (a dubious skill in my opinion).

Its astounding to see a thinking being emerge from what was once a directionless toddler seemingly just months ago.

In the afternoon she is usually relaxed and happy to see me, neither over-stimulated nor overly-tired. It is her best time of the day. She runs ahead of me on the sidewalk, barely containing her urge to skip.

This is the best time of day for me, too. I savor the bike rides now. There has been a seemingly unending stream of cool fresh fall days, only infrequently interrupted by drizzle. On my bike I feel like a dragonfly, darting along traffic, landing anywhere, ultra mobile, contrasted to being in my car, which when I’m in traffic feels like being a snail, dragging along its bulky shell, never knowing where to put it.

When we get home, my daughter and I shed our work and school clothes and head for the park. From 5:30-6:30 the park is alive with activity. There are soccer games, and puppy playgroups. Toddlers and babies are in the playground. And there is the potential for a pick-up playdate for older children. Rada has met several neighborhood kids who drop by this time of day, and sometimes there will be as many as 10 kids playing “pirate ship” or “monster” in the dimming light.

None of this will last. The warm fall days will turn cool and gray all too soon. Before long we’ll be standing, huddled in front of the swing sets, hoping to to stave off the chill for five more minutes while the kids frantically breathe foggy clouds into the quiet dark blue sky.

Party guests having meaningful conversation:

The birthday cake:

The wish:

Yours from the front lines, taking it one day at a time,

- a kindergarten mother

Rada seems to be doing fine with the zones and she even won a ‘prize’ last week for good behavior in class. But the notion of concentrating on discpline this much saddens me. It saddens me that she still doesn’t know the names of all her classmates in her class. It saddens me that she still has a hard time saying good-bye to me in the morning. Pre-school was not like this.

Rada’s teacher seemed gentle, friendly and calm upon first meetings. But now I am seeing more and more her turning the other way when there are difficulites. Already she seems overwhelmed just getting the children to line up and go into the building.  She seems so young to me, and very much alone. Pre-school on the other hand, had a close-knit team of colleague-teachers who supported each other and the children.

I knew that this particular school was stricter and more traditional than others, but when I visited I also sensed a strong feeling of purpose and mission among the staff; they all seemed to care very much about their work and the kids. So I took a chance. I also liked the proximity to our home. I liked the idea of Rada walking to school and for me I liked the relief of being close to work.

But when I hear about other kindergartens and how they’re going about doing things, my heart grips in my chest and I wonder if I am doing the right thing by my daughter. We are certainly not Kansas anymore, for sure. It is an inner city school with inner city problems and issues.

But I am in it for the long haul, at least for the year. (And I’ve decided I’d better get involved and engaged because I’m going to make the best of it.)

At the end of day one, the parents gathered in the school yard waiting for their kids to exit the buildling, like paparazzi waiting for movie stars.

When Rada appeared, she was at the front of her line, holding her teacher’s hand and scanning the crowd for my face.  When she saw me, she broke into a smile that brought tears to my eyes.

Later that evening I heard all about the day. Rada doesn’t de-brief me (though I wish she would). Rather, she acts out the day with her animals. So we acted out kindergarten, and I learned about the red table, and the blue table, and how each child was asked to identify the shape in front of them. With Rada as ‘Ms Calvert’ I learned alot about staying in line and looking with my eyes. Apparently kindergarten is about crowd control and classroom procedures. Basic training for 6 year olds.

This morning, day two, was fraught with potential disaster. I had relied on dropping her off for the early-morning supervised breakfast in order to get to work for a special meeting. However, yesterday the breakfast never appeared. I was worried it would be the same case today. Or worse the breakfast would appear but Rada would cling to me.

But it is the dawn of a new age.

We got to school, and the teacher monitoring the door said, “Come on in, breakfast is ready.” With barely a backward glance, Rada marched in with the rest of the students. I stood there a moment, flummoxed, and then ran after her, begging for a hug goodbye. I guess I was the clingy one.

PC: How did the drop-off go?

Mom: It was OK. My daughter got a little shakey at one point so I did the Kissing Hand for her, and it seemed to help.

PC: What is the Kissing Hand?

Mom: I kiss the palm of her hand, and the love travels all the way up her arm into her heart where it stays all day long.

PC: What happened after you said good-bye?

Mom: Well, (stifling a sob) they lined them up and took them into this big red buildling. They don’t allow the parents to come in (can you believe that?) and God only knows what they’re doing in there. Yes, I’m a basket case. 

PC: So what is it like now that your baby has started school?

Mom: waaaah! I miss her! 

I could talk about this freshly minted six year old, just 6 days ago, and how much she is enjoying her seniority, being the oldest (though not tallest) in her daycare, and the one who knows the answers.  

I could talk about her first big party, her 6th birthday celebration, which was a huge success with her contemporaries.

I could talk about how she is taking charge of her medication, and how she manages all details and procedures.

I could talk about her new fascination with underwater experimentation, both in ponds and beaches as well as her own bathtub.

I could talk about her taking complete responsibility for Niri Pinky Ming and how she handles table clearing at all meals. She dresses herself and puts her dirty clothes in the appropriate place, and can fasten most snaps and zippers on her own.

But I should probably talk about the imminent start of kindergarten and of her new school, with uniforms, lunch programs, parent/teacher organizations and new friendly faces. 

She looks like she’s ready for the big K. I’m not sure I am, but she is. The big day is Sept 5th. Please wish her and us luck. 

Rada and Jane loved going on the water slide at the party.

They went over and over again, probably twenty times. They took a break and had a snack, and then went back and did it some more.

Many people went on the slide, including grown-up party guests like moms and dads. It was one of those hot July days, and the slide was a cool drink of water for your whole body, refreshing, silly, and fun.

I have to hand it to my daughter. She may be fighting a losing battle with grammar, but she’s giving it her best shot.

According to her, there is a gaggle of gooses in our house and one of them is a geese by the name of Goose.  I tried to suggest otherwise, but she would have none of it. And anyway, what do I know? I’m simply a grown-up who’s been speaking English longer than I care to remember.

But my daughter, well, she is on her way to kindergarten and will soon know practically everything there is to know, if she doesnt already know it now.

I’m taking a philosophical view of the situation. Last week we read a book about an octipus and his family of octipi. This elicited no comment from my daughter. Maybe she has been mulling it over, or maybe she’s in denial. Either way, kindergarten is looming on the horizon, with reading, writing, and plenty of grammar police. I will no longer be a voice crying out in the wilderness.

The pill procedure is going well. My daughter splits the pill with her pill-splitter and I crush it and mix it into orange juice.

The syrup, however, is another matter. I tasted it; it is sweet in a cloying chemical sort of way, and my daughter has been having a hard time with it.

The first night, she took little sips of the syrup which she chased with water. It took a long time to get it all down and she really hated each sip.

The second night I encouraged her to gulp the whole tablespoon at once, but she took little sips again, which she chased with her favorite yogurt drink. This was a little better than water.

Last night, the third night, I put the syrup in her little cup, got her drinkable yogurt ready, and prepared myself for another night of ‘sipping’.

I turned to the sink for the moment and when I turned back she had downed all the syrup in one gulp. I was so proud of her! What a brave girl.  It was a very grownup thing she did: to decide to get through the unpleasant thing quickly.

Anyway, here is Rada on the carousel and the train:

Rada, Emilie and Zachary in the ball crawl:

Rock climbing at Gene and Kay’s house:

and relaxing in the hammock.

What I most remember about the weekend was wanting it to last longer. I also liked watching the kids play together. There is something extremely relaxing and satisfying about watching your child playing with other children.

And there’s Rada making a block castle.

If you go the the center’s main page here, and keep pressing the refresh button, it will cycle around to her picture.

A big art project.

Like a minor talent in a Renaissance atelier, I was conscripted to do easy things like wheels and windows.

Here it is, finished.

The critical line of demarcation happened sometime last week. The scales shifted: the amount of time that she has spent with me is now greater than the amount of time she has spent without me.

I did not feel any great change in feeling at the shifting of the scales, and neither did she, it seems. But still it was a moment with significance. I’d known it was coming, and now that it is passed, I do feel a bit more grounded, more secure. 

We’ve been to this picnic 3 years in a row. The first year we went, Rada was still in her ‘everything is mine and the world revolves around me’ mode. I shadowed her like a bad detective, worried that she’d swipe food off someone’s plate, or commandeer a child’s stuffed animal.

The second year, Rada was ‘practising’ wearing big girl underpants. I ran after her asking every 3 minutes if she needed to use the bathroom. My efforts were to no avail because she eventually had a disastrous accident in the middle of the kitchen, which took rolls of paper towels to clean up, and necessitated an entire clothes change.

This year, the third year, was completely different. The minute we got there she said to herself, ‘oh yes, I remember this’. And she went off on her own for the entire afternoon. She made friends, had her face painted, took several pony rides, and organized a pick-up hoop game. Periodically, she’d report back to me about all the things that she was doing by herself.

All of a sudden I was left to my own devices. I had to brush up on my social skills, meet new friends, and strike up conversations, all on my own.

It was the third or fourth time the girls had gotten together without the presence of both moms and the dynamics were interesting. During the transition phase, before Kathy left, the kids were testy and whiney.  I was worried that this was a portent of how the evening would go. But it was as if they were purging themselves of all negativity.

Once Kathy left, and it was just me and the two girls, all of a sudden they developped a team-like mentalilty. And I started seeing them as a group, instead of several individuals.

When it was time for bed I said, “OK, everyone into their pajamas”, as if there were hoards of un-pajamed children roaming about. 

When Rada and Kayla holed themselves up in Rada’s room I said “Gosh, where did everyone go?” as if a big party had somehow dissipated.

I began to see the appeal of the family with multiple children. You can herd them. You can make sweeping policies. You can quell insurrections and issue edicts. You can also have a party or put on a show. Three is a crowd, but sometimes a crowd is a good thing.

Later that evening, the girls decided they wanted to sleep together in Rada’s bed. It took a long time to calm them down. They wanted me to lie with them, so I found myself with a 5 year old draped over my legs and a 3 year old on my stomach. Finally they settled down. I heard the regular rhythm of their breath, indicating sleep.  Gently eradicating myself from their limbs, I stood looking at the small bodies sprawled on the bed before quietly closing the door.

So I left the car at home yesterday, walked to work, called the mechanic and made an appointment for the next day. This morning, as I was getting ready to drive over, I prayed that I’d be able to get out of park and drive the junkmobile car safely to the garage. Once deposited with the mechanic, there was an elaborate plan in place for alternate transportation. It involved strollers, taxis, busses, and the fervent hope of no rain. 

All went well at the garage. We made it there safely. The car let me put it into park one last time. I had a long talk with the garage receptionist about cable tightening, gear replacement, and in a lowered voice ‘possible transmission problems’.  I listened stoically, signed the paperwork for repair, and headed on my way.

As I was walking up the street, one of the mechanics ran after me and said, “humph, what, eh?” (an articulate man). 

I nodded understandingly and said, “Yes, it’s the gears, or the clutch. You see, it won’t go into park.”

He said again, “what? Huh? gears?” 

I offered to demonstrate the problem. We walked over to the car and I turned on the ignition, put the gear into drive, into reverse, back into neutral, and then preparing myself, shifted into park. 

There was no bumping, no cracking, no spine-tingling pops. It slid into park with the ease of a baseball player on a lucky day. 

How could this be? How could this be? Suddenly I felt the breeze and the thought of summer trips to the seashore. 

The mechanic said maybe I had not been pressing the button hard enough and thus not fully engaging the gear. I nodded, half-listening, knowing that I had been pressing that button like it was connected to an intravenous drip. But I listened happily, not needing to question it too much. I did not understand; I did not need to. 

The amazing thing is that this had already happened. I’d already had a get out of jail free day with my car. I wasn’t expecting a second one.

Sometimes lightning strikes twice, I guess. 

This morning, my daughter and I were trying to get our things together and out the door. She was looking for the ‘chosen animal’ , the one which would accompany her to daycare. I was finishing up packing the lunches, and bringing the bags to the stairs.

But I couldn’t find my glasses. I knew I had used them earlier that morning, but couldn’t remember where I’d put them. I ran around the apartment, looking in all the usual places, getting more and more frustrated. My daughter finally asked what I was doing.

“I lost my glasses,” I said, running my eyes across the kitchen counter. “Can you help me find them? I know they’re around here somewhere.”

She looked at me with a mixture of perplexity and dismay. “They’re on your head”, she said.

Someday I know she’s going to ask for one of her own (and throw my checkbook into anaphylactic shock).

In the meantime, she’s taken to it like Niri Pinky-Ming to his/her fishbowl. She looks like a natural to me.

Photo by Tom Luongo  (more)

Niri Pinky-Ming, a Betta fish, has taken up residence in the living room. Originally puddle-dwellers, Bettas are renowned for being hard to kill, which is just our kind of fish. They’re low-maintenance, too: no bubbles, filters, or live plants required. 

Isn’t s/he beautiful?

Niri Pinky-Ming had his/her first bowl cleaning last weekend. Rada helped ladle out the dirty water and add more clean water.

According to Rada, Niri Pinky-Ming’s name actually changes depending on the time of day. It is Niri Pinky-Ming in the morning, Gaia Pinky-Ming in the afternoon, and Casey Pinky-Ming in the evening. As Rada said this, I nodded pleasantly, thinking, “in your dreams”.

After enjoying 10-15 minutes of relative peace and quiet, I strolled into the front room, just to say hi and check in.

To my surprise, Rada and Ian had stacked every single toy onto the couch.

(Notice the empty shelves to the right.)

Apparently the couch was a truck in which they were going to transport all of Rada’s worldy possessions.

Impressed by their teamwork and ingenuity, I also expressed hope that the truckers would  ’unload’ their cargo when they reached their destination.

My daughter is morphing and I don’t like it.

Until recently, I had her figured out, pigeon holed. We had our routine: snacks, reading, the video, playing with stuffed animals, dinner, fun in the bathtub, more stories, and then to bed.

But recently she has started to change. Her little mind is developping. She’s turning into more of her own person. She wants a say in scheduling the day’s activities. She exercises veto power in choices of babysitters.  I find myself deep in negotiations with her on what she gets served for dinner. And she makes compelling arguments for a later bedtime.

I’m not sure I like it. I had her pegged at 5 years old. I had her down pat. And now she’s a whole new person; its like starting all over again.

I really liked her the way she was. Why is she rocking the boat?

Oh I know, I know. This is just the beginning. She’s going to turn into several more different (and probably interesting) people before she finally settles into adulthood. But oh my, it is exhausting.  I had no idea. Its hard to keep up with her.

This past weekend my daughter and I attended Earth Day celebrations at the Worcester Ecotarium (a fabulous place, by the way).

One of the performers was a juggler/musician. He was entertaining the crowd singing songs, and juggling inanimate objects. However, it also appeared that he was looking after his pre-school-aged son. In the middle of a song he suddenly looked over to the booth next to his and said, “Jason, please come back! No more buying T-shirts!”

Jason, a boy of 3 or 4, replied that he wanted his dad to look at a specific T-shirt.

So the juggler ran off-stage in mid-act, took a look at the t-shirt, begged his son to come back to the performance area, and then ran back to continue his act. The son complied, wandered over to the stage area, and started playing with the unused juggling items.

For a finale, the juggler said that he would now juggle two bowling pins AND his son. He proceeded to pick up his son and pass him from arm to arm as he maintained 2 bowling pins in the air. No one was hurt. The son actually looked a bit bored.

Adding new meaning to the concept of juggling work and familiy responsibilities…

If you missed it, a similar opportunity will present itself on May 6th, 2007 at 02:03:04.

Mary’s parents were right: they predicted one more snow fall before spring. And here it is, April 5th, and the flakes are big and white and coming down fast. They melt as soon as they hit the ground. Its definitely a spring snow.

I recently received more photos from my Florida trip. That’s my wonderful sturdy Rada running towards the water. I love that girl.

The water really was that clear and the sky really was that blue. And in a few months, you wouldn’t know if these photos were from Florida or Naragansett.

The past week has been peppered with beautiful days. Temperatures are inching into the seventies, with bright blue skies as clean as a freshly laundered bed sheet, and a warm yellow sun as cute as a button.

But it seems whenever I wax poetic about the gorgeous spring, someone has to bring up global warming, and how the warm weather is probably a sign of something really bad: more melting ice-caps, polar bears with heat-stroke and who knows, maybe NYC sinking under water.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m as worried as the next person, and I’m doing whatever I can: I recycle, I walk or use public transportation when I can, I vote for the ‘green’ candidates, and I contribute what I am able to. I am very aware of the problem.

But I’d really like to celebrate this spring just for what it is, a beautiful beginning and a season of joy.

And if we’re all going to get swamped by the Atlantic in a few years anyway, lets enjoy it while we can.

… but don’t stop taking the T.

It is utterly beautiful outside. March came in like a lion and out like a lamb. Good job, March!

I am going to take this woman’s advice. Urgent business requires my presence on the other side of campus. Got to leave right now. Usually I know my way around pretty well, but this afternoon I have a funny feeling I’m going to get lost.

…or be taken with a fatigue to sudden and dramatic that I must lie down immediately.

In the sun.

Rada and I have been trying our best to deal with the cooped-up-ness of late winter.

Last weekend, we dressed her teddy bear in a matching coat and turban, held together by clothes pins.

Note also, the body art on legs and feet. She did this using a stamp pad received at one of her numerous birthday parties. I assumed it is washable in soap and water, but three baths later, I’m not so sure.

This time of year is worst. The days crawl by. Snow flurries threaten. Winds blow. The temperature hovers in the thirties.

No wonder March harbors silly holidays like St Patty’s, Mardi Gras, and Purim: anything to relieve the monotony.

I am sick of seeing my pasty white face in the mirror, sick of putting on boots, mittens, hats, gloves, scarves. And we’ve still got mud season to get through before it really improves.

I just returned from 5 days in northern Florida. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone. Its worse, knowing there are parts of the country which are civilized. 

Six weeks from now you’ll hear me wax poetic about the nascent spring, the dewy tulips and the fresh warm breezes. But for now I am going to dig curmudgeonly into my gloom and wail on.

Stegosaurus

Ankylosaurus

I recently returned from 5 days in Florida visiting family and friends. The mornings were cool but it warmed up by afternoon. There was wind, water, sand and sun.

My sister Rebecca visited. She is an amateur manicurist and she brought her kit. One evening – either because we had seen so many bare feet in Florida (and so few in Massachusetts) or because we were just in a mood to paint – we asked Rebecca to do our toenails.

The under-6 set tortuously deliberated over colors, finally settling on a pattern of alternating hues in stunning contrast:

Inspired by its vibrancy, the manicurist and her sister went one step further and did the ‘sampler look’:

The manicurist’s mother, however, set a more conservative tone with a warm green monochrome. Very elegant:

“….wait a minute. I need my cape and purse.”

“OK… is there room at the inn?”

One of the kids in Rada’s pre-school class plays chess with the teachers. Rada has been hanging out on the sidelines, watching the game.

Last weekend she asked me to get her ‘chest’. Somewhat dubious, but nonetheless delighted, I bought her a chess set.

And we proceeded to play.

Very soon it was clear she knew the rules: pawns go forward and back one square, except on the first move when they can go two. And pawns go cross-wise to capture someone. Kings only move one space, and Rooks slide everywhere cross-wise, etc.

I was thrilled. My daughter IS a genius! I knew it all along. We played a few moves. I captured her Queen, she took a few of my pawns and Rooks. Then, apparently, her King became lonely for his captured Queen and she had them visit with each other…. there was much chit-chat and hugs exchanged between the two chess pieces.

Gently, I tried to get her to re-focus on the game, but she noticed the Rooks were all gathered on her side of the board. She immediately organized a reunion. All the Rooks said hello to each other and there was more chit-chat…

I sighed.  

The genius had turned socialite.

It started out as another mundane errand: one more sheet to add to the mountain of adoptive paperwork that bio families never see. First it is the dossier, then the INS forms, then the green card (yes! for a 3 year old) and then the re-adoption process, and the certificate of citizenship, and the list goes on.

Today I was on the trail of the elusive birth certificate. I was making my second trip to Somerville City Hall, presumably to doublecheck the spelling on ‘the form’.

I looked at all the entries, and there really isn’t much that can be done to mess up my last name or street of residence, but I dutifully checked everything until the double g’s and t’s started swimming before my eyes.

When I handed the form back to the clerk, she looked me in the eye and said “Now, raise your right hand”.

Surprised, I raised my hand. Was that a faint sound of a choir in the background?

She said “Do you solemnly swear by the Laws of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts that the information you have provided here is true and correct?”

I said, with hand raised, “I solemnly swear”.

She smiled and said “Congratulations, you daughter’s birth certificate will be ready in 6 weeks.”

I walked out, light of step, feeling slightly innaugural…

…of my favorite links

• Heather, Leta and Jon
  
• The Daily Oliver
  
• Steve
  
• Tricks of the Trade

What are your must-sees?

I recently spent 2 wonderful days in New Hampshire at an inn that is a working farm.  Rada was transported milking cows, feeding goats, holding bunnies and gathering eggs.

She also deeply enjoyed running around the dining room with the other guests under 5. We all enjoyed the three healthy meals that were prepared and served at our table every day.

But there was much more: a hay jumping session, sledding, ice skating on the pond, an indoor swimming pool, storytelling by the wood stove, and a hayride in the woods. One would think we were running from activity to activity, but it was very relaxed, with plenty of time to sleep long hours away from the phone, car, and computer.

The people we went with were a like-minded group of moms whose children were born in the same country or a country near to where Rada was born.

The only drawback to the weekend was the realization, upon returning home, that my clothes reeked of cow manure and chicken urine. I did not think friends and co-workers would find this rustic or charming. Pretty much everything had to be thrown in the washer, including coats, scarves, gloves, and hats.

Interestingly, despite the lure of real udders, and the thrill of watching cows poop a mere 3 feet from where one stood, the crowning joy of the weekend for Rada was when I broke down and bought her an emerald ring. It cost $2.95 and is one serious rock.

I feel pretty incredibly special right now. I’ve been named someone’s Fairy Blog Mother and am absolutely thrilled.

I did nothing to deserve this honor except show a very talented blogger how to log on and publish her first post. From there, she’s been on her own and doing beautifully.

There are 3 versions of the game: Easy, Medium, and Advanced. We are currently playing Easy. If the players are older than 3 (as both my daughter and I are) they should be able to do Medium and Advanced but I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how. I went to college and am licensed to drive a motor vehicle in the State of Massachusetts, but the directions seem to be written in some kind of toddler-speak that is gibberish to me.

Was there some critical lecture in pre-school that I missed, something on ‘logical gamemanship for the under 5′?

There is the purple backpack with the small cards, the big square cards that go on the board, and the spaces on the board for Swiper. Somehow the small cards end up in the winning player’s hand, unless Swiper gets to them first. But how?  And what about the big square cards? Am I making this too complicated?

Here is the game that has shaken the foundations of my intellect:

Apparently the hamster had not been fed for several days and I must feed it right now. I ran feverishly through several rooms before I finally woke up…

… and realized I don’t have a hamster.

Nathan’s dad Ben helped build an amazing track matrix.

Nathan’s mom Lisa prepared a delicious dinner. And for Nathan and Rada she made a special treat of crudites arranged in shape of a person, complete with buttons, hair, eyes and nose. (I wish I had taken a photo before these delicacies were consumed).

The best part of the evening happened after dinner when Ben, Lisa, and I had a long, uninterrupted conversation in the kitchen. Rada and Nathan clambered on the furniture in the living room and talked politics.

…and drove away 20 minutes later, $15 poorer, with a smoothly humming car.

Fifteen dollars ?!? It has got to be a personal best. I am ecstatic.

I had been sure it was a broken rear axel, or grossly misaligned tires, or a faulty timing belt, and had for a moment contemplated ignoring the entire problem in hopes that it would go away (following the ‘maybe if I stay in bed all day my problems will solve themselves’ school of thought). But the car was dutifully taken to the shop. I was prepared for the worst.

But it was nothing more than a bolt lodged in one of the tires. The mechanic pulled it out, patched up the hole, and sent me on my way.

My daughter was crestfallen. She had been looking forward to a taxi ride from the garage to daycare.  I had been preparing her for taxi rides to and from the places we needed to go, assuming that the car would be in surgery for hours… perhaps days.

As I drove into the bright blue of a crisp morning, I promised her a taxi ride very soon, just for fun.

My daughter has an insatiable appetite for stories. In her perfect world, I’d tell stories non-stop from morning to night. 

But I put my foot down. A  mother is not an entertainment center. And this mother’s creative skills are limited.

However, I usually accomodate her with a few tales peppered throughout the day. Though even that feels like a stretch, sometimes.

The stories are variations on a few basic themes. The current one is the “Oh no I almost got caught by a – lion, alligator, bear, or whatever – but I escaped in the nick of time,” theme.  Recently the stories have been about sheep and rabbits who narrowly escape the lion’s teeth.

But my daughter has now started asking more of those difficult questions. For example, she worries about the lion. Where does he get his dinner? If he did not eat that sheep or rabbit, what does he eat? For a while, the lion ran off to another meadow and the story ended there. But lately, I’ve had to tell the awful truth: the lion does eventually catch a sheep, rabbit, squirrel or whatever, and the lion does eat it.

My daughter was stunned. He does? Does he eat a mommy sheep? a baby sheep? (god forbid)

It appears to be least upsetting to her if the lion eats an elderly daddy sheep.

I thought my daughter would stop asking for stories like this, now that the plot lines were so ‘realistic’, but she still wants them. And now she wants to know what part of the squirrel, sheep, chipmunk, does the lion eat first. And is the squirrel, sheep, chipmunk, dead? If so, how did it die?

I want out of these gruesome tales.  Can anyone help me make a graceful exit?

My daughter and I spent a wonderful Christmas in Baltimore with my sister and family friends.

I was amazed by the following photo. Chloe the cat started out the weekend hightailing it out of the room at the mere sight of my daughter, but by the last day she let Rada pet her and she actually purred, too.

This is the gaggle of girls that roamed my sister’s house for hours while the grown-ups cooked and chatted.

It was a really nice visit. The company was the best, the planes ran on time, the weather cooperated (more or less), and the food was drop-dead scrumptious.

My daughter didn’t want to leave the house. She didn’t want to get dressed, and she was ‘not ready’ to have breakfast.

When she point blank refused to brush her teeth, I felt the approach of a dead-end. I had already given her time-out for making a mess of my bedroom. So I suggested that we give her teeth time-out. But we were unable to ‘remove’ them from her mouth, and she found the whole endeavor way too funny for a weekday morning.

So I sighed, and headed for the bathroom to brush my own pearly whites. My daughter followed close behind, re-stating her refusal to brush hers. As I stood there, toothpaste foaming in my mouth, a ray of hope entered my mind. I realized that I could use the Bug Trick.

There was a risk that my daughter would recognize a re-use of an old ruse, but I decided to take the chance. I took my brush out of my mouth, looked up at the ceiling, and said, mustering up as much surprise and interest as can be mustered at 7:15 in the morning, “Oh! Look! A bug!”

My daughter was instantly engaged. She spun into action, looking all over the bathroom ceiling for the (phantom) bug. While she did this, I quietly took out her brush and added toothpaste. Then I gently turned her face to mine talking all the while about the possibility that the bug had flown into the kitchen. As I brushed her top teeth, I wondered out loud if perhaps the bug was hiding. Then I moved swiftly to her bottom teeth while outlining a plan of search. I handed her the cup of water which she deftly rinsed, spat out, and ran into the kitchen.

She looked for the bug a while longer in the kitchen and living room, and we concluded that it must be hiding. As we headed out the door, we decided to search for it again this evening when we got home….