Teach them young.

Yesterday I mentioned that Gracie had brought home a rather hefty book from the library. I looked it over and read bits and pieces to make sure it was still age appropriate (given that it was marked for a 4th/5th grade reading level), but I wasn’t too worried. See, Gracie and Ms. School Librarian are already close buds and I knew Ms. L. would already have checked on that.

It would be easy to assume that Gracie and Ms. Librarian grew close because Gracie runs through four or five library books a week – and I’m sure that’s part of it. Gracie always seems to have the new (to them) Magic Treehouse Mysteries before the other kids and I’m pretty sure Ms. L. is stashing them away for her favorite student. But it’s more than that: Gracie “works” in the library.

It took a bit of Q&A and lots of patient listening to get the entire story because for the many things I love about the girls’ elementary school, being proactive and telling parents about things is NOT one of them. So I found out when Gracie came home from school one day and said she had a job working in the library. I asked Gracie if she worked in the library because she was bored or if it was because she was always finished with her work first, and I was sort-of right. As part of the G&T program, each participating student volunteers in a selected areas of the school.  Older students help in the office, some students work in the computer lab, some in the cafeteria, and some volunteer in the library. Like Gracie. [Aside: While discussing the different stations a student could volunteer for, Bee declared her lifelong dream of becoming a Cafeteria Lady. "Because everyone is happy when they get food, Mom!" Riiiight. Sigh.]

I love with brilliance of 10,000 suns the fact that Gracie chose the library. I’m not surprised: the child does love her some books. I love that she instinctively gravitates towards what makes her happy instead of being all milktoast and just going where she’s randomly assigned. Orrrr seeking out the power she clearly also loves possessing and trying to stage a coup d’etat in the office, now that I think of it. But I also love it because I volunteered in any number of libraries when I was growing up. During budget cutbacks, we frequently lost our school librarian position. Our library wasn’t much to speak of anyway – maybe a 20×10 partition in the middle of the all-purpose room – but I remember my mom and the other PTA moms taking turns volunteering to take classes to the library to select books to borrow. Because my mom was frequently there, I got to stay behind and help re-shelf books. When I moved on to junior high and high school, I often took the bus to my former elementary school and re-shelved books and chose display books and volunteered at the library doing whatever else was needed. The countless hours I spent volunteering helped get me into college. And while I was in college, I had a paid internship at our central city library during the summers.

It’s nice that Gracie and her classmates are learning so young about the importance of volunteerism. The fact that Gracie’s face lit up when she discovered we had something in common…well, that was just priceless. Maybe if I’m very lucky, I can convince Bee that heart lies not with food, but with the light, the Good, the bookish.

When the book you chose means more than you thought.

Gracie came home the week before Thanksgiving break with a humongous book that was marked for 4th-graders. She instantly bombarded me with how cool the book was and that it was pictures and words together and the girl’s TEETH get knocked out and she gets braces and she talks about how sad her life is, but it’s FUNNY, MOM and did she mention how cool it was?

The book was Smile, a graphic novel by Raina Telgemeier. Gracie ate dozens of pages in single sittings. She devoured chapter after chapter and then would come and tell me again how much she adored this book. Gracie loves reading and the two of us will admittedly fight over who gets to read that night’s chapter book out loud, but this was new: Gracie had never disappeared to read more than her daily allotment so consistently; Gracie is just as happy read a chapter or two from six different books rather than sit and read one book in a single sitting. I was so happy. I savored the experience because I was sure it was the beginning of a new trend.

Folks, I had no idea how damn prescient that book was going to be.

Gracie came bouncing into the house last Wednesday morning full of good news. The girls’ dad had taken them to the dentist the day before for their teeth-cleaning. Gracie’s good news? Her 12-year-molars were coming in early. (To Gracie’s demented brain, that means she wins the race! Or something.) Her prize? She gets to go to an orthodontist sometime in the next six months because the kid needs a spacer to stretch the size of her teeny tiny jaw. She has no room for any new teeth.

My jaw just about hit the floor. The dentist has been preparing me for the possibility from the first time he saw Gracie’s mouth. Still, I can’t help thinking the very idea of stretching her bones isn’t a little bit barbaric. Why can’t we just pull two un- less important teeth to make room? I had two permanent teeth pulled when I was in 4th grade and had my braces installed. Worked just fine for me! (And if you think I’m not serious about asking the dentist and the othodontist that question, you’re nuts. It seems a viable – and cheaper – option.)

Still. Gracie’s jazzed. I explained to her finally that it meant she would need a spacer and I tried to explain what that was, with my own limited knowledge that is. I told her she might need braces and that’s when her smile finally faltered. “Will they hurt?” she asked. “Yes, probably at first,” I told her. “But your teeth will be nice and pretty and perfectly straight when everyone else is just getting their braces put on,” I finished.

It was the same line my mom used on me, small comfort in the middle of enormous amounts of pain. I am so thankful that Gracie read that book when she did because now she knows a lot more than she would have. I might even pick up a copy so I can make the right references to help my baby out. Just as long as we get to skip the step where she knocks out her two front teeth.

Feeling all White Rabbitish.

When my alarm clock went off this morning, I had no idea what was going on. Give a girl 10 days off from life and she forgets everything, apparently. Even the most basic, bane-of-her-existence type things like, say, the function of her alarm clock.

Eventually I remembered what the heck it was and how the frick to shut it off and what time really I was supposed to get up (silly snooze buttons). Then I remembered how hard it is to get sleepy little childrens ready for school and out the door. I also remembered how much I hate yelling at them that we’re FOR THE LOVE OF GOD late again.

But I got them packed off to their dad’s for morning drop-off and I got myself all the way to ThePlaceWeShallNotDiscuss without once forgetting how to get anywhere. Except when I pulled in the driveway is when I remembered that I forgot my laptop at home. You know – it was that thing I stepped around twice this morning so I could get out the door. Silly Katie.

Oh well. That’s the way that goes I guess. Now I just have to muddle through my inbox chock-o-block full of reminders and deadlines and questions. If I can do that for three weeks, then I get another two weeks off. Hooray! I don’t know about you, but I’m already thinking: pajamas and take-out for dinner! Ohhhh yeah.

I am the master of pies! (And also putting out oven fires.)(Except not really.)

Isn’t that an excellent title? I thought so. Because guess what I did yesterday? I baked pies. We’re having our Thanksgiving today and so, really, the pie-baking had to happen. I wasn’t worried. Much.

That’s my lucky shirt I have on, since my mom’s apron is currently unavailable. Not pictured: the Christmas music that MUST BE PLAYING if you want your pies to come out half-way decent. I am not even kidding. Also necessary: my mom’s blessing. Here you can see everything is ready, including The Magic Pie Cloth, but I’m waiting for my mom to call me back and commence the annual Blessing Of The Pies.

HA! I am very much enjoying how nice and neat everything looks here. Almost like I know what I’m doing. That is so funny! So, while I was waiting for my mom to get off her kiester and call a girl back, I decided to take a picture of All! The! Crisco! See, before I could never remember how much shortening I needed to make pie crusts. Add to that the fact that the first year I attempted to make pie crusts, I messed up so completely and so fully that I needed to start over…three or four times. That year the future-husband had to run to the groceria twice for more Crisco. So I might have become a little paranoid. My name is Katie, and I am a Crisco-hoarder.

But all of that is for naught, of course, because now I am the master of pies! Ta-da! A perfect pie crust every time. It’s round, it took one attempt, it didn’t crack or fall apart when I transferred it, and I had plenty of dough left over because it was too big. (That is the sound of my mother spitting and cursing. At me, most likely.)

Perhaps I should have spit and cursed myself. Because then the oven started smoking. Like, really smoking. Especially when I opened the door to investigate and discovered pizza cheese had sneakily dribbled onto the oven floor and was seriously pissed off about being left behind. Rather than wait for the smoke detectors to go off, I used a metal spatula to maneuver the almost-on-fire brisket-formerly-known-as-pizza-cheese to the edge of the oven. Where I deftly scooped it up with dampened paper towel. That, um, wasn’t quite damp enough. Hey, did you know that paper towel re-ignites after you blow it out? It does! I also found out you only have to blow it out three times before you reach the sink and can douse it properly. Seeeee?

I was SO MUCH FUN to follow on Twitter yesterday, lemme tell you! But everything was okay because despite the itsy-bitsy kitchen fire incident, my apple pie turned out perfect.

I have to say, my favorite part of that picture is the soot on my fingers. Heh. My NOT-favorite part was where I didn’t go outside, turn around three times and spit (or curse, SPIT AND CURSE!) because just when I was feeling all cocky because my crusts were perfect and my apple pie was perfect, I turned around to check on the oven annnnd….

…Mount Saint Lemon had blown a seam. Despite the three very generous holes I had cut in the top! But now you see why I had put tinfoil in the bottom of the oven. Sigh. By the time the pie came out of the oven and cooled off, the lemon had depleted so much that we had a concave pie. Good thing I had half a pan of lemon left to re-stuff it this morning. Heh.

And just as I was cleaning up my pie victories/fiascoes (vicascoes?) was when I discovered the turkey was indeed thawed…but missing its weight/price tag. So I got to clean the scale, weigh the turkey, and hope for the best. But at least the turkey didn’t catch anything on fire. Yet. (And now my scale is the cleanest, bleachiest scale in the whole neighborhood!)

And THAT is the story of my Thanksgiving pie-baking. I have never laughed so hard at myself in my life – and that’s saying something. At least I know I’m doing one thing right if I’m having this much fun.

Quote of the Day.

Overheard this morning as my ducklings were getting ready for church with Grandma and Gracie was yelling across the house to tattle on her sister, who had “borrowed” her sister’s purse without asking:

Bee: If you let me borrow it, Santa will be happy and bring you something extra.

Brainwashing completed.

Like a ride at Disneyworld.

I haven’t been all bloggy-bloggy about it (for once), but my back has been bothering me for a few weeks now. The pain level pinged OOCH! enough on the pain-o-meter that I thought it might be a kidney stone, especially given my history and ensuing paranoia, so I thought I better go in for x-rays.

The good news: no stone. The rest of the news: who the heck knows why I’m in pain! Goodtimes.

So, in the course of letting everyone poke and prod me, all the doctors decided the next step would be a CT scan. Which is great if it spits out a little tickertape with answers at the end, but… here is where I tell you I am extremely claustrophobic. Like, I almost threw up during my c-sections because the drape was too close to my face, kinda claustrophobic. [Sidebar: Whyyyyy don't they warn you that the drape is only about six inches away from your face before you go in? Stupid television setting up unrealistic expectations. Grumble grumble mcgrumbly.]  When I confirmed that the CT scan was the one in which they load you into a tube headfirst? Yeah, not so good.

As I booked my appointment (hey! they had an opening in a few hours!), I tried to remember every CT scan I had seen in Grey’s Anatomy. I remembered how even when the machine caught fire, the dude was okay. And then there was that one time the guy was stuck in there for 45 minutes. But every other time, the patient was fine. I would just close my eyes before I went in, and not open them for any reason until I got out. Oh plans and their illusions and control.

So I get to the facility, not having eaten anything all day. (While booking the appointment, the nurse says to me: “Don’t eat anything else or drink anything, either.” Me: “Don’t worry, I’d just hurl it all up anyway.” Nurse: “Oooookay.”) I sign in and read some more Silence of the Lambs to calm myself down. I don’t even want to know what my blood pressure was when I was called back to the CT room.

It was a frickin’ open CT scan. A big doughnut. You think someone might have mentioned that!! All that worrying for nothing. Oh, sure, I tried closing my eyes for a minute when I was lying down on the moving table thingy, but that made me dizzy. So I kept my eyes open as I moved in and out of the magic doughnut. My favorite part was watching that spinny thing inside. It was totally like those spinny things Jodie Foster flew through in Contact. Heh. That was even cooler than being out of there in under ten minutes from the time I signed in. For the win!

And possibly even better than that, I know I have answers coming on Tuesday. Even if we don’t know what it is, we might know what it isn’t. Until then, pass the eggnog and turn up the Christmas music. Nothing helps you ignore back pain like getting ready for Christmas!

Who’s a pretty turkey?

Bee came home from school over the weekend with an interesting homework assignment. Once that made me want to give her teacher a big ol’ smooch on the lips, if I’m being honest. In lieu of homework the week before Thanksgiving break, she was sending home a Family Turkey Project. She invited family members of each kindergartener to help her (or him) color and decorate the turkey. She asked us to be as creative as we could and to use any decorations we wanted.

The project could not have worked out better. The turkey was printed out in two pieces of paper that I would need to cut out and glue together. I let Bee and Gracie each color one sheet while I cleaned up after dinners. That took two nights believe it or not, because the first night was shut down rather early when they couldn’t share the markers nicely. On the third night, I cut out Mr. Turkey and let Bee glue him together. Then I pulled out my scrap drawer full of fancypants scrapbook paper and Bee and Gracie helped me choose some to decorate Mr. Turkey’s feathers. Finally, while Bee (liberally) applied glitter glue – for how can a turkey feel dressed without glitter?! – Gracie and I went searching for the Very Safe Place where I put our googley eyes. 15 minutes and for hidey places later, I called ollie ollie oxen free and out they jumped.

Ta da! Now say it with me now: Who’s a pretty turkey??

Does somebody have 3,010 candles I can borrow?

Today is my dear friend Kathy’s birthday. She would like you to know (actually, she probably wouldn’t; in fact, I just might get a beatin’ after I post this) that she is turning 30-10. No, not 30 minus 10 – although I like your thinking! That would be thirty-ten, our brand new number. Of course, when I heard it, I decided it was kinda like that twenty-ten thing we did last year. You know, 2010? Hence my need for the 3,010 candles with which to adorn this very tasty cran-orange bread I baked for the occasion.

My friend, I hope all 3,010 birthday wishes come true.
I wish for you 3,010 moments of magic (at least!) in the coming year.
3,010 happy surprises lurking around every corner.
3,010 angels protecting you and those loved ones you hold dear.
3,010 occasions to make you fall over laughing, with tears streaming down your face and that happy little stitch in your side.
And 3,010 sips of wine for those moments that really suck at the time, but sorta make all the good times seem even better.

Happy birthday, my friend. I hope the land of 30-10 treats you well. (And not just because I’ll be joining you shortly.) Have a fabulous day, girly!

Looks I’m going to have to open a sweatshop. Anyone want a job?

Do you know what I did this weekend? I shopped. I shopped this weekend in stores and I shopped this weekend online. Which isn’t really different from the last few weeks when I have been haunting various online locations, looking for what should be two sodding easy items to find: white long-sleeved polos (that do not cost more than an arm or one leg) and red cardigan sweaters to go with the girls’ Christmas outfits. People – they are not to be found.

When a major metropolitan area has had a school uniform policy in place for over five years, you wouldn’t think it would be so hard to find long sleeve shirts in accordance with said policy. Gracie’s shirts from last year still fit – barely. But if the girl so much as grows another half inch, Houston we might have a problem. So I’ve been searching in all of the usual places for long-sleeved polos to put under the Christmas tree. Probably not what Gracie’s looking for from Santa, but it’s something she needs, it’s something that can wait until after Christmas, and why not pass it off as a present if I have to buy it? There will be plenty of other fun ones to cheer her up.

Where was I? Oh yes. So I looked at Target – no school uniform clothes in the store. At all. Which I think is ridiculous considering their big community involvement project is that a certain percentage of Target credit card sales go towards local schools. So I checked online – they had short-sleeved shirts and pants and skirts, but absolutely no long-sleeved shirts. I checked Old Navy and they were ridiculously priced. Kohl’s wanted $15 a jersey, and I haven’t been able to find them anywhere else.

I finally saw some online at Walmart, so I decided things had reached critical mass: I was gonna have to walk into the actual store. I decided to go early Sunday morning, when everyone is usually either in church or sleeping. And I found some – if my child is the jolly green giant. I tell you what, I don’t know what’s gotten into George (the uniform shirt company, not some random dude), but they must think every child is either part Gumby or a center forward for the Celtics. Bee’s uniform shirts that I bought for Gracie two years ago? Made by George and have normal proportions. The uniform shirts in the store? Are designed to cover the bums of every hoodlum who wears his or her jeans belted around their knees. I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING! So: hilarious universe watching me trying to clothe my child: 6. Me: 0.

And then there is sudden shortage of red cardigan sweaters. I tried Target and Target.com: nothing. I tried Old Navy on Saturday. I found four sweaters and a pair of corduroys for me (and maybe some Christmas presents for the wee little ones), but the only red cardigan they had tacky faded red bows on all the buttons. No way my 7 1/2 year old is going to want to wear that. (Thank. God.) Children’s Place, Justice, Gymboree, Gap Kids…. nothing. Then I tried the department stores: J.C. Penney, Macy’s, Sears… OH! SEARS HAS ONE! It’s nothing fancy, just a plain, simple red button-up cardigan. Whatevs – Christmas portraits are Saturday – I’ll take it! So I drove out to Sears (what – you thought I was actually at all of those stores when I could online browse? You so silly!)….and Sears wasn’t open for another hour. What kind of department store doesn’t open before noon during Christmas shopping season?! Jesus wept. And so did I.

So! Now I have plans to force feed my childrens chicken nuggets as quickly as they can eat them and whip on out to Sears tonight. As for school uniforms…either belly shirts are going to soon become quite appropriate, or else Imma have to open a sweatshop in the back yard. Just doing my own little part to help the economy, you understand.

From our family circus to yours: thank you.

My mom was an avid newspaper reader. Every day at lunchtime, my mom would call her only time-out of the day. Even when we were little, we knew that if Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, a sandwich and chips on a paper plate to one side and the newspaper splayed in front of her, we weren’t to bother her. If one of us ignored the rather obvious signs, she would calmly intone not to bother her, that she was eating lunch.

Mom would read the local news first, glance over at least the headlines (and quite a few articles) in the national news, read Dianne Williamson’s column so she could rant about her later, and then she would end with the comic strips and the crossword puzzle. That’s how she pulled me in to newspaper reading: she would often chuckle and tell me to come read Lucy or Marmaduke or Beetle Bailey or Garfield  any of the others I can’t remember. And of course, there was her favorite: Family Circus.

I imagine it had something to do with the fact that she grew up in a giant family, and then raising a large-ish family of her own. There was always someone who seemed to be in whatever stage the Family Circus kids were at. My mom loves little kids and was always able to find the funny lurking under the exasperation; in fact, that might be why we all lived to grow up. Heh. When I was older, still at home but living my own life as teenagers tend to do, my mom would often ask as I breezed through if I had read that day’s Family Circus or other comic she had thought particularly applicable. More often than not, she had folded the newspaper so that the comic was ready for me to read. It became a touchstone, a way to make me stop and talk for a moment. Even though it was usually over nothing, Mom found a way to connect over something seemingly irrelevant nearly every day. Things like that mean so little at the time and have come to mean everything now that I’m grown “grown.”

Rest in peace, Bil Keane. Thank you for making the little things count, for sharing so much of your life in little windows over the years, and for reminding us all that circus or not – it’s always about family.