Yesterday was opening day at the Montclair Beach Club, something my children were looking forward to with great anticipation. As Saturday approached, Sarah and a friend began planning where they would rendezvous as if it were a college reunion, and they lived on opposite ends of the country. (They see each other every day, in school.)
They made elaborate plans to meet by the diving board at 1.30. And they had back-up plans for where they could find each other if, by chance, one of them wasn't at the diving board 1.30. If I don't see you at the diving board, proceed to the playground. And if you are not there, then, go to the snack bar. All of this planning was adorable, amusing, but highly unnecessary, as the Montclair Beach Club is not a very big place; if you take a lap around the pool, you are bound to run into someone.
We were fortunate that it was a nice day, because as far as my children were concerned, there was no way we were not going. But it is still early in the season, and since we've had a cold spring, the water was sure to be FREEZING, so there was NO WAY I was getting in the pool. As I have gotten older, my intolerance for cold has increased to the point where I now understand why people move to warmer climes as they age, something I would have made fun of in my youth. So sure was I that I was not stepping foot in the pool, I didn't even bother with a swimsuit.
The problem is, that while Sarah and Gabriel are competent swimmers, capable of going in the water by themselves, Sacha, at 3, is most certainly not.
And this is what dads are for.
So my pale, tender skinned, balding husband (who is also very handsome; it occurs to me that this description does not paint an especially attractive picture), whose pate will burn on an overcast spring day, should he forget to wear a hat, suited up.
And so we arrived, and off he went, with me trailing behind, to empathize with his pain. He winced as he descended into the cold. I believe I saw his skin grow two sizes too small. But he got in that pool, and played with our kids. He splashed and threw them about. He held out his arms for them to jump into.
He even played with some other people's kids, the ones who are old enough to swim unaccompanied, but still enjoy having an adult roughhouse with them in the water, whose parents now have the luxury of sitting on a chaise reading, while their children swim. Bitches.
At one point, as Gabriel dragged him in for another round of water play, I heard David wimper, with a tremor in his voice, "Oh no, not the mushroom again!" (The mushroom is a cascading waterfall in the center of the pool shaped like...a giant penis.)
By the time we went home, David, who normally runs hot, was shell-shocked from the cold. He was visibly shivering, even once he was dry and in clean clothes.
I believe his gonads descended some time around 9pm.
So props to him, and all the other dads who braved the cold to play with their kids.
24 May 2009
23 May 2009
Happy Pills
It is true that we all inevitably, to some extent, become our mothers, in ways both great and small. To give a trivial example, I have on occasion found myself transferring leftovers into smaller containers to make space in the fridge, which for my mother, was something of a hobby.
In my case, I find that I am also finding that I am becoming my grandmothers. Specifically, I am referring to the pills. Both of my grandmothers were great pill poppers. I'm sure my my maternal grandmother was taking her share of mother's little helpers, because she was plum loco.
While my paternal grandmother may have been taking tranquilizers as well, what I remember was the nutritional supplements. She was an early adopter health-food advocate. She had spring water delivery service before that was common practice, read Prevention Magazine (which, regarding the dissemination of dubious medical advice to laypeople, one of my doctors calls the Internet of the twentieth century), and adored listening to Carlton Fredericks, host of the nutrition program Design for Living, on WOR.
I find myself falling somewhere between these two extremes. I take my psychoactive medications to keep me from becoming certifiable, but as I've hit 40, I also find myself taking my share of nutritional supplements as well.
One morning last week, as I laid out my arsenal, Sarah, my 10-year old, asked me what were all those pills, and why was I taking them? I started by explaining the nutritional stuff: the multi-vitamin, calcium, fish oil, niacin and Co Enzyme Q-10, hoping we could leave it at that.
But she is nothing if not a sharp observer, and knew there were more pills than that, and so she asked me, pointing right at the Wellbutrin and Lexapro "And what about those?"
My parenting philosophy is that when faced with a direct question, give an honest answer, with only as much information as is necessary. (AVOID TMI!) If your children are not satisfied with your answer, they will let you know, and I feel I owe it to them, as a matter of respect, and trust, to answer their questions as best I can in an age-appropriate way.
And so here I was with my back to the wall, so to speak, about to have a TALK about my mental health issues. I tried to explain as best I could that I have something called depression, which means that my body is wired to get stuck feeling bad, or sad, sometimes for no good reason. But luckily, I said, I can take these medicines that help me feel the way I am supposed to feel.
Sarah nodded, satisfied with this explanation.
But now, every morning, she asks me, "Mom, are you taking your happy pills now?"
In my case, I find that I am also finding that I am becoming my grandmothers. Specifically, I am referring to the pills. Both of my grandmothers were great pill poppers. I'm sure my my maternal grandmother was taking her share of mother's little helpers, because she was plum loco.
While my paternal grandmother may have been taking tranquilizers as well, what I remember was the nutritional supplements. She was an early adopter health-food advocate. She had spring water delivery service before that was common practice, read Prevention Magazine (which, regarding the dissemination of dubious medical advice to laypeople, one of my doctors calls the Internet of the twentieth century), and adored listening to Carlton Fredericks, host of the nutrition program Design for Living, on WOR.
I find myself falling somewhere between these two extremes. I take my psychoactive medications to keep me from becoming certifiable, but as I've hit 40, I also find myself taking my share of nutritional supplements as well.
One morning last week, as I laid out my arsenal, Sarah, my 10-year old, asked me what were all those pills, and why was I taking them? I started by explaining the nutritional stuff: the multi-vitamin, calcium, fish oil, niacin and Co Enzyme Q-10, hoping we could leave it at that.
But she is nothing if not a sharp observer, and knew there were more pills than that, and so she asked me, pointing right at the Wellbutrin and Lexapro "And what about those?"
My parenting philosophy is that when faced with a direct question, give an honest answer, with only as much information as is necessary. (AVOID TMI!) If your children are not satisfied with your answer, they will let you know, and I feel I owe it to them, as a matter of respect, and trust, to answer their questions as best I can in an age-appropriate way.
And so here I was with my back to the wall, so to speak, about to have a TALK about my mental health issues. I tried to explain as best I could that I have something called depression, which means that my body is wired to get stuck feeling bad, or sad, sometimes for no good reason. But luckily, I said, I can take these medicines that help me feel the way I am supposed to feel.
Sarah nodded, satisfied with this explanation.
But now, every morning, she asks me, "Mom, are you taking your happy pills now?"
some people have NO sense of humor
Yesterday afternoon I was running errands with my boys, and we stopped at Stew Leonard's for beer.
It was a bit more busy than is usual, this being Memorial Day weekend, with people gearing up for the start of the OFFICIAL SUMMER DRINKING SEASON. (As opposed to Thanksgiving, the start of the OFFICIAL WINTER DRINKING SEASON.)
As a promotion, there was an inflatable bear at the door, courtesy of Saranac. He looked a bit like a squat Smokey the Bear, and he was holding a beer in one hand. Sacha, being a toddler, couldn't resist interacting with the bear, and at one point, he even put the beer bottle in his mouth, which I thought was pretty funny. (The incongruity, NOT the underage drinking! Although perhaps the use of small, cuddly creatures to sell beer, in some small way, condones underage drinking? Just a thought.) The grandparents may not have appreciated the humor in this, but David, and my friends sure would have!
I fumbled to grab my phone and take a picture, but by that point, the moment had passed.
So on our way out, I took out my phone in advance, prepared the camera, and let boys linger in the hopes of getting a good shot. Sacha starting talking to the bear, gently punching him, and laughing at his own jokes. It was really quite amusing. At which point, an employee came running out and screamed, "Sweetheart, PLEASE BE CAREFUL! DON'T BREAK THE BEAR!"
This bear was about the height of a toddler; it very much resembled an inflatable punching clown. It was perfect for smacking around. How could a three-year old resist?
But being the astute reader of people that I am, I immediately understood this passive-aggressive jibe at my parenting, hung my head in shame, and moved on to the car.
And that is why I have no funny picture to show you.
It was a bit more busy than is usual, this being Memorial Day weekend, with people gearing up for the start of the OFFICIAL SUMMER DRINKING SEASON. (As opposed to Thanksgiving, the start of the OFFICIAL WINTER DRINKING SEASON.)
As a promotion, there was an inflatable bear at the door, courtesy of Saranac. He looked a bit like a squat Smokey the Bear, and he was holding a beer in one hand. Sacha, being a toddler, couldn't resist interacting with the bear, and at one point, he even put the beer bottle in his mouth, which I thought was pretty funny. (The incongruity, NOT the underage drinking! Although perhaps the use of small, cuddly creatures to sell beer, in some small way, condones underage drinking? Just a thought.) The grandparents may not have appreciated the humor in this, but David, and my friends sure would have!
I fumbled to grab my phone and take a picture, but by that point, the moment had passed.
So on our way out, I took out my phone in advance, prepared the camera, and let boys linger in the hopes of getting a good shot. Sacha starting talking to the bear, gently punching him, and laughing at his own jokes. It was really quite amusing. At which point, an employee came running out and screamed, "Sweetheart, PLEASE BE CAREFUL! DON'T BREAK THE BEAR!"
This bear was about the height of a toddler; it very much resembled an inflatable punching clown. It was perfect for smacking around. How could a three-year old resist?
But being the astute reader of people that I am, I immediately understood this passive-aggressive jibe at my parenting, hung my head in shame, and moved on to the car.
And that is why I have no funny picture to show you.
22 May 2009
It pays to recycle
Two incidents this week reminded me just how little children need to be happy.
Gabriel's school folder wore out a few weeks ago; it tore down the center. This bothered him a lot, and I told him I would get him a new one.
But of course, it slipped my mind whenever I was out running errands.
On Tuesday when he got home from school he mentioned again that he needed a new folder, and feeling slightly sheepish that I had not taken care of this simple chore, I began rifling through my office supplies, and sure enough, I found a folder. It was blue, not pink or purple, and from a conference that I attended long ago. It had a label on the front with my name on it. I peeled this off as best I could, but it was obvious that I'd torn something off. I felt certain that Gabriel would notice this and complain, and was prepared to tell him it was a temporary folder, to hold him over until I got to the store.
To my surprise and delight, he was thrilled with this new folder. His face lit up when I gave it to him, and he thanked me profusely, and often, throughout the rest of the day. When David came home from work, the first thing he told him was, "Daddy, I got a new folder!"
But his excitement didn't end there. For the rest of the week, he lovingly tended this (old) new folder, taking me on regular guided tours to orient me to "home" side, and the "school" side. And every day, for the rest of week, when David arrived home from work, he asked him if he'd seen his new folder, and proceeded to explain its features again.
*****
I have two rules regarding dressing for school: no sweatpants, and no ripped pants. I'm sure as my children get older, and Sarah begins to push the sartorial envelope, I may have to make up some new rules regarding appropriate school attire, but for now, it's relatively simple.
Sarah has a few pairs of jeans with blown out knees that I've replaced, but every once in a while she breaks a pair out on a school day to test the waters. I don't know if it's just to push my buttons, or she's very attached to these jeans, but she's had a hard time parting with them.
As the weather has finally warmed in New Jersey, the kids have been turning to shorts more often. (What is it about shorts that make kids so happy? Have you noticed that many boys would wear them all winter long if they could get away with it?) This morning she asked me if we could cut a few of her ripped jeans into shorts. I regrettably do not know how to sew, but this task was within my skill set, so I broke out the sewing scissors, and voila; Sarah had two pairs of long denim shorts, very au courant.
She tried them on, did a little dance of joy, and told me she was wearing them today. She then spent the morning sashaying around the house in her cute new pants, which I thoroughly enjoyed.
Gabriel's school folder wore out a few weeks ago; it tore down the center. This bothered him a lot, and I told him I would get him a new one.
But of course, it slipped my mind whenever I was out running errands.
On Tuesday when he got home from school he mentioned again that he needed a new folder, and feeling slightly sheepish that I had not taken care of this simple chore, I began rifling through my office supplies, and sure enough, I found a folder. It was blue, not pink or purple, and from a conference that I attended long ago. It had a label on the front with my name on it. I peeled this off as best I could, but it was obvious that I'd torn something off. I felt certain that Gabriel would notice this and complain, and was prepared to tell him it was a temporary folder, to hold him over until I got to the store.
To my surprise and delight, he was thrilled with this new folder. His face lit up when I gave it to him, and he thanked me profusely, and often, throughout the rest of the day. When David came home from work, the first thing he told him was, "Daddy, I got a new folder!"
But his excitement didn't end there. For the rest of the week, he lovingly tended this (old) new folder, taking me on regular guided tours to orient me to "home" side, and the "school" side. And every day, for the rest of week, when David arrived home from work, he asked him if he'd seen his new folder, and proceeded to explain its features again.
*****
I have two rules regarding dressing for school: no sweatpants, and no ripped pants. I'm sure as my children get older, and Sarah begins to push the sartorial envelope, I may have to make up some new rules regarding appropriate school attire, but for now, it's relatively simple.
Sarah has a few pairs of jeans with blown out knees that I've replaced, but every once in a while she breaks a pair out on a school day to test the waters. I don't know if it's just to push my buttons, or she's very attached to these jeans, but she's had a hard time parting with them.
As the weather has finally warmed in New Jersey, the kids have been turning to shorts more often. (What is it about shorts that make kids so happy? Have you noticed that many boys would wear them all winter long if they could get away with it?) This morning she asked me if we could cut a few of her ripped jeans into shorts. I regrettably do not know how to sew, but this task was within my skill set, so I broke out the sewing scissors, and voila; Sarah had two pairs of long denim shorts, very au courant.
She tried them on, did a little dance of joy, and told me she was wearing them today. She then spent the morning sashaying around the house in her cute new pants, which I thoroughly enjoyed.
21 May 2009
Restylane?
My mother called me last night, with some news.
"I had some cosmetic surgery today," she told me.
"Oh," I replied, trying maintain a neutral tone of voice, "What did you do? "I got some Restylane injections. It's been something I've wanted to do for a long time, so I decided to treat myself."
"So, how does it look?" I asked.
"Well, it's hard to say right now, because of the bruising [WTF!!], so I haven't left the house today, but tomorrow I can cover it up with some make-up. I can't wait for you to see if you notice a difference."
My mother is a very attractive woman. She is 65, has a lovely figure, and is aging beautifully. She has beautiful skin. Strangers complement her on the loveliness of her complexion. (If I had a decent digital photo of her, this would be the place to insert it, but I don't. Sorry!) She is not a woman who needed, in the medical parlance, dermal fillers.
Although this is not an original thought, I think cosmetic surgery is a sad fraud perpetrated by the beauty, and medical industries, which preys on people with low self-esteem, to distract us from the unpleasant, unavoidable truth, that WE ALL GET OLD AND DIE.
I am a yoga teacher, and while it there is truth to the notion that happiness comes from within, it is equally true that yoga works from outside in. Appearances are important, and how we present ourselves can go along way toward making us feel better about ourselves. It was a revelation to me, during a bout of postpartum depression after the birth of my second child, when I looked at myself, unshowered and in sweatpants, and decided it perhaps if I were to make a bit more effort, I might feel somewhat better. So I started to make it a priority to clean myself up, and it helped (but not as much as the drugs). The point is, we have to work with what we've got; I am 5' 1" with a slightly large, Jewish nose; I will never be a supermodel, or an excellent basketball player.
I turned forty this year, and there was no drama in this for me. I am in pretty good shape, and have not much to complain about physically. After bearing three children, I have varicose veins that give my inner thigh an unattractive, pulpy appearance, and my breasts hang like deflated balloons. (Trust me, I wear a very good bra.) The skin on the underside of my arms is starting to get a bit...flappy. My brow is furrowed from years of squinting in the sun (I have light blue eyes, and am blinded by sunlight. I literally can not see outside on bright sunny days without sunglasses, and it wasn't cool for a kid to wear sunglasses when I was growing up. I was the one in the outfield during softball games who dropped the ball headed right toward my mitt because I couldn't see a damn thing.)
But this is life. I do not want to be any younger. In fact, the thought of my younger self pains me, because it is was more or less haze of depression. With the help of a good therapist, a loving husband, psychoactive drugs (emphasis on the drugs), and yoga, I have come to make peace with myself. The older I get, the more I understand myself, and human nature, and this brings me great comfort. I think it helps to make me a pretty good mother.
I do not look forward to dying, and I hope it will not happen for a long, long time. I have told my children that I am planning to live to be 100. And while I know that many things are beyond my control, and may not go according to my wishes, I think it's important to have goals, and this is one of mine. I would very much like to know my great-grandchildren, and hope they will find me as interesting as I am sure to find them.
If live to be my 100-year old self, I hope to still be practicing yoga. I will most likely be somewhat hunched, and wrinkled, and white haired. I will not move at the pace I do now. Ailments will plague me more frequently, and will not heal as quickly. My hearing will not be as sharp as it is now, but I hope my mind will still be lively. Between now and then, I will experience my share of pain and sadness, but I hope to continue to have the strength to sit with it when necessary, and not distract myself from these essential facts of life.
So when I heard my mother treated herself to Restylane, it made me very sad for her, and all the women who do not realize how beautiful they are, just as they are
"I had some cosmetic surgery today," she told me.
"Oh," I replied, trying maintain a neutral tone of voice, "What did you do? "I got some Restylane injections. It's been something I've wanted to do for a long time, so I decided to treat myself."
"So, how does it look?" I asked.
"Well, it's hard to say right now, because of the bruising [WTF!!], so I haven't left the house today, but tomorrow I can cover it up with some make-up. I can't wait for you to see if you notice a difference."
My mother is a very attractive woman. She is 65, has a lovely figure, and is aging beautifully. She has beautiful skin. Strangers complement her on the loveliness of her complexion. (If I had a decent digital photo of her, this would be the place to insert it, but I don't. Sorry!) She is not a woman who needed, in the medical parlance, dermal fillers.
Although this is not an original thought, I think cosmetic surgery is a sad fraud perpetrated by the beauty, and medical industries, which preys on people with low self-esteem, to distract us from the unpleasant, unavoidable truth, that WE ALL GET OLD AND DIE.
I am a yoga teacher, and while it there is truth to the notion that happiness comes from within, it is equally true that yoga works from outside in. Appearances are important, and how we present ourselves can go along way toward making us feel better about ourselves. It was a revelation to me, during a bout of postpartum depression after the birth of my second child, when I looked at myself, unshowered and in sweatpants, and decided it perhaps if I were to make a bit more effort, I might feel somewhat better. So I started to make it a priority to clean myself up, and it helped (but not as much as the drugs). The point is, we have to work with what we've got; I am 5' 1" with a slightly large, Jewish nose; I will never be a supermodel, or an excellent basketball player.
I turned forty this year, and there was no drama in this for me. I am in pretty good shape, and have not much to complain about physically. After bearing three children, I have varicose veins that give my inner thigh an unattractive, pulpy appearance, and my breasts hang like deflated balloons. (Trust me, I wear a very good bra.) The skin on the underside of my arms is starting to get a bit...flappy. My brow is furrowed from years of squinting in the sun (I have light blue eyes, and am blinded by sunlight. I literally can not see outside on bright sunny days without sunglasses, and it wasn't cool for a kid to wear sunglasses when I was growing up. I was the one in the outfield during softball games who dropped the ball headed right toward my mitt because I couldn't see a damn thing.)
But this is life. I do not want to be any younger. In fact, the thought of my younger self pains me, because it is was more or less haze of depression. With the help of a good therapist, a loving husband, psychoactive drugs (emphasis on the drugs), and yoga, I have come to make peace with myself. The older I get, the more I understand myself, and human nature, and this brings me great comfort. I think it helps to make me a pretty good mother.
I do not look forward to dying, and I hope it will not happen for a long, long time. I have told my children that I am planning to live to be 100. And while I know that many things are beyond my control, and may not go according to my wishes, I think it's important to have goals, and this is one of mine. I would very much like to know my great-grandchildren, and hope they will find me as interesting as I am sure to find them.
If live to be my 100-year old self, I hope to still be practicing yoga. I will most likely be somewhat hunched, and wrinkled, and white haired. I will not move at the pace I do now. Ailments will plague me more frequently, and will not heal as quickly. My hearing will not be as sharp as it is now, but I hope my mind will still be lively. Between now and then, I will experience my share of pain and sadness, but I hope to continue to have the strength to sit with it when necessary, and not distract myself from these essential facts of life.
So when I heard my mother treated herself to Restylane, it made me very sad for her, and all the women who do not realize how beautiful they are, just as they are
submitted for your disapproval
Sometimes, you don't need the Onion, or the Daily Show, to find comedy in the news.
An Ohio woman and her lover were arrested for having sex in the front seat of the car, while the woman's two children were in the back seat.
And to think, all these years, I thought the back seat was was the place for fucking.
The money quote, from mom: "We got horny, and just wanted to fuck."
On the one hand, EEEW, what were you thinking? (See above.)
But when I take off my judgmental hat (which is very hard to do, as it fits me so snugly by now), I can't help but be impressed by the strength of the libido of this mother of two small children--4 and 22 months. You go, girl?
An Ohio woman and her lover were arrested for having sex in the front seat of the car, while the woman's two children were in the back seat.
And to think, all these years, I thought the back seat was was the place for fucking.
The money quote, from mom: "We got horny, and just wanted to fuck."
On the one hand, EEEW, what were you thinking? (See above.)
But when I take off my judgmental hat (which is very hard to do, as it fits me so snugly by now), I can't help but be impressed by the strength of the libido of this mother of two small children--4 and 22 months. You go, girl?
18 May 2009
Busted
Sarah had a Spanish project due today. Although she knew about it for several weeks, I only learned about it last week, and not from her, but from another mother. Once I found out, I asked her about it, and then promptly forgot about it myself--my mind's been a bit of a sieve lately; I poured orange juice on Cocoa Puffs this morning--until Saturday, when she called said friend to play, only to find out she couldn't because she was too busy working on her Spanish project.
Ah, yes; shouldn't my daughter start working on that as well? When I told Sarah why her friend couldn't play, and asked how was the work on her Spanish project going, she coolly told me she was planning to do it on Sunday.
This is what was on our agenda for Sunday: Hebrew School, followed by a baptism (I like the ecumenism of this), then a visit from grandparents, as well as a guitar lesson.
I suggested perhaps Sunday might be a bit...crowded, and she should start now. She protested, she was busy, (playing Pop Tropica, I believe).
I asked to see the assignment, and after some rifling through folders, she pulled out a sheet dated April 27, and marked "second copy." (She'd lost the first.) Sarah is whip smart, but lacking in organizational skills. She is in fourth grade now, and I think she is old enough to be managing her school assignments. It is becoming apparent that she is not a natural at this, and I may need to intervene a bit more.
So, after some light maternal coercion, she got to work.
She may resemble me, but this mindset is exactly how my husband is wired. He was the kind of student who got high before high school with his friends (it pains me as a mother to think about this), arrived at school to discover he was taking a standardized test, and still did brilliantly. While I am glad she is confident in her intelligence, and doesn't stress about completing assignments, as her mother, I do feel strongly that you still have to DO said assignments.
I, on the other hand, was a classic over-achiever, and could have had a much more relaxing time during my school years, and possibly skipped graduate school altogether, because it wasn't until I was three-quarters of the way through with my PhD that I realized I was actually a fairly smart cookie, and perhaps I needn't have gone to all the trouble, not to mention stress, of getting this degree just to prove it to myself? But, I was so close to finishing, so I did.
Sarah pulled together the bulk of the assignment in roughly an hour (complete with much drama), and I let her go outside and play.
Later in the afternoon, my next-door neighbor, who is a passionate gardener, mentioned to me that she had almost enlisted Sarah's help with some composting. I replied that it was a good thing she hadn't, as Sarah had had to work on this Spanish project. My neighbor then told me that it was Sarah who had offered to help with the gardening, stating specifically that she had this project and she didn't really feel like doing it, and was "looking for ways to procrastinate." (WTF?)
As a consequence for this lackadaisical attitude, I took away Sarah's recreational computer privileges for the week. This is a particularly effective punishment right now, as she is just beginning to discover the pleasure of emailing and g-chatting with her friends.
But the best part of the story came later in the evening. David and I went out to see The Shins, and at one point I pulled out my phone to make sure our sitter hadn't called. Since I already had the phone out, I might as well check my email. (This is the charm of an iPhone; it does so many things, it is so damn irresistable. Here we are at a concert, and I'm CHECKING MY EMAIL?) In my inbox was a chain letter from Sarah. I was so amused by this that I turned to David, chuckling, and said "Hey, Sarah just got her first chain letter, and she forwarded it to me!"
It wasn't until we got home, and our sitter gave us a rundown of the evening, and she mentioned that Sarah had spent some time on the computer, that the bell went off. SHE'S NOT ALLOWED TO USE THE COMPUTER!
And so, my daughter, in learning about one of the Internet's many delights, hoist herself on her own petard.
Ah, yes; shouldn't my daughter start working on that as well? When I told Sarah why her friend couldn't play, and asked how was the work on her Spanish project going, she coolly told me she was planning to do it on Sunday.
This is what was on our agenda for Sunday: Hebrew School, followed by a baptism (I like the ecumenism of this), then a visit from grandparents, as well as a guitar lesson.
I suggested perhaps Sunday might be a bit...crowded, and she should start now. She protested, she was busy, (playing Pop Tropica, I believe).
I asked to see the assignment, and after some rifling through folders, she pulled out a sheet dated April 27, and marked "second copy." (She'd lost the first.) Sarah is whip smart, but lacking in organizational skills. She is in fourth grade now, and I think she is old enough to be managing her school assignments. It is becoming apparent that she is not a natural at this, and I may need to intervene a bit more.
So, after some light maternal coercion, she got to work.
She may resemble me, but this mindset is exactly how my husband is wired. He was the kind of student who got high before high school with his friends (it pains me as a mother to think about this), arrived at school to discover he was taking a standardized test, and still did brilliantly. While I am glad she is confident in her intelligence, and doesn't stress about completing assignments, as her mother, I do feel strongly that you still have to DO said assignments.
I, on the other hand, was a classic over-achiever, and could have had a much more relaxing time during my school years, and possibly skipped graduate school altogether, because it wasn't until I was three-quarters of the way through with my PhD that I realized I was actually a fairly smart cookie, and perhaps I needn't have gone to all the trouble, not to mention stress, of getting this degree just to prove it to myself? But, I was so close to finishing, so I did.
Sarah pulled together the bulk of the assignment in roughly an hour (complete with much drama), and I let her go outside and play.
Later in the afternoon, my next-door neighbor, who is a passionate gardener, mentioned to me that she had almost enlisted Sarah's help with some composting. I replied that it was a good thing she hadn't, as Sarah had had to work on this Spanish project. My neighbor then told me that it was Sarah who had offered to help with the gardening, stating specifically that she had this project and she didn't really feel like doing it, and was "looking for ways to procrastinate." (WTF?)
As a consequence for this lackadaisical attitude, I took away Sarah's recreational computer privileges for the week. This is a particularly effective punishment right now, as she is just beginning to discover the pleasure of emailing and g-chatting with her friends.
But the best part of the story came later in the evening. David and I went out to see The Shins, and at one point I pulled out my phone to make sure our sitter hadn't called. Since I already had the phone out, I might as well check my email. (This is the charm of an iPhone; it does so many things, it is so damn irresistable. Here we are at a concert, and I'm CHECKING MY EMAIL?) In my inbox was a chain letter from Sarah. I was so amused by this that I turned to David, chuckling, and said "Hey, Sarah just got her first chain letter, and she forwarded it to me!"
It wasn't until we got home, and our sitter gave us a rundown of the evening, and she mentioned that Sarah had spent some time on the computer, that the bell went off. SHE'S NOT ALLOWED TO USE THE COMPUTER!
And so, my daughter, in learning about one of the Internet's many delights, hoist herself on her own petard.
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