Auction Basket Case

My first experience with being involved in the creation of an auction basket was last year, for the preschool fundraiser. I really just dipped my toe in the water -- was present for the selection of the theme, and okay-ed decisions made by my more pro-active co-room mom. It all went very smoothly.

This year, I am the more experienced of the room moms in terms of how this all works. Our theme last year, "cooking" went over well, (two baskets, one for pretend cooking, one for real cooking). I suggested we nab the theme. We have less money to use this year, which is just as well; one thing that drove me crazy, even from the sidelines, was the amount of work that went into these baskets (driving around, time spent hunting online, wrapping the things for presentation). The baskets only went for the purchase price at auction, if we were lucky! A strange tradition.

Anyway, when I was at Ikea, having spent all the money in the budget on a handful of great play kitchen items, I confessed to the employee who helped me carry the heavy piece that I felt a little guilty about how easy it was this time, copying an idea, and doing one-stop shopping. His response was surprisingly pithy: "Work smarter, not harder." The Tao of Ikea?

Rain Roulete

"You're so lucky!" These were the words of a friend regarding the fact that C's birthday was in the late spring, and we were able to confidently plan a park birthday party. This friend's girls' birthdays are in January and February.


The youngest's birthday is next weekend. A few weeks ago, when we got serious about planning the party, the weather was gorgeous. A perk of living in Southern California! I thought. We can have a park birthday in February! G got excited about it, invitations were ordered, and away we went. And then we hit the window where the weather sites will start to give you an extended forecast.

Depending on who you ask, there is around a 40% chance of rain on the day for now, give or take. We have a skeletal Plan B, but I am still hoping we don't have to go there. At least G reports that what he is looking to most is the chocolate cake, which will be there, rain or shine.

Dual Birthday Theme Duel

Weeks ago, when I asked C. what he wanted on his birthday cake, he replied without hesitation, "Caillou!" That was easy, I thought. I found Caillou invitations, a mylar balloon, a table cover... this 4th birthday party at the park was going to be a piece of cake. Until...



Hubby, in conversation a few days ago about the upcoming birthday, happened to ask C. what he wanted on his cake. The cake is the last thing to get ordered. "Fireman Sam!" he replied with enthusiasm. Hm. A disjointed theme? Or give the kid what he wants (unless of course by party time he wants Batman on the cake)? Or put them both on the cake? I have to decide by Wednesday... As long as it's chocolate, I imagine he'll be fine with whatever I decide.

Conflicted

Before I had kids, I resolved that I would not let them play with guns. It seems like an obvious rule to me.

But, but. What about squirt guns? I sure loved them as a kid. I remember the excitement of picking one out at the drugstore, getting the stream of water from the faucet small and steady enough to go in the little hold in the back, and fumbling with the stopper to get it snug, before blasting the neighborhood boys with my best shot.

Sometimes it seems like a ridiculous thought to consider denying my kids this pleasure, but other times, I worry about the slippery slope.

A Scarry History

I loved the Richard Scarry books as a kid. The imagination, the word play, the details of the world he created... I got lost in them, in the best way.

Now, my sons have a few Scarry books. They enjoy them too. But they are not yet old enough to read the books themselves, so Hubby and I have the honor.

As fabulous as these books are, they are hard to read aloud. The other day, reading to C. before his nap, I skipped a few pages here and there, to get through. When he wasn't quite ready to sleep afterward, I gave him the book, "Here, you can look at this while you rest." He picked it up and started slowly paging through it.

"Mommy! You missed this page!" he yelled, an edge of concern in his voice. Pause. "You missed this page too, Mommy!" Oops. Busted. And come to think of it, although I remember being read plenty of Dr. Seuss, Berenstain Bears, and Mother Goose tales as a kid, I don't remember hearing the Scarry ones...

Bust my Boiler

Perhaps C. has been watching a little too much of the Thomas and Friends dvd that he received for the holidays. Or maybe it's a combination of that and Fireman Sam that's causing the problem. Thomas is narrated by Brit Pierce Brosnan; the latter has characters with various accents from the UK. So now C. is experimenting with a British accent – dropping his r’s and denasalizing vowels. “The cah ovah theh.” “The mahn with a red sweatah.” He’s also trying out idioms and vocab from the show. “Bust my boiler!” I heard him say once. And he likes to use the word “decoupled” whenever possible.

Even Hubby will randomly follow a statement with “…Sir Topham Hatt boomed importantly.” Time to unplug the TV already?

T.C.

Several years ago, my husband and I heard a Sandra Tsing Loh commentary about what she called "treasure chum" -- the useless things that accumulate in the house. The term has proved to be so useful, especially after having kids, that we now just say T.C. We giggled through the skymall magazine during plane rides, marvelling at all the T.C. We wrestled with the challenge of finding appropriate favors for C's third birthday party last summer; "No T.C.!" was our guideline. We opted for personalized cookies.


This past week, I was presented with a new category of T.C.: a menorah that C. made at preschool. I do think it is lovely. But we will never use it. So what am I supposed to do with it? Do I put it in the top of the closet forevermore? Will he be hurt if I chuck it? Is there any way to recycle it? I'm truly conflicted.

Theater first

C. has a big day today, his first time going to see a play. Although it is a production for children, the reccommended age range starts at 4, which C. is still over six months away from. But Grandma S. is enthusiastic about getting his arts education started, and his attention span is pretty good already, so there he goes. Last night, I was giving him a preview, trying to prepare him for the experience, and I realized that it was a big deal: his real introduction to the world of theater. Soon, Shakespeare plays with Grandpa F.!

So much to learn...

The other morning, C. was playing in the living room, after having put on his own underwear. I didn't even notice the problem from the front. It was only when he turned around that I started laughing...

On Fear

I just read a fantastic memoir by a Southern California writer with a terrifying, heartbreaking, fascinating story about surviving a plane crash that killed his father, his father's girlfriend, and the pilot, when he was 11 years old. The father had made him conquer all kinds of fears when he was tiny: skiing and surfing in conditions that are hard to imagine in any case, let alone trying to envision going through that fear as a young child. A parent these days would most likely go to jail if they subjected a kid to the conditions his dad inflicted on him. The irony is that the balance, instinct and confidence that he developed are what allowed him to escape that deadly crash.

C. (3.5) is going through a "Fireman Sam" phase. But of the six episodes currently available On Demand... only two of them can be viewed without a screech of, "I don't like this one! Change it!" He doesn't like it when someone gets hurt, lost, or if the story is otherwise too scary. He's a sensitive little guy. This morning, I was thinking about what it would have been like for C. to have a parent that made him confront and tolerate intense fear. As it stands, he has two pretty indulgent ones who don't like to scare him... perhaps to a fault. Some fear is clearly good, at least in the confidence that he gains from getting past it. (Case in point: preschool.)

He starts soccer tomorrow, which he says he doesn't want to do, presumably because he is scared. He'll go anyway, any probably like it a lot. But that's about the speed of my tolerance of having him confront fears. Now I can only hope that he won't be in a situation where he would need to be able to scale down an icy mountain solo in a freak accident...

Boarding the Bribe Train

C. is pretty smart. However, he does not excel at everything. One particularly weak skill has proven to be… potty training.

His preschool teachers have been supportive. Relatives have had their opinions. Hubby and I have done our best. But the kid is stubborn. And he hasn’t wanted to do it. It had not gone well. That is until… Teacher Susan said to C., “C! You like playing with Gordon? I’m going to put him up in this cabinet. If your mommy tells me that you went pee in the potty, I’ll let you take it home and keep it for a few days.” Next time we were at school he was able to take it home; finally, he was interested (and motivated) in using the potty. And today, when he took Gordon home for a second time after some more sporadic practice, he really was on a roll, using the potty on his own for the rest of the day. I am cautiously optimistic that we are rounding the PT bend…

I had been against bribery. It sets up "things" as a reward, rather than the satisfaction of accomplishing something… it just seems so capitalistic. But at this point, with C. knocking on the door of 3.5, I’m genuinely OK with a little bribery to neutralize the stubbornness. I even told him that if he continues to try to use the potty over the weekend, we’ll buy him his own Gordon. Peep peep.

Bonjour, la classe

C. had his first French class. It happens to take place within walking distance of our home. The owner of the Lango Kids company came to the meeting, and she participated while a young, enthusiastic, impressive instructor led the group in songs, dancing, stories, and rhythm games, all in French of course. I did not expect to join in the lesson, but she invited the parents at the beginning, so we hopped, sang, clapped, and repeated along with the kids.

At the end, the owner approached me. “Are you French?” she asked. I admit, I get a kick when people ask this. I told her no. “Moroccan? Canadian? Swiss?” She went on. “Just a long-time Francophile,” I shrugged. “Did you live in France?” I told her yes. She complimented my accent. Then she said, “Do you work full time? Maybe you could work for us!” I smiled, and told her we could talk. On the walk home, I laughed at myself. Could my ego take going from teaching French phonetics in French at a major university to teaching preschoolers the names of animals and body parts? Perhaps. The draw is that I whole-heartedly embrace the mission of the company, to create better world citizens. On va voir.

Little shot of horror

Fresh from a visit with a good, very sane friend in Minneapolis over the weekend, I braved the OC moms at mommy & me today with G. I put in my contacts, pulled together an outfit, even put on some make-up... Towards the end of the class, I chatted with a fashion shoot-ready mom whom I had talked to the meeting before. She was asking me the same questions we had already covered (where we grew up, where we lived now, our other kids, etc.) Then, out of the blue, she said, and I quote, "A friend of mine just got Botox, and now whenever I talk to anyone, all I can think about is where they need Botox." Zap. And sigh.

The Littlest Literalist

C had an appointment with a pediatric urologist for a minor issue, to see whether surgery was necessary. The doctor needed him to exert himself in order to evaluate the problem. "Knock down the wall, like this," he said, posing with two palms on the wall, and pushing. C looked up at him skeptically, put his hands on the wall, looked up at him again, and you could see in his mind, What is this guy thinking? I can't knock down the wall...

The doctor recognized that this approach wasn't working. "OK; never mind." He opened the exam room door. "Close the door." The doctor held the door halfway open. C's eyes lit up, and he reached with one hand for the handle, and another for the door, and the doctor said, "No, both hands on the door-"

"But, you have to take your hand away!" he insisted. Hubby and I were chuckling pretty heartily in the background at this point. Ah, our little literalist. (And, hopefully it wasn't due to suboptimal evaluation circumstances, but the verdict was no surgery.)

Words

G., at 18 months, is officially a late talker. Of the few words that he does use, only two are nouns. The rest are not: yes, no, hi, bye, beep beep… What is funny is when he copies his older brother C., twice his age. I hear him, in the exact same tone of voice saying, “Okay,” “Mine!” or… to my amusement and horror, “Why, why? Why!”

Check-up freak out

I brought C. to his three-year well-check visit yesterday. I was hardly looking forward to it. I talked about it casually with him the day before, reminded him the pediatrician was a friend of Dad's, etc. But the kid is too smart; he freaked out anyway. The drama started when the nurse asked him to get on the scale, and continued in the half hour that we had to wait for the doctor after that. Tears, thrashing, screams of "I want to go home! I want to take a nap! I want to get back in the car!" -- Quite the little salesman, working to find the right pitch to close the deal.

When the doctor finally walked in the door, he said immediately, "I don't like you!" I was mortified, but she seemed unfazed. She was great with him, and by the end, she got him to give her a hug.

Then came time for the shots. I told him, "The nurse is going to come back, and to keep you healthy, she is going to give you a couple of shots. They'll hurt a little bit, and then we are going to go home." I held my breath and waited for a new round of grief. Instead, from his crouched position on the floor, he looked up at me and said, "This is an airplane." He dragged the toy airplane he had found under the chair out and continued talking about it until the nurse came. He simply looked at the tray with the vials and syringes and cotton and let her jab him twice, and then reached for my hand to go.

Crimini justice

I have already bemoaned the gaps in my husband's palate. My three-year-old son has a similarly narrow range of foods he'll eat. So imagine my delight when I offered a bite of the mushroom-in-citrus-vinaigrette-with-parsley offering that comes with the bread at our local Italian restaurant. Usually, I am the only one who eats any of it. But G. loved it! Together, we finished the plate. Now maybe it's worth flagging the good mushroom recipes that come along, as I apparently have someone to share them with...

Personalized, schmersonalized

C. received recently a very thoughtful gift: a cd with children’s songs, personalized with his name in each song. It includes his favorite, Old MacDonald. Only, in this version, it goes: “Little C. had a farm…” It drives him crazy every time it comes on -- because the song isn’t right. “I want to hear the real EE-AYE-EE-AYE-OH song, Mommy! Turn it off!” Sigh.

It made me remember Girl Scout camp one year, when a counselor tried to teach us the song “When all the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops”, and I complained loudly that she wasn’t singing it right. Alas, I can relate…

Star-crashed

A family barbecue at my in-laws’ yesterday was crashed by a movie star – sort of like that great scene from “Notting Hill”, but not as dramatic. She is a friend of my sister-in-law, someone I had met briefly once before at a party. Yesterday, I got to talk to her at length, and I was charmed. Although she is much-celebrated, having been nominated for Tonys and an Oscar, and winning a Golden Globe, I was not familiar with her work. Her husband is lovely too. It was a welcome, random, “only in Southern California” thing. She dropped names like “Lily Tomlin” and “Jamie Lee Curtis”, made a reference to the time Arnold Schwarzenegger asked her out on a date (pre-Maria; this woman had the sense to decline the invitation). At the radio station, I met plenty of famous people, but that was a different dynamic. In that case, it was you: important guest, me: employee. This playing field was more enjoyable, and we got to know each other a little, just as two women with different life experiences.

Rattled

The magnitude 4.7 seismic event last night made me think back to an enrichment segment offered in middle school about earthquakes. It provided detailed information about everything from plate tectonics to interpreting the Richter Scale and different kinds of waves. My study of earthquakes until that point was limited to hiking the Earthquake Trail in Point Reyes, and having a second grade teacher say that in some very large number of years, Disneyland would be in San Francisco, because of movement along the fault. It sounded not so bad at the time. But the “expert” leading the mini-course felt inclined to pepper his lectures with comments like “the question isn’t ‘if’ the Big One will hit, but ‘when’.” He went into great detail about all the damage that would occur, the number of people that would be killed, and said that the side of the Golden Gate Bridge that was not on bedrock (I don’t remember which one) would collapse into the Bay. I stopped listening at that point. I was already a moderate hypochondriac; he made me an earthquake-phobe too. I was a nervous wreck driving across the Bridge, in underground parking garages, and I didn’t enjoy roller coasters anymore, because I spent the whole time worrying, what if we have an earthquake and the car gets derailed mid-corkscrew? Maybe it’s my over-sensitivity, but tempering this information with a discussion of risk analysis, or even foregoing the most sensational details to simply talk about disaster preparedness, to actually empower us, might have been a better way to go.