Vacation, all I ever wanted...

Ahhhh...February Break. The long awaited week off from school that we teachers need more than students do (in my humble opinion) and that seems light years away during those long, dark days immediately upon returning from Christmas Break.

In early January, while prepping lessons, I fantasized about February break and how I would fill it up with absolutely nothing.

Towards the end of January, I could be found during most of my lunch periods Googling, "How To Sell Your Soul In Exchange For The Speeding Up Of Time."

As February blew in, I sat at my computer doing late night paperwork and dreaming of a whole week of not being enslaved to what looks like the triage board at an ER but is really our "Family Calendar". I weighed the advantages of not getting out of my jammies from one Saturday straight through to the next Saturday.

It FINALLY arrived. The day before vacation (a.k.a. Dooms Day in a middle school) came and went and upon the 3:30 dismissal there just might have been a flash mob to "Celebrate Good Times" in the faculty parking lot in the back of the school.

GIANT EXHALE. I made it. I drove home with great anticipation of running through the front door of our house and yelling, "IT'S FEBRUARY BREAK - LET'S ALL HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING!"

And then I remembered that I have two kids.

And then I was reminded that they have their own ideas for school vacation.

And then I was presented with...the...(feel free to insert a giant GASP! here for effect)...VACATION SCHEDULE.

And then a little piece inside of me died.

Here it is in it's rough, original form, as shown to me before I had even taken my coat off:

And here it is, 1 day into "vacation", presented in multiple forms, typed AND handwritten, AND with an attached map. Believe it or not, this is AFTER the "Remember kids, we need to be flexible, everyone has their own ideas for how we should spend this week off from school" talk (READ: Remember kids, your mom was hoping for a week of existing JUST ABOVE a coma.)

A bigger piece inside of me died.

I am trying to look at the bright side. They are focused kids, even when it comes to having fun. They like structure, even on vacation. They are organized, even with other people's time. They are never at a loss of things to do. They created and negotiated this together. They love 2nd grade and Kindergarten and see February Break as a week to fill with fun before they get to go back to school.

I sure am one lucky girl. L-U-C-K-Y lucky.

And to think, left to my own devices I would have wasted a whole week in my jammies.

What a ploy...

I hate plastic. With the exception of an ice cold plastic bottle of Cherry Pepsi and a Rubbermaid 18 Gallon storage tub (or 12)...God I love storage tubs, but I digress...

I hate most toys. With the exception of books and blocks and crayons, but are books and crayons even really "toys"? I mean if you gave an underprivileged child whose name you picked off a fake tree in Walmart the day before Christmas Eve a big box full of books and crayons, would they REALLY think Santa came through with "toys" that year? I'm just sayin'.

I REALLY hate plastic toys. Most plastic toys, or "ploys" as I call them, either blink or beep (or worse, they do both) and a blinking, beeping plastic toy is guaranteed a spot on the "Top 10 Gifts To Give Your Neighbor Whose Mailbox Is The Kind That Looks Like It Was Made By Little Tykes" list. Most ploys break...

a) upon trying to get them out of the 600 twist tie wraps that hold them prisoner to their plastic packaging, ("plackaging" if you please)

or

b) within 3 minutes of your daughter finally getting her hands on them to play with after you've spent an afternoon slicing and dicing your knuckles on the 600 twist ties...you get it.

Occasionally, only if you are lucky, a ploy will break upon stepping on it, while others are apparently made out of the plastic they use to make prosthetics. For the Hulk. Not to mention, ploys seem to reproduce faster than two 'tween rabbits in this house (for the record I DO NOT know how fast 'tween rabbits would reproduce in this house and I WILL NOT be finding out anytime soon, but I DO know that if left alone in our playroom with the door only slightly ajar, Barbie and Ken Duggar would bury me alive in their plastic offspring.)

If I had to do it all over again, I would put my foot down early. When asked what type of a Baby Shower I would like, I would reply, "Anyone that brings a plastic toy will be dead to me. And my baby." I would not only ban ploys from my own house, I would forbid anyone to offer ploys to my children on play dates, at school, or at birthday parties in an effort to keep them sheltered from the insanity. I would do my research so that at Mom's Groups I could quote studies that Chinese manufacturers lace plastic toys with meth (and then I would watch all the desperate, sleep deprived moms lick the Lights & Sounds Ball Popper.) I would hold my head high as I revealed that I had brought my own 18 Gallon Rubbermaid storage tub full of "safe" toys for the gathered children to play with. I would smile and nod pretentiously while all the other mothers ooh'ed and aww'ed at how engaged their children were with my tub full of wood scraps and washcloths. I would answer (with just a slight tone) questions like, "Do you attribute the lack of plastic in their lives to both of your children's obviously advanced intellect?" and I would be the mom that finds joy and delight in paying three times as much for a birthday gift solidly made from earth friendly and rejuvenating bamboo to be given to a child that my son has only known for three weeks and only sometimes remembers his name. It would be glorious, my ploy-free life. A girl can dream.

So this week when my newly obsessed Star Wars fan asked me if he could buy Star Wars figures with his Christmas money, my immediate answer was, "Don't we have enough plastic figures around this house to play Star Wars with?" His reply, "But we dont have any STAR WARS figures to play Star Wars with." My reply, "Do you REALLY need Star Wars figures to play Star Wars? Back in my day we used wood scraps and washcloths. And our imagination."

Under protest, here is his Jedi Knight Council.

Next you see his very evil looking Darth Maul, perched on high and yielding a pink light saber in one hand and a mini light saber in the other.

And here you'll observe the child of some poor sucker of a mom allowing her son to be swept into the funnel cloud of ploys when clearly any child with half a brain can save the universe with a pink paddle saber from their sister's Fisher Price Outdoor Fun set. (Note: The child's face is not revealed in an effort to shield this anonymous mom from the embarrassment of her wavering parenting moment.)

Lastly, we observe a young man playing with his new, coveted Star Wars ploys, the ones he held closely all the way on a road trip to Northern Vermont and is happily playing with in the hotel room while on vacation.

Some parents are just so weak.

Sleep Tight

It occurred to me, as I knelt down on her bedroom floor to kiss her goodnight, that tonight's sleeping arrangements are a metaphor for the way most "deals" in this house shake down for Courtney. What started as, "Wanna sleep in the same room tonight, Courtney?" quickly morphed to, "Please be careful while lugging all my pillows from my room to yours, Courtney" to the final, "Try not to lay right in the middle of YOUR floor in case I need to get up to go to the bathroom, Courtney."

Sigh.

It takes all I have not to interject and demand that she assert herself, but I have traveled that familiar road many a time and each time it leads the same sweet child and the same jackass to the same dead end. Following my enraged outburst of, "DO NOT LET HIM TREAT YOU LIKE THAT!" she doesn't even hesitate...

"It doesn't really matter to me."

If there is one thing I can not bear (Riiiiiggggghhhhht....like there is JUST one thing, but play along with me here to keep the momentum going), it is a martyr. I am like a bloodhound when it comes to Woe Is Me-ers and I can sniff one out within two city blocks...or two chairs at a committee meeting...or two seats at my in laws dinner table. So the first time my sweet three year old gave me the ol' 1,2 "It Doesn't Really Matter To Me" upon changing seats with her brother at a restaurant, I was ready to put out that fire before it began burning. I launched, with water barrels blazing, into my late mother's famous "Die Or Get Off The Cross, Jesus Because No One Can Stand A Martyr" lecture, SURELY something a toddler can not only understand, but can fully appreciate. I kept at this approach for the past three years, hell bent and determined to not raise a daughter who would be walked over. Who would say "yes" when she was really thinking "HELL, NO." Who would be up past midnight sorting and distributing candles from a fundraiser at a school her kids don't even go to.

It never occurred to me that maybe it REALLY doesn't matter to her (If you haven't already, I am sure you can now make the connection between who is the jackass and who is the sweet girl.)

It seems to me that sibling relationships are the boot camp of training before one enters the real world of complex relationships. Kind of a YELL IN YOUR FACE endurance exercise meant to toughen you up before complex combat. If this theory of mine is true, then I am pretty sure we've got one well trained defense attorney (or used car salesman) to offer the world and one member of the UN all ready to go.

And it really doesn't matter to her if she is seated at the table next to Switzerland or Zimbabwe.

Overhead in my kitchen tonight...

Courtney (after coming in from playing outside since Tuesday): Can I have some hot chocolate?

Mark: Sure.

Courtney: But not TOO hot. And not TOO cold.

Mark: Sure.

Courtney: Remember last time I had hot chocolate, it was too cold. That was cold hot chocolate. This time can I have warm hot chocolate?

Mark: Sure.

Courtney: I think I want two ice cubes in it this time instead of five. Maybe three. Can I have three ice cubes today?

Mark: Sure.

Courtney: This time instead of cold hot chocolate I want it to be hot cold chocolate. Can I have hot cold chocolate?

Mark: Sure.

Courtney: But with three ice cubes because that will make my hot cold chocolate warm chocolate not cold hot chocolate.

Mark: Sure.

Courtney: Daddy, can I make it myself?

Mark: ABSOLUTELY.

Our Two Turkeys

Today was Crazy Hat Day at The Beav and the Renauds represented with two poultry products.

When asked how his day went, Christopher replied, "It was okay, but I kinda got sick of people asking me if they could eat my chicken wing. Each teacher thought that they were the first person to ask me that and that it was a really funny question. After the third person I stopped telling them that it is actually a TURKEY and decided to just laugh my little fake laugh."

Today's lessons:

1) Know your poultry. Know your fowl humor.

2) Life's not easy for the wearer of a turkey roast.

If you had already learned these two life lessons, CONGRATULATIONS! You are apparently way ahead of most of the faculty at Beaver Meadow Elementary School.

And you are just weird.

Winter Sporting

Borrowing the idea from her BFF Maddie, Courtney decided that her American Girl doll felt like ice skating after dinner tonight. Julie in her crisp new white skates and Courtney in her coach's attire set out for the small patch of ice left in our backyard. On the far right you can observe Julie sticking the landing of a Triple Putz.

Out of nowhere a mysterious fellow appears and our American Girl sweetheart is down, clutching her knee...

"WHY ME?!?! WHY?!?! WHY?!?!"

Scandal rocks the doll skating world.

Out of balance

This afternoon, to enjoy a balmy February afternoon, Courtney and I took our YorkiePoo puppy out for a walk. Well, I walked. Cupcake yanked. And Courtney scootered.

Courtney was trying out her "new" (thanks, Santa!) Light-up Razor Scooter for the first time. She was so excited to get on that thing, first spinning the wheels by hand to be sure the light up sparkle effect made from turning the wheels met her approval. Satisfaction achieved. At the end of the driveway, she stepped on, diligently testing out which foot worked better as the "rider" and which foot was the better "pusher".

Upon decision that left rode and right pushed, we were off.

It was a great "winter" day to be outside. We even heard some confused birds chirping AND the dog pooped (rather than her usual routine of holding it the entire walk only to come in and leave us a surprise on the rug.) The sun was shining. And the new scooter and it's driver were scootering. If you could call it that.

If I had been walking backwards...on my hands...blindfolded...I STILL would have been WAY in the lead. At one point, I stopped and turned around to see that beauty of a 6 year old, full of excitement, determination, and energy teetering along, at a generous clip of 0.0002 mph. Her wide smile and bright eyes were reminiscent of the faces of women as they sprint across the finish line of a world record race. And if The Slowest You Can Move A Razor Scooter Without Gravity Tipping It Over were a world record race, she would have triumphantly won too.

She was so proud of herself on that thing. So full of heart. So full of awesome.

Gravity did win once. She tipped over and upon brushing off her knees she confidently explained, "I know why I fell just then, Mom. I stopped smiling for a minute so I lost my balance."

As we arrived home 6o minutes and 1/8 of a mile later, Courtney noticed that the wheels on the scooter weren't lighting up. She had not been going fast enough for the damn sparks to sparkle. In that very moment, when she looked at those dull wheels with confusion, I swear I could have put my hands around the neck of Mr. Razor and not been responsible for what happened next. Instead I tried my best to pull together an explanation of the physics of the situation.

"The thing is Courtney, the wheels have to spin around at a certain velocity to produce energy to..."

"I think it only lights up and sparkles when it is nighttime."

"I think you are exactly right, Courts."

Who could argue with a girl whose smile keeps her so well balanced?

The Phantom Menace

There are nights when I think my 8 year old son is really quite bright. Inquisitive. Deductive. Interested. Quick. And then there are nights like tonight.

Bedtime has never been an issue in the Renaud Household. I remember when the kids were bitty and we had a gate across the bottom of the stairs. Many a night, about 7:00 pm, one of the kiddos would stand at the gate, take hold of it, and rattle it like a death row inmate yelling, "ME GO BED NOW!"

My two munchkins are good sleepers, and believe me, I am ETERNALLY grateful for that. I don't think it has anything to do with anything Mark or I did or didn't do, nor do I think that anyone that has a child that doesn't sleep well did or didnt do something to make them that way, I just think my children happened to get the message loud and clear real early on: If you like food, then you like a rested mom. This seems to have worked for the past 8 years, although both EARLY risers, they are both one step shy of being Put Yourself To Bed kids (and that last step is the good night tuck in/kiss that I hope to NEVER let go of.)

So when either one of them makes the occasional call from their beds for a drink of water or "one last question" I can usually muster up the energy to politely oblige.

After reading If I Ran The Zoo to both of them tonight (now if that isn't irony, I don't know what is), I promptly tucked each child in, kissed each forehead, and turned out two lights. I came downstairs to throw my body into the recliner for the "Job well done today, Tracy" pep talk I give myself most nights to help me get through the upcoming hours of regrouping from the day's events and prepping for the next day's events. Within minutes, I heard Christopher's footsteps tapping down the stairs. Here's how it went from there:

ME: What's the matter, Bud? You okay?

(read: PLEASE God, tell me he didn't puke, at least not ALL over his bed. Let

there still be room for him to sleep until I have the energy to do something

about it.)

HIM: I am scared.

ME: Oh no. What are you scared of?

HIM: Myself.

ME: Yourself? Hmmmm. Can you give me a little more information?

HIM: After you kissed me good night, I found my flashlight and was using it to read my Star Wars Character Encyclopedia. Then I tried to fall asleep but my mind is now playing Jedi mind tricks on me. It is telling me to breathe like Darth Vader, but his breathing is scaring me.

ME: You mean YOUR breathing is scaring YOU?

HIM: NO. Darth Vader's breathing.

ME: That you are breathing?

HIM: Yes.

ME: Maybe you should just stop breathing.

HIM: Good Idea. Good night.

Brilliant.

For the record...I DID check on him a little while later to be sure he was indeed breathing. And I most certainly DID NOT tiptoe into his room and whisper into a sleeping child's ear, "Luke, I am your father."

It might have been a little louder than a whisper.

Valentines Day 2012

Two Heads Are Better Than One

There are times when I am mystified by the things I see/hear/smell in my household. I tell myself that it MUST be normal, par for the course of Motherhood, and that every mother most certainly opens the toilet seat and yells, "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?" or wonders to herself, "Hmmmm, interesting that someone from the evolutionary branch of 'mankind' would think that it was a good idea to put ______ (insert odd noun) into the _______ (insert odder noun)?"

Most times I can I chalk up whatever peculiar discovery I uncover to being the lone Captain steering a Ship of Fools in often choppy seas, but it is always right about then that something even I find mystifying appears. Tonight as I prepared dinner, I browsed through this month's Martha Stewart Living magazine as I waited for the oven to preheat. I turned away from one counter and towards the other to grab a bag of Sun Chips (please note: they were bought only to be put in the kid's lunches and I was only reaching for them to read the nutritional label) and VIOLA!

There she was.

Some might be tempted to ask, "What happened to this poor doll?" Others, "Why two heads and only one nuked (as my kids call it) body?" Some others, "Who committed this awful crime?"

Not me.

I just figured that THIS is what happens to women when they peruse one too many Martha Stewart magazines drooling over the wide open, sparsely decorated, stainless steel shiny, obviously child-less, deep cherry cabinetry kitchens. They climb into a basket full of potato chips and behead themselves. Twice.

Can you see me now, Nana?

Today is the day. I am taking the kids to church.

I have thought about taking the kids to church on and off for about...well...8 years. Usually these thoughts crept into my head after one of two events had occurred:

1) Prior to my Nana passing away, I could count on a visit with her beginning and ending in the same way. That 4'11" ball of fire, wearing a cross the size of her head, would bark, "TRACY JILL! YOU MUST BE TRYING TO TORTURE ME. GET THOSE KIDS TO CHURCH SO I CAN DIE IN PEACE. AND GET ME A DIET COKE, THE BALL GAME IS ON!"

2) An uncomfortable conversation arises with the kids...the kind of conversation that makes me want to throw them in the car, drive to the nearest religious establishment (church, synagogue, wiccan dance circle), drop them off and yell, "HELP! THEY HAVE QUESTIONS!" as I speed away.

Here are a few examples of such conversations:

"What is a 3 letter word for a big boat?"

"Ark"

"What's an ark?"

"Honey, surely you know what an ark is. You know, the story in the bible when Noah loads the pairs of animals..."

"What's a Bible?"

CRAP.

"If Grammy Kristal is in Heaven, I hope we can all go there really soon. Well, after Disney."

GULP.

"In the Berenstain Bears book it said, 'God is always watching' but I am sure even he has to take a vacation. Especially after delivering all those presents with Santa."

UGH.

"Is the Jesus in the hay bed the same as the 'Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?' that you always say?"

JESUS CHRIST. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

And the clincher...

"Mommy, I am sad that EVERYONE else knew Grammy Kristal but me. It's not fair."

WE'RE GOING TO CHURCH TOMORROW. (Followed by an uncomfortable "What's church?" Sheesh. Give me a break, kid.)

So to church we go. The two kids and I are up, we're dressed, and we're ready. Well, they are ready. They have NO IDEA what they are ready for. I have had to clarify that "Nope, there will not a flower girl today" and "Nope, no one died" and "Nope, your father will not be joining us" (I refrained from explaining that their father has some serious objections to organized religion, for example, "People get up there and sing their hearts out and no one even claps" and other deeply rooted theological arguments.)

Off we go. Take note Nana. I hope you have your Diet Coke ready because this could be even better than any (recent) ball game...

My attempt at "blogging"...

We'll see how this goes...if it is anything like the elaborate Chronicle Every Minute of Your Baby's Life Baby Book I bought just before Christopher was born and recently added to the "Spring Yard Sale" pile, eight years from now I will re-reading this one post and thinking, "What the hell was I thinking?"