spark

screen time, data, and problem solving - a learnable moment

Screen time is kindof a big deal in our house. There is whining. There is fighting. There is begging. There is complaining. 

Can I have screen time?
When will it be screen time?
I didn't get screen time!
He's hogging the computer!
I want the TV first!
I never get a turn on the iPod! 

I tried setting a specific time for video media. I tried allowing free access to video media. I tried giving each person a time limit. I tried deciding for them whose turn it is. I tried letting them decide. No luck.

Then, when all three of them preferred sitting in front of a screen to going outside or playing with one of their many toys, I was at my limit. Hearing "I'm booooored" whenever they weren't playing a video game was irritating. It was taking over our lives. It was preventing them from being the masters of their own fun and from being active and imaginative. 

Enough, already!

So, I decided - unilaterally, which is rare around here - that there would be ZERO screen time Monday through Thursday. None. It's too hard to have playdates and spontaneous outings and after-school activities and homework time and dinner without also worrying about fitting in video media and making sure it's all perfectly fair or hearing whining when there wasn't time for it that day. So we're just not doing it, and on weekends, there will only be screen time when it works with everything else. If you didn't get any that day, then you must have had an awesome, active day. This met some resistance among the troops, but they immediately rediscovered the yard and their toys. They got along better. They found their sense of creativity. They stopped talking about nothing but video games. I was encouraged by the quick success of this plan (although we're back to detoxing again after too much screen time during three weeks of winter break - but it will be better soon).  

The one continuing issue is this: how do we manage screen time itself, when we have it? The whining and fighting continued over what's fair and who had more time. I would ask them to work it out themselves, but they didn't. Or couldn't. I would ask for a plan ahead of time, but again, this was beyond their capacities. 

Then I had an epiphany: I told them that screen time would be available at 3pm and last until 5pm that afternoon, but only if they first presented me with a written plan delineating who would be doing what and when. I anticipated some pushback and procrastination and was pleasantly surprised that instead, they started working on a schedule immediately. 

Griffin took the lead, gathering his brothers together and collecting information. I heard him in the studio, asking each brother whether or not he was interested in each available media form, and I knew just what he was doing. I peeked in and it was confirmed: my logic-loving kid was making tables and laying out the data in front of himself. The child was born to work with arranging facts and numbers. (One of his brothers added smiley faces.)

 

 

When each kid had answered his survey questions, Griff read off the results: "So, I'm interested in using the computer to play Pirate 101 and Wizard 101 and Minecraft, Reese wants to play Danball and Minecraft on the computer and Minecraft on the iPod, and Xander wants to play Minecraft on the computer and Lego Star Wars on the TV." The younger kids confirmed that this was, in fact, the case. 

A few minutes later he came to me with this chart, representing their plan:

 

On the previous page, he had started working out how many minutes each could have on the computer - it looks like he estimated 50 minutes, worked it out and realized that it was too much, stepped down to 45, same thing, then arrived at the conclusion that 40 minutes each would add up to 120 minutes, or two hours. He assigned 40 minutes to each brother for the computer, then was a little stuck on how to divide up the other time and media opportunities. I pointed out that this chart accurately assigned 40 minutes of computer time to each brother, but did not tell me who would have the first turn, the second turn, and the third turn, or what times they would be using other devices. I suggested that perhaps a schedule chart showing what each child would start playing at 3pm, 3:30, etc (or other times, as he could determine) would solve our dilemma. He went back to work. I left him working with Reese and Xander on forming consensus on the order of turns for the computer.

Unfortunately, the scheduling task quickly became frustrating, and his worksheet ended up balled up and thrown across the room. I retrieved the paper and we looked at it together. He had worked out that 40-minute intervals resulted in start/end times of 3:00pm, 3:40, 4:20, and 5:00. But how to work out what to put in each time slot? 

 

 

He declared that he needed to use a computer to lay out the data for himself, and I advised that Google Docs, which he wanted to use, was probably not as easy to use with tables as drawing the tables. I suggested that he approach the problem like sudoku (which he has loved and excelled at since age 5), filling in the easier spaces first and working up to the harder ones, which would become easier as the table was filled in. He didn't want to keep balling up paper, and I asked if using another writing implement, such as pencil, might feel easier. The idea of working in pencil felt satisfactory to him, and I could see him relax a bit.

Since he felt stuck on the table, I re-drew the same schedule that he had drawn, but bigger. We agreed that nothing needed to go into the 5pm space because that was when they should stop, so I drew a stop sign in each block. That left 9 blocks to fill. I mentioned that we didn't have to go straight across a row or down a column. Why not start with the computer, since that was the easiest to divide three ways?

Suddenly it seemed as if he could see a path, and he was able to fill in who was first, second, and third for the computer by finding the intersection of their name with the first, second, or third time slot. The schedule and the concept of scheduling was starting to make more sense to him. Which was the next-easiest thing to divide up and assign? He determined that it was the iPod, after which filling in TV slots was simple. We decided that if somebody didn't want to use their assigned item, they could trade with another person, which would be uncomplicated now because it was clear who had priority on which electronic device. 

And voila! A schedule was made! Peace rested over us (at least as far as talking about screen time went) because everybody could see that they would get a turn and when, and they felt reassured that turns were divided fairly. I accepted their plan and posted it on the refrigerator. I let Griff know how impressed I was by his leadership and his ability to think through the problem on paper. 

Come screen time, everybody knew what to expect. No fights. No "it's not fair!" or "he always gets to go first!" The magic of laying out our data clearly. 

Griff and I agreed that I should blog this, because it seems like a breakthrough idea for us and maybe another family might be interested in solving a similar situation this way. I imagine it could be applied to a variety of sibling dilemmas. It's also interesting to think about the steps that Griffin took to solving the problem.

At first, I was thinking about this as a "teachable moment," but then realized that it wasn't about teaching, it was about learning - a learnable moment. Griff arrived at new ways of thinking about time, and he learned some scheduling skills - no easy feat, considering how much trouble his dad sometimes has creating on-call schedules for his practice. He had the opportunity to exercise consensus-building strategies among his siblings, and to look at new ways of solving frustrating problems. He had the gratification of knowing that all of the answers came from him; I had provided nothing but support and had not dictated any of the scheduling. I had the opportunity to see his mind at work and to appreciate his methods, which were different from what mine might have been, and ultimately very effective. I also got to stay out of the decision-making, which is important to me because I want the kids to handle as many of their issues among themselves as possible, for the sake of their growing minds and my mental health. The younger boys were able to witness this process and learn by example how to handle a sticky turn-taking situation. We all got to enjoy a nice, drama-free afternoon. 

I'll be on the lookout for other family issues that might be solved in a similar way. We are all happiest here when we grasp the learnable moment and enjoy the results. 

i'm mommy and i know it

Somewhere along the way, my five-year-old heard the song "I'm Sexy and I Know It," and it made an instant impression on him. I don't think I even gave the song much thought until I heard him singing the title line, stuck on repeat. The kid has a knack for hearing songs and playing them back to us later. He is almost always singing. 

My first reaction was to think that, ugh, do I really need my five-year-old to know the word "sexy"?  And then I wondered, what does he think it means? And could I really stop him from knowing that word, anyway? And then I decided not to worry about it. I'll save my worry for explicitly sexual and/or misogynist lyrics. This one goes in the "mostly harmless" category.

This morning, I was helping Griffin figure out the screen time schedule (a new breakthrough about which I will write soon), and Xander walks in singing. When I tuned in to him, I realized he was singing, "You're sexy and you're mommy." This made me laugh, and then I wondered again, what does that mean to him?

Me: "I'm sexy and I'm mommy?"

Xander: "Yup."

Me: "What does sexy mean?"

Xander: "It means very, very pretty."

Me: "So I'm very, very pretty?"

Xander: "No."

Me: "What am I, then?"

Xander: "A little bit pretty."

Me: "Oh, so sexy means really pretty, but I'm just a little bit pretty."

Xander: "Yup."

Gotta love that candor.

Now, I might get my nose out of joint about this, or lecture him about insulting people by telling them that they're not terribly pretty, just a little bit pretty, but the thing is, he's five, and he's just honest. To him, I'm not sexy. I'm mommy. I'm pretty enough for him to admire, not pretty enough for him to fall head over heels in love. Which is fine, because I'm mommy. 

This is a normal kid thing. He's learning what pretty is, how our society defines it, how he defines it. He's learning (slowly) about tact and social appropriateness. I'm fairly certain that ten years from now, he will not be telling some girl or boy that they're pretty, but not that pretty. Or maybe he will, and he'll get a talking-to from him/her and their friends, and he'll learn something.  

It's too easy to take offense to the blunt things our kids say to us. But I know what this song is really saying - that sexiness isn't about being tanned and toned or a fantastic dancer with perfect hair. It's about confidence. It's about being yourself and trusting that that is all you need to be. I'm sexy, and I know it. And I also know that with time, my kiddo will explore what pretty and sexy mean, and with his feminist, question-everything mom, I think he'll come up with a similar conclusion. I'm content to be his "little bit pretty" mom.

How do you feel when your kids comment on your appearance? How confident are you in yourself and in them?

be like water

While browsing in a Kennebunk gift shop, the mug caught my eye. "Be like water," the small white text on its side read. At that moment, in the middle of a long Maine vacation, it evoked other phrases like "go with the flow." Be easygoing, be open to whatever happens, allow yourself to drift on the current.

Although I didn't really need yet another coffee mug, I allowed myself to be seduced by the charm of the color and the phrase and the smooth feel of the cup in my hand, and left the shop with it nestled in tissue in a bag hanging off my arm. 

Once home in Virginia again, I filled it with warm, creamy coffee and sat in my living room with a book. Griffin approached, read the mug, and asked what it meant. Rather than tell him what I thought, I asked him what water is like, and how a person might have qualities like the water. He recalled a time last summer when the current in the James River nearly swept him away, and answered that water is strong, so being like water must mean to have strength. 

It interested me how his first thought was so different from mine, and I considered how many characteristics water might embody. While unpacking a box of vacation paraphernalia that afternoon, I uncovered some beach cobbles - rocks smoothed by centuries of being tossed in the waves. Each is different - speckled granite eggs, sparkling mica-flecked stones, pebbles cris-crossed with bands of contrasting minerals. If I were to take a lesson from these, it would be that water is persistent. It works slowly, over time. It does not tire. It is always present, sometimes ebbing, sometimes flowing, but as constant as the cycles of the moon.

I wrote these thoughts down and left them for a while. Then, today, while reaching for a cup for my coffee, I saw the mug again, and wondered what it might mean to me today. It is the day before Thanksgiving, and I just finished making the brine in which I will soak our turkey overnight, after the mixture has steeped and cooled. Brine is water full of delicious things that mingle together to make something savory and wonderful. It imparts its flavor to the turkey and makes it juicier, more delectable. How can I be like this water, the brine? I could fill myself with good things - new skills, self-care, good thoughts - and then let them percolate for a while before imparting the other people with whom I connect. What flavor do I want to give the world around me? This is especially appropriate as the holiday season begins, because I'm starting a small initiative that I'm calling "Comfort and Joy," the purpose of which is to make the world a less stressful, friendlier place through small practical acts of consideration for others. (Stay tuned for more about that or look for #ComfortAndJoy on Twitter.)

In the weeks and months and years to come, I know that this mug will continue to provoke meditation upon the many things to be learned from water. 

Be like water.

What does it mean to you, today?

resurrection

“The moment a woman comes home to herself, the moment she knows that she has become a person of influence, an artist of her life, a sculptor of her universe, a person with rights and responsibilities who is respected and recognized, the resurrection of the world begins.” ~Joan Chittister

flesh, sacredness, and exposure

I recently became aware of local artist Susan Singer because she has been collaborating with Valley Haggard, whom I know through our preschool community; Susan is painting Valley, and Valley has been writing about the experience.  Their combined works will be part of a show next February featuring the efforts of four such artist pairs.  

Susan has been working exclusively on female nudes for the last year and a half, and says that the work leads her, rather than being chosen by her.  Last night, my friend Amy and I attended her talk at Visual Art Studio during this month's First Fridays Art Walk.  "Talk" sounds formal - really, she stepped forward, spoke for a moment about why and how she has created the Sacred Flesh series, then invited several of the models present to talk about their thoughts and experiences.  After this, she spoke again about her process, her motivation for this work, her desire to see a person and not their shape and also to represent the beauty of their shape.  

 

The woman pictured in Beauty with a Veil, II (above left) shared her thoughts about body love being the major chore of a woman's adulthood.  She is a luscious woman full of joy and sensuality, and this is reflected in the portraits Susan has painted of her.  The woman in Joyful, Joyful was not present yesterday evening, but Susan described her as a ballet dancer in her 80s who is just "over it" as far as bodily anxieties go.  She owns her powerful body, she has lived in it and enjoyed it and used it in ways that make her happy. 

Another model described her body as her "vehicle" and suggested that we all drive different vehicles, that their purpose is to get us where they're going, and why should we feel at all ashamed of the vehicle we drive?  What does the vehicle itself have to do with the person who we are? 

(At this point I feel like I need to acknowledge that many people do think that our bodies reflect who we are.  Character judgments related to a person's shape and size are common.  Our culture has a lot of baggage related to accepting our bodies, weight, and health...I would suggest that you check out the many resources the internet has to offer regarding the Body Acceptance / Health at Any Size movement.  All bodies have worth.  Health is an individual issue as unique as the body you live in. Our assumptions about beauty, size, and health are often inaccurate, even bigoted.)

Their words reminded me of how I fall in love with the physical beauty of friends while editing photos of them.  Most women I know feel like they are not attractive, or not photogenic.  I've had the opportunity to capture portraits of several friends lately, and without exception, I have found myself absolutely enthralled with how gorgeous they are, in both conventional and nonconventional ways.  So often women admonish me to "make them beautiful," and I wish I had the words to convey to them that I do not make anybody beautiful, that they are beautiful, and that the best photos of them are the ones in which we see who they really are - their genuine expressions, the work their body does, the things that matter to them.  It's not about shape or makeup or clothing or hair or even about a smile.  It's not about PhotoShop magic or what camera I use - it's the beauty that you bring.  I just harness photons as they bounce off of you.

And yet, as I said, most women whom I have photographed don't feel very beautiful.  Most of us are very defensive about our bodies, apologetic for them. We find reasons not to be photographed. We put our bodies down even while we see how beautiful all of our friends are in both conventional and non-conventional ways.  What makes us think that we don't look just as beautiful to them? Why can't we extend that grace to ourselves?  

Like most women, I struggle with accepting my body.  Even at age 17 with a slim size 4-6 hourglass figure and C cup breasts, I felt small-busted and thick-hipped, and not terribly pretty.  What's up with that?  And with that as a starting point, how is there ever any hope of my accepting myself at 35 and beyond, with an older, heavier, more broken-in body?  When Cheryl picked up my camera to snap these photos of me at a friend's house, I was annoyed and self-conscious.  I fully intended to delete them.  Actually, I did delete most of them, but kept these two.  While my body does not look the way I want it to, I know that in ten years I will probably look back and wonder what I was so insecure about, just as I look back now at photos of myself taken at age 25 or 15. I like the exuberance she captured, I like my laugh. I like the motion of the coin belt. And even in the fleshiness of my arms, there is beauty - I'm reminded of the arms of grandmothers and bakers.  Capable, domestic arms and hands.  

Susan mentioned that photographing models for her 12 Naked Men series was very different from working with women for Sacred Flesh.  While 10 men danced around to music in the buff and she documented them, she asked them what they like and don't like about their bodies.  They answered easily - I like my feet, I like my hands, I think my butt is cute, I guess my abs aren't so great. They didn't hesitate, it didn't change their demeanor during the photo session...there was no cost to them of observing and judging their own bodies, there was no cost to Susan in questioning them about their self-perceived physical plusses and minuses while simultaneously capturing them in photographs.  With women, on the other hand, there is a cost to thinking and talking about one's own body.  She quickly realized that asking women those questions while photographing them was not a good idea.  It changed their behavior.  Women's feelings about their bodies are much more deeply rooted, typically.  This does not mean that no men have deep insecurities about their bodies, just that on average, body image is a much more sensitive, emotional issue for women than it is for men.  

Likewise, nudity is more emotionally charged for women than perhaps it is for men.  The models talked about their experiences with sharing their photos and/or paintings with family members.  Some were proud and supportive. Others were...not so supportive.  One woman's oldest siblings were excited and full of positive comments, while her much-younger brother was creeped out. Another women's friends thought it was odd that her brother and husband both attended the gallery opening with her.  In another family, the matriarch instructed the woman who had posed to "just stop" and advised her that "we don't talk about sex."  Does nudity really equal sex?  Are breasts and bottoms really something we should be more ashamed of than hands and feet and faces? Is it really so horrible for a brother to acknowledge his sister's body? 

Two women (who did not speak at the gallery) had posed together for Susan, but then had second thoughts later.  Their concerns related to family reaction to their nudity and to job security.  They asked that their portrait not be shown, which, of course, was frustrating to Susan, who had worked hard on the painting. At the same time, she wanted to respect their desire for privacy.  Out of this conflict came an ingenious solution - the reworked piece she titled Mother and Daughter Jocks Bound by Caution.  

I know that caution well, and I felt haunted by it while I gazed upon so many images of women's bodies.  Three years ago, I posed for maternity portraits.  Some included clothing and some did not.  I really wanted to share them - I felt SO beautiful and wanted to celebrate that wonderful feeling - but I worried that releasing them into the world might have negative consequences. I worried that family members would disapprove, or that they would feel disturbed by seeing my nude form and would not be able to "unsee" the images that bothered them. I worried that seeing the images might change how people think of me. I worried that people might disparage my body behind my back. I ended up releasing only a couple of images. Two friends have seen all of the images. One, I know can handle it. The other, I wonder about.  

Shortly after my maternity session, I gave birth to Xander, and his birth was documented by my midwife's assistant, Therese, using my camera.  The photos tell an amazing story about a powerful and life-changing event.  I wanted badly to share these images because of their personal import and also because I know that there aren't enough images out there in the world showing normal, healthy, unhindered births.  And yet...would it bother people who know me to see me giving birth?  

I felt so torn over whether or not to make these images public.  I felt like the ethically right thing to do was to share them, to help normalize our ideas of maternity, birth, the female form.  And yet, I worried.  I feared.  I made image galleries and kept them private, sending them only to people who requested to see them.  

And yet...I've seen nude photos of a dear friend of mine.  Some of the photos are simple nudes, some are quite sensual, some are even quite sexual, but it hasn't changed my friendship with her in any negative ways.  If anything, the trust she gave to me and the beauty she showed me made our friendship stronger.   I've seen countless birth photos, and don't feel grossed-out by them. I've seen Susan Singer and several of her models standing next to their own self-portraits and had not a glimmer of oh my goodness, there are her boobs, now I know what she looks like under her clothing.  Not a glimmer.  And as for family members and nudity...I grew up with three brothers.  I've seen penises outside of a romantic context. It didn't change my comfort levels with my brothers and I'm not scarred for life. I even once ended up chatting with a dormitory hallmate of mine, who was a model for the art department of our college, while she was completely nude, and while it was certainly a unique experience, it felt refreshingly normal. So you know? If anybody is haunted by seeing me naked, if I don't have what they consider to be an ok body to show nude, that's their problem.  

After last night, I feel like hiding those images is hypocritical.  I will no longer hide them.  Just as Susan titled her own self-portrait, Yes, this is me, I say to you: this is me.  

(Gallery of maternity images by Angela Wright Photography)

And this is me:

(Gallery of birth photos, accompanied by Xander's birth story.)

I feel nervous about this choice, but I know it is the right choice, the bodies-are-beautiful choice, the nudity-is-not-shameful choice, the birth-is-normal choice.  Anybody who has issues with it might want to take a few moments to consider why the photos bother them, and whether they might challenge those feelings and try on a different perspective. Still, it's very strange to put these things out there in a world where bare flesh and bodily processes are looked on as something disgusting and shameful.  If you look, would you leave me a note?  

(Side note - I remembered writing a post about fat awareness but couldn't find it, and it turned out it was because I never published it.  I've remedied that now.)

don't be afraid

Spiders and beetles and slugs, oh my!  I often get freaked-out reactions when I share photos of insects and other creepy crawlies, and it's a shame.  Bugs present a window into some pretty cool science, and I suspect that being a bug-lover is also a good exercise in challenging first impressions and slowing down enough to watch, wait, and learn.  (One trend that points in the direction of people being all about the first impressions when it comes to bugs: ladybugs and butterflies are considered less icky than other bugs, and bugphobes will often let those two walk all over them, but not other flying insects or beetles.  Hmmm.)

The first time I saw a spider cricket, I think a rough representation of my reaction would be OMG YIKES WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING?!?!? They're freaky.  They look like some deformed science experiment gone wrong.   Now I live in a house that's full of 'em, and I know they're not harmful, and besides, I don't want my kids growing up seeing me freak out over innocent arthropods. Still, it's disconcerting when one of them jumps in your direction.  I'll admit, I don't want to touch them, and when I catch them, it's with a bug jar and lid, not with my bare hands.

Reese, however, is a lover of small crawly things, and adopts "pet" bugs now and then, which usually only remain in captivity for a few minutes before he lets them go.  He's amazingly gentle, yet firm: he picks them up and handles them decisively, but the bugs never seem to be in any danger from him.  It's an impressive aspect of a child who can also be full of uncontrolled, explosive energy.  Bugs seem to center him. 

So it came as no surprise the other day when I heard, "Mom, I caught a spider cricket!"  It wasn't his first cricket, not by a long shot.  

"How did you catch it?"

"In my hands."

"Where is it?"

"Right here."

(Oh. Um. Keep those hands closed, ok? I don't want it jumping on me.) 

Out loud: "Oh, is it jumpy? Is it dying? It's hard to catch the jumpy ones."

"It's not dying, he just likes me."

(Translation: it's probably near the end of its life if it's not jumping.)

He showed me the cricket, let it crawl over his hands, up his arms, onto his shoulders.  It got under him, but somehow did not get crushed.  We found it on his backside.  He scooped it back up in his hands.

Then he offered it to me.  

Oh, no.  No, no, no.  Here's where I'm a bug hypocrite: those things are creepy.  I don't wanna handle them!  

But the thing is, here's my five-year-old handling it like it's the sweetest, tiniest puppy in the world.  He's talking to the spider cricket, treating it like a welcomed guest.  I know, intellectually, that this thing will not harm me.  I want to be as unafraid as he is of this creepy thing that doesn't deserve the fear and loathing I hold for it.

So I reach out.  

And I take the spider cricket.

And it's really not bad at all.  It barely even tickles.  It's harmless.  I can do this. What have I been afraid of?

Eventually Reese asked to have the cricket back, and he and Xander set about building a Duplo house for it.  The cricket watched the construction from the safety of Reese's cupped hand.

"Let's show him around," Reese said, and proceeded to take the cricket on a tour of the neighborhood.

The tour mainly consisted of showing the cricket Reese's collection of glow-in-the-dark bats and an old airplane that used to belong to Reese's dad.  The cricket must have been impressed to the point of silence, since it didn't say anything.  It did, however, consent to take a ride on the plane:

(Crickets ride on the underside of planes, naturally.  This is why you cannot see it.  It was a short flight and the cricket seemed to enjoy it immensely, by which I mean it did not bail out, so the trip must not have been all that bad.)

Having seen all that the room had to offer and realizing that construction on the new guest house would be slow at best, the cricket went for a walk under the Lego table, and then... vanished.  

The next day, I put a pair of flats on and my right toe encounters something in the tip of the shoe.  I slip my foot back out, tilt the shoe, and OMGTHERESASPIDER.  I shriek.  Oh, wait, it's a spider cricket.  Probably Reese's dear little spider cricket.  

But it hops and I react skittishly, bat it away from my closet so that it won't hide in there again, and nearly kill it.  Then I scoop it up with a tissue and take it outside, where Reese greets it with delight and assures me that it absolutely is the same cricket.  

As if he can tell.  

Well, maybe he can.

And as for me, I'm working on it.  

257/365: adaptation

I had the privilege of taking some photos of my friend Heidi today to document her Metamorphosis project.  Heidi is an artist who works predominantly in fiber, and this project also incorporates a performance art aspect as she represents the often uncomfortable changes that a person experiences in the course of a marriage.  Of the hundreds of images I captured, this is my favorite, for its simultaneous awkwardness and gracefulness, the light on the vintage dress, and the glint of her wedding band.

Like many adaptations from one medium to another, my work is only a representation of hers.  In order to truly understand and appreciate this art, one must see the original.  About this piece, Heidi writes: "The metamorphosis of marriage can feel like being trapped, stretching and transforming a traditional shell. The wedding dress is a fixation on the past."

246/365: babies

We still call them "the babies," to differentiate them from "the big kids", their older siblings.  They'll probably always be the babies of our families.  Yet both of them entered their classroom today with utter self-confidence. 

Next week is the first official, full day of preschool.  I've been nonchalant all summer but suddenly I'm racked with anxiety.  I know it will all be ok (preschool mantra: I know this is hard, and I know you can do it), but the unknowns are killing me.  Will he really be cool with being there all morning without me? Will I disintegrate into a pile of mama crumbs after I drive away? 

I was going to suggest a coffee date for my fellow preschooly parents, but perhaps a wine bar would be a better venue for an adult playdate.  If anybody gets in our faces about it we can just tell them that it's happy hour in St. Petersburg.  Будем здоровы!*

 

*Budem zdorovy, "to our health"

245/365: preschooler

The parent launch meeting was last night and his classroom visit is tomorrow.  How can my baby be a preschool kid? 

Today we visited vital records because somebody forgot that Virginia doesn't just send you a child's birth certificate, you have to request it, and he was chatting up the other children in the place.  "I'm Xander.  I'm going to preschool.  I need a blue backpack for preschool." He's right, he does need a backpack.  Good thing he keeps me straight.  The third kid is a whole new animal: he knows the ropes, and he's got plans.  Four years ago when Griff started school at 3 1/2 I wasn't sure that either of us was ready for it. I couldn't believe anybody would send a two-year-old - a baby - to school five days a week.  Yet here I am, doing it. 

He's ready (BOY, is he ready).  I'm ready (ditto).  Let's do this thing.

241/365: wow

The crib has been dismantled after 7 1/2 years.  It wasn't in constant use - babies were in and out of our bed and there were times when the crib sat waiting for the next sibling - but it has been a fixture in our home since very shortly after Griffin was born. 

It's real, there are no more babies. The next couple of weeks are going to be ENORMOUS.  Tonight Xander sleeps in one of the twin-sized beds that I used as a child and that his brothers used before we had bunk beds and that my great-aunt used in my family's ancient history. Next week he visits his new preschool, the same one his brothers attend/ed.  The week after that, for the first time, all three children will be in school.  Sure, only for one day of that week, and two of them will only have a half day, but still: all three children will be in school. 

And just like that, one era ends and another begins.