Ten years ago

And still, you are incredibly sweet.



Happy Birthday, Ittybit.

Time ...

She flies.

What I learned today ...

I was not cut out to be a stage mom.

Either that or I am the quintessential stage mom ...

So I had to cut out.

Kids ...

All ears ...

But only half listening.

What I learned at dance recital 2012 ...

Eye shadow? Bring it.

Lip gloss. More is not enough.

Blusher? Ran out. C'est la vie. 

But foundation? Bad mojo.

Those freckles?  ....  Do. Not. Mess. With. Them.

They aren't sprinkles of sun damage to her, they are a fine dusting of happiness on her cheeks.

Without them she just isn't herself.

Lord of the Flies

The musical.

One ring-y ding-y

When the phone rings all kinds of possibilities come to call.

It could be a grandparent calling to say 'hello.'

Or a friend hoping for a play date.

Of course, more than likely these days, it's a telemarketer.

*Must remember to re-up my membership in the "Do Not Call" registry.

She's decided ...

Her costume, that is.

Little Miss Early Bershon has decided she's had it with all the princess stuff.

She's going to be a "Butterfly Girl" this year.

Woe to the person who confuses the two on their doorstep. They might wish they'd left their lights off ...

We began this year's project by making a paper template.



Folded lots of construction paper.



And cut out dozens of paper butterflies, which she decorated with marker and sequined scales.



I took all the dried butterflies and basted them to a green pinafore dress she's almost outgrown.



And here it is: Chica Mariposa!



We are also working on hot-gluing some of these paper creatures to a headband so they will flutter around her head as she walks around the neighborhood.



We also made a ring out of ribbon and crepe.



Next it's his turn.

He wants to be (and I kid you not) a superhero skeleton man. ...

"Like when Metroman faked his own death."

All little piggies go to market

She was busy, she and her friend, making mincemeat out of my fabric stash.

I wasn't going to complain. The decimation of sale-bought cotton fleece is the price one willingly pays to be able to clean the house in peace.

As I was emptying the dishwasher and sweeping floors, they were painstakingly cutting and matching fabrics, inventorying their characters (yes, there were two of every animal on the pattern) and selecting the thread that would tie the whole thing together.

They named their little creations "Boo Boo Babies," and begged me to help stuff and sew the round forms into pillows for them. The sewing machine, though sea-foam green and emblazoned with Hello Kitty logos, is still too powerful a force for tiny fingers.

I oblige. I'd rather sew than try to scrape the crusted-over waffle batter from the kitchen counter anyway. No matter how many times I mention it, somehow the waffle maker (the man not the machine) doesn't appreciate the economy of a damp sponge when the drips are fresh.

But these children know how important it is to strike when the iron is hot.

That's why they leave their one-woman sewing factory and move on to the most important aspect of production -- marketing.

I was especially fond of this pitch:



However, the disclaimer was also quite nice, given the fact I was the one sewing and my results do vary:

Cartography corrected

"Not to be picky, but this isn't really accurate, is it? I mean ... Where's the mess? ... and where's your brother's bed? It's missing, and yet he sleeps there, too."

"What? You want for everyone to laugh at me?"

He's got the moves

And he's got the fan base ...



He's also got a pretty effective stage manager-slash-front-woman ...



I'm not sure they'll make it to their first album, though ...

X marks ...

... the things I didn't buy.

Lego my Duplos

"You know ...

"I heard that Legos are a really poppulear toy.

"Yeah ... but I don't buy it. I don't think they know what they're talking about."

Cheek to cheek

Dear Ittybit,

You don't mind hanging out with dad, but you prefer activities that don't involve grease and grime.

You're looking more and more grown up lately.

You've started asking me to check your face for remnants of food or other smudges. "Is anything on my face? Are you sure?"

The fight over combing/washing/taming your hair is over. You find the brush and you sit as still as I wrestle snarls and snags. I imagine soon you won't need my help to make your hair silky and smooth.

How many times had you gone to school last year with errant hair and a breakfast-marked face?

I didn't fight you to look presentable. We aren't really presentable people.

But you are noticing now. Determining not to look disheveled.

I see you studying your face in the mirror. Looking for imperfections.

People are starting to tell me that you and I look a lot alike. She is like your Mini Me, they say.

I recoil a little, and tell them I don't see it. I remember thinking how I reacted when I was a teenager and people told me I looked like my mother. I didn't want to see it. I was NOT my mother.

I know that in too few years, she won't smile when someone makes the comparison.

But it's impossible not to feel humbled inside. And it puts the flaws you hold as self evident when someone tells you your daughter, who is beautiful, looks just like you.



With love and European kisses,

Mommy

Just a few days ...

Dear Ittybit,

You've gone off with your father on trip.

Perched high in the crane truck, strapped into your carseat, I bet you're on top of the world.

Car counting, word games and road food await.

It will be a few days before we are reunited as a family.

I won't miss the argument over bedtime. I won't miss harping at you to brush and floss your teeth. Or even the smoothing of tangled hair (though that chore is growing on me, I must admit).

But I will miss tucking you in at night and listening to you read to me. I will miss reading to you and playing our silly games. I will miss your face in the morning and the cup of coffee you slosh through the house ... for me.

Your shoes are scattered about the house - no doubt considered for packing, packed and then reconsidered. As I collect them and put them away - a chore I have protested time and again - I find myself missing your scabby, stinky feet.



Love and Kisses,

Mommy.

No use losing sleepover it

My mom thinks she's too young to be away from family.

She is only six, after all.

I don't know how old I was when I first stayed overnight at a friend's house, although I'm not sure chronology had much bearing on the decision way back when.

Geography was a more likely determining factor.

No one wants to drive too far in the middle of the night to retrieve a crying child. Likewise, no one wants to impose a lengthy period of waiting while another parent has to sooth your homesick sprog.

But here we stand on the bank of this new territory as Ittybit tiptoes in.

It's not a big deal. It's just a few hours.

But there's no denying this waking desire for independence is also a trickle in the river of emotion that will one day separate us.

OK. That's a little dramatic, mom.

I could have picked some age as a benchmark that she would have to reach before she could ride this particular ride.

But unlike an amusement park regulation, this measure would be arbitrary.

She's ready now.

She is brave and willing to explore now.

So we agree. She can go and spend the night with her friend.

Excitement may keep her awake longer, but when she finally closes her eyes, she'll likely sleep through until morning.

If I'm wrong, it's only a few minutes of lost sleep and a few miles in the car.

Reusable quotes

Dear Ittybit,

I barely recognized your voice when you crept up behind me as I was unloading the supermarket haul.

"Can I help?"

"Sure," I said, happy for just the company as well as the extra hands.

I smiled as you remarked on every item you touched, taking it on its final journey from shopping tote to refrigerator shelf. It's just now dawning on me how long your reach has grown.

"I love these kind of pickles. ... This juice is heavy, I'm not sure I can lift it myself. ... Oh! You got the yogurt I like, thanks mom. You're the best mom I ever had."

I'm laughing a little as I climb on the step stool to stack boxes of pasta in the cupboard at the end of the counter. I begin my usual response: "I'm the only mom you've ever had, and don't confuse consumerism with competency. ...

You snort, and wave your hand in the air. "I know, I know, I know. ... You're still the best."

I wonder when you got to be so big. It wasn't a month ago that I still saw your baby face beaming at me from behind an alphabet book. Your limbs seem to have branched outward in recent days. You are long and lean. More graceful than gangly.

The alarm on the refrigerator sounds. The door has been open for too long.

I turn to see what the trouble is, envisioning you wrestling a melon into the crisper drawer or trying to alphabetize the mustard jars.

But you are gone and the light from the refrigerator is shining on the empty bags, shapeless and slumped on the floor in front of it.

Your part of the task is over.

I shut the door and begin to smooth the bags. And I hear your voice -- the one I've known since your first words -- bubbling through the kitchen doorway. It's coming from a far room that's been filtered through two other spaces, and followed by the unmistakable sound of children jumping on a bed.

"Let me help you with that. ..."

"Ok, sure."



With love and fancy yogurt,

Mommy

The green-eyed monster pops up

The Champ came home from the babysitter's house last week bearing a rocket ship exploding from a construction paper sky with the aid of a tiny accordion of paper pasted to the back.

"I made diss!"

Ingenious.

So ingenious, just the sight of it made Ittybit jealous.

Of course it could have been the fact that I framed it to hang in his room ... someday ...

But whatever made her green with envy it was recitifed today when she got home from school and told me she wanted to make a pop-up princess that I could then frame for her room.

Only ... we didn't have construction paper. We didn't even have white bond for the the printer.

But we did have fancy-dancy paper I'd bought for some project I never endeavored ...

Typical.


So, without further ado ... a pop-up princess suitable for framing:



1. Cut out shapes.
2. Paste shapes to folded pieces of paper.
3. Paste folded pieces of paper to backround paper.


4. Color.
5. Accessorize.


6. Voila.

I'm starting to think rocket science might not be like rocket science

Experience (namely the lack of it) is really the hobgoblin of all life pursuits, isn’t it?

I was thinking about this as I stood at the sewing counter of a local fabric store, asking the ladies what supplies a beginner would need … seeing as how I bought my six-year-old a REAL sewing machine for Christmas … and seeing as how I don’t know the first thing about sewing anything besides replacement buttons (and even then the results aren’t pretty).

I could see from the looks their faces, they thought I was in way over my head.

They offered classes and tried to sell me an $80 sewing kit.

I thanked them and asked them to point me in the direction of thread.

I’ve muddled through before.

Sometimes it’s been mortifying. I’ve been critiqued for the way I’ve dug holes in the garden, the way I’ve hammered a nail and even the way I mop floors.

But other times it has been gratifying.

Like the time I stood in the tile aisle at Home Depot, discussing supplies with an equally clueless friend, who was graciously helping me tackle a tiling project, only to have a smirking woman thrust her card in my hand … "just in case your DIY project doesn’t work out."

I didn’t give that woman or her card a second thought until I was standing with my friend outside of our finished job. She’d cut. I’d placed. It wasn’t perfect, but we’d done it ourselves and we’d done it together.

I wasn't thinking about any of that, though, as I stood at that fabric store, seeking the kind of homemaking wisdom I'd hoped would always escape me.

Sewing, I'd decided, may as well be rocket science.

And yet Christmas morning came, and the sewing machine made its way to the dinning room table.

The reckoning was at hand.

My mother-in-law asked me if I'd ever sewed before ... I said no and left it there. It was too late now. Whatever happened, happend.

I read and follow the instructions. And, surprise of all surprises, soon I had the thing humming along.

By the end of the weekend, Ittybit was rising before dawn and getting projects ready to sew. A purse for her American Girl doll, a pillow for her Barbie, a quilted pillow ... just because ...

Without following a pattern, without measuring or cutting straight lines, we made our own designs.

They weren’t perfect, and yet somehow they were.

The best birthday yet

Every 12 minutes from 7 a.m. onward we could anticipate the following question: "Is it time for the party yet?"

Once an hour we were assuring her that it very well might be the BEST BIRTHDAY YET!

Of course we like to hedge the bet by trying to set her expectations low. However, it's near impossible to figure out where the expectations are in the six-year-old set.

What might poop our parties doesn't necessarily phase her.

Her brother running roughshod all over the house.

A washing machine that suddenly decides to stop working and overflows smelly water all over the floor.

A father with no voice. A mother who can't stop sneezing.

She wasn't even deterred that the first guest to arrive couldn't stay.

She's like that, this kid. She takes most everything in stride.

Even when the "barbie" popped out of the cake and it kind of looked like one of Sid's toys from Toy Story, it couldn't dampen the amusement of having a doll-shaped cake.

"It was the best birthday ever!"