But I WAITED for you

N lost her first tooth today.

We knew this day was coming, obviously. In fact, at her dental check up two years ago,  her dentist said it was loose.

I'm thinking he was jumping the gun just a little.

So we've been waiting...waiting for it to get looser, waiting for it to look looser, waiting for it to get as loose as it was yesterday, since it really seemed to have tightened up since then, didn't it, mom?

Waiting to be the last kid in the whole second grade to lose a tooth.

I haven't verified the accuracy of that statement, but as in most things, it's really all in the perception, anyway.

And it was definitely N's perception that she was the only child of approximately 125 second graders who had not lost a tooth.

Eventually, it was clear that the tooth really was loose. Then looser. And then looser still.

And today, when it was bleeding, there were tears, and anxiety, because well, we didn't know there would be actual blood.

That tooth was obviously hanging on by a thread. And after several trips to the bathroom to see if it was bleeding even more, N was barely hanging on by a thread.

So, of course, I was, too.

I told her she could pull it out, or brush her teeth, and it would probably come out on its own. I offered to pull it out myself, and she told me, pretty clearly, absolutely not.

Thank you God, for that one.

Eventually, as N wiggled her tooth for the forty-seventh time in five minutes, it came out.

All by itself.

Well, you know, more or less.

Her tears turned to laughter, as she ran around the house yelling, "I lost a tooth! I finally lost a tooth!"

Ever the supportive brother, B ran out into the driveway to announce to anyone who cared--and anyone who didn't--that N had lost a tooth.

O also joined in the celebration by dancing around the house.  Sweet boy.

We're pretty sure he had absolutely no idea what all the celebrating was about.

N handed the tooth over to me, and as I looked at that little white nugget, I thought I was going to cry.

And then I got mad instead.

THIS is the thanks I get?

I waited for you for nine long months.

Who knew it took as long for a baby to grow a tooth as it did to grow a baby?

From the first sign of excessive drool when N was barely three months, we anxiously waited for the first sign of you. We thought you'd never get here.

In the first of many parenting "what ifs", we wondered if maybe our cute toothless, bald baby was just going to remain toothless.

We realized it might be an impediment to future relationships, but we were OK with it. We thought she was adorable without teeth.

And, then, eventually, after looking in her mouth several times a day for months, hoping to spot something pearly white, one day we actually did.

There was actually a tooth in that mouth.

I wrote it down in the baby book.

I took pictures.

I called friends and family.

We had an actual tooth.

It was just a small one.

But still, it was there.

If my sons ever ask, I will assure them that I did the same for them. After all, just because they are the second and third children doesn't mean their teeth were any less spectacular. All first teeth should be celebrated. And celebrate we did.

I will tell my sons this. And I will be lying.

Through my teeth.

Anyway, I made sure I took care of you, Tooth--and those that followed, too.

I brushed you.

I worried that you were coming in crooked.

I kept lollipops and candy away from you.

OK, so that's not true.

But I tried.

I made sure you got fluoride, but not too much.

And I made sure you didn't get certain antibiotics.

I just wanted you to stay healthy, and pretty, and strong.

Yes, I did all that.

And for what?

So you could just one day fall out?

I know...you're just a tooth. And, yes, of course, I knew this day would come. And OK, fine, baby teeth are supposed to fall out.

Whatever.

I joined in today's celebration, of course. What an exciting day this is, when you lose your first tooth.

Especially when you were the last kid in the second grade to lose one.

But don't think this is easy for me, Tooth--this whole falling out thing.

Just because I'm smiling, and laughing, and asking N to repeatedly say words like "lettuce", doesn't mean that, inside, I'm not still a little sad.

There's this cute little hole in N's mouth now, where you used to be.

And I think I have one in my heart to match it.

It's just a small one.

But still, it's there.

The Numbers Game...

N is in second grade now. I loved second grade. I loved learning all the things you learn in second grade, and I love seeing what she is learning in second grade.

Except in math.

Whatever they are now teaching in second grade math is not at all what they were teaching when I was in second grade. Nor are they teaching anything math related the way that they taught math related things when I was in school.

It doesn't help that I am math dumb.

Really, I am.

In high school, I took Geometry-for-kids-who-wont-graduate-without-this-last-math-credit-so-lets just-stick-em-in-a-room-and-have-them-count-beads-in-the-shape-of-triangles-and-call-it-a-day.

OK so I might be exaggerating just a teeny bit.

But not much.

Really.

I know that my dad also said when I was in school that they weren't teaching math the way they taught math when he was in school. It seems that he was just taught "math" while we were taught "new math."

I have yet to hear my daughter's math called anything other than "math", though clearly it can't be just "math" if that's what my father was taught seventy five years ago. Nor is it "new math" if that's what I was taught thirty fifteen years ago.

But I think I've figured out the appropriate term for the math my daughter is learning.

Clearly, she is learning "WTF Math".

I'm sure of it.

Because as I attempt to help her with her homework, I don't think "Oh this is math". Nor do I think "Oh this must be that damn new math" as my father surely did.

No, what I think is...."This is math? WTF?"

Yes, she is only in second grade. And granted, I did just say that I am math dumb.

But still, I'm telling you that they are now teaching WTF math.

I don't know if I'll be able to help her much with her math homework. But I think it's important that I continue to try. So I try to do math problems in my head throughout the day in hopes that it will help. I figure if WTF math doesn't work out for her, she can always learn Mommy Math.

For example: 3 = The number of children I have in my home.

24= The number of hours in a day.

Therefore 3x 24= 72

72= The Number of Times throughout the day that I think I may lose my mind.

See? That wasn't so bad, now was it?

Or, just in case you need another example:

12= the number of CDs my sweet boys had managed to put between the sliding glass doors leading out to our playroom.

45= the number of minutes it took me to remove 11 of these CDs from between our sliding glass doors.

15= The number of times my sweet boys pinched my fingers between the sliding glass doors as they were "helping" me.

1= the number of CDs that is not coming out of that damn door no matter what I do.

Therefore 12x45+15x1= 555

555= The number of years it will be before I ever bring another CD into this house.

See? Old math. New math. It really doesn't matter how you do it.

Either way, the answer's the same:

WTF.

Feeling Zany....

A few weeks ago, N brought home a flyer that offered discount tickets to see Dan Zanes and Friends in concert.

 Since we'd listened to some of his music, and seen him on the Kids Music Channel, and since its fishing season AND football season--both of which are guarantees that Jimmy will be otherwise occupied--it seemed like a good idea

OK, fine, the other thing that influenced my decision is that after watching Dan Zanes videos on the Kids Music Channel for 597 hours, I started to develop a crush. They don't show very many actual people on that channel, so it was either him or the Wiggles, and the Wiggles seem to enjoy each other's company just a little too much for me to think we could ever have a thing.

Don't judge me. When you've been home with kids for seven years, and you realize that neither soap operas nor tequila shots are acceptable forms of entertainment for mothers who are home with their children, the guy singing kids songs on tv starts to look kind of cute.

So we went.

And he is cute. In that rocker-turned-family-music-guy-who-intentionally-mismatches-his-clothes-and-doesn't-comb-his-hair-kind-of-a-way.

I mean, if that's your thing.

Anyway, on the way there, we reviewed appropriate concert etiquette. You sing along and dance in your seat, unless someone tells you otherwise (which I thought they might). Our etiquette lesson got side tracked at one point when B blurted out the word "stupid" (not in relation to my etiquette lesson. At least I don't think so).  I told him we don't say that word. N informed me that, earlier, he was calling someone named Bob stupid.

I'm pretty sure we don't know anyone named Bob.

"B", I told him, "That is not a nice word and I don't want to hear it again."

"But why, mom?"

"Because it's not nice, B. I don't want to hear it".

"OK, mom."

He was quiet for a minute, and then said "Mom, I really don't understand why I can't say Bob".

Yeah.

Once the show started, we did dance in our seats for a while, and then Dan (I don't think he minds if I call him Dan) told us that this wasn't that kind of a concert. That this was, in fact, a party.

Which, of course, meant that insanity immediately ensued.

The room became one giant toddler mosh pit. There was slam dancing. And body surfing. At one point, I even thought I smelled something familiar--something that took me back to my own concert days.

But surely, no one would have that here. Surely, no one would be passing...

Gas.

They were just passing gas.

A lot of it.

Apparently when you put two hundred pre schoolers in a room together and tell them to start jumping around, it really gets things moving.

For the rest of the show, I chased O to and from the exit doors while B slammed into children we don't know and N alternately swayed in the aisle or sat in her seat and pretended that she wasn't singing along.

Eventually, we waited in an absolutely ridiculous line to buy a CD, and some groupie mom butted in front of us and got the last CD of Dan's newest release. I know her type. She's just like those girls who used to throw their underwear on stage at Bon Jovi concerts.

No matter.

We still got Dan's autograph.

And I'm pretty sure he winked at me.

Depth Finder...

I've been trying to make time to read lately.

I am amazed at how some people can put their thoughts on paper. Deep, complex, so much bigger than all of this kind of thoughts.

It makes me think that I'd like to write something that deep, that complex, that much bigger than all of this.

I tell myself that those other writers clearly have a wisdom that I don't yet possess. An ability to put their thoughts into words that I don't quite have. A gift for writing that far surpasses my own attempts.

But that's not all.

There's something else that keeps me from writing as deeply as they do.

I'm too busy scraping dried peaches off the floor.

I'm too busy chasing toddlers who inform me they are just going out to get the mail, as they unlock the dead bolt and head for the road. I'm too busy checking homework. Too busy kissing boo boos. And teaching manners. And trying to find the forgotten sippy cup that is stinking up my living room.

At least I hope it's a sippy cup.

I'm too busy climbing through windows to rescue the child who was locked in the basement by his brother. Too busy reading books. Too busy telling kids to clean up their toys, or they will lose pieces to their games and we won't play them anymore. Too busy playing games that long ago lost most of their pieces. Too busy thinking that I'm kind of a like a game that lost most of its pieces.

Only in my case, I lost most of my marbles.

I'm too busy looking around me at the mess that drives me crazy, as I remind myself that this too, shall pass. I'm too busy washing clothes, and drying clothes, and folding clothes.

But somehow never putting clothes away.

I'm too busy laughing. And crying. And pulling my hair out.

I'm too busy driving. Driving them to school, driving them home, driving them to dance, and Girl Scouts, and play dates.

They're busy, too. Driving me crazy.

But someday, I think, maybe I won't be so busy. And then I can write something really deep. Something complex. Something bigger than all of this.

For now, the only thing deep is me.

 Knee deep in dirty clothes. Up to my elbows in dirty dishes.

Deeply in love with these little people who cause me to deeply question my sanity.

Deep seated in the knowledge that there's probably not much that's all that much bigger than this, anyway.

Breaking and Entering...

I've discovered that there is a positive aspect to your septic system overflowing all over your basement.

When the septic system overflows all over your basement,  you have to rip up all the carpet, and your husband installs tile on the basement floor, and you decide to get an area rug for the middle of the room, and the rug has that new rug smell, so you open the windows to air it out.

And fortunately, even though your husband closed the windows last night, you decided this morning that they really needed to be opened, cause that room still had the new rug smell.

And amazingly, you actually remembered to open them.

Which you are grateful for a few hours later, when your four year old informs you, through his laughter, that he has locked his two year old brother in that same room.

And this time, for some reason, the old coat hanger trick isn't working.

So you go outside, and you remove the screen, and you pray that the neighbors aren't watching, as you haul your butt through the window. At one point, you think maybe you should have brought your phone, in case you get stuck.

But then you realize, there's no way in hell you would ever actually call anyone to tell them you are stuck in the basement window anyway. You would just stay there, half in and half out, hoping that someone passing by would bring you some Crisco, while never actually acknowledging that you are stuck in your window.

Fortunately, you have enough room, and don't need the phone anyway.

Or the Crisco.

You do, however, realize that someone should be cleaning the outside window sills. Those things are disgusting.

But as half of your body is through the window, and you are contemplating how exactly to get your legs in without breaking one or both of them on the newly installed tile, your sweet two year old who has been quietly watching cartoons looks up at you, and says,

"Hi mom! Are you having a good day?"

Well, you know. I've had better.

Once you are in, and give your two year old lessons on how to unlock the door, you retrieve your four year old from his room and explain that he cannot lock his brother in the basement.

It's not nice. It could have scared him.

And besides, only mommy gets to lock people in the basement.

You then text one of your dearest friends, to fill her in on how exactly your day is going, and because she's one of your dearest friends, who has only your best interest at heart and wants only good things for you, she responds with, "Hahahahahahahahahahahaha".

Because that's what friends are for, obviously.

And then, to drive your point home with your four year old, you tell him that you had to crawl through the window to rescue his brother from the basement.

He stares at you for a minute, and you think that at least he now realizes the error of his ways.

And then he smiles and said "Really, mom? You crawled in through the window? Wow. You are cool, mom. You are so cool".

Yup, that's me.

So the next time you drive by our house and see my legs sticking out of the basement window, just remember...

I'm cool.

Irish (Dancers) Need Not Apply...

N started taking Irish dance a few weeks ago. This means that I no longer get to be embarrassed each week by B and O's antics at the ballet studio.

Now I get to be embarrassed each week by their antics at the Irish dance studio instead.

The Irish Dance classes are held at a large community center. When we walked in the first week, I noticed what a beautiful studio the class was in. I noticed how kind and knowledgeable N's teacher was. I noticed that there were several other types of dance classes going on at the same time.

And then I noticed that there were approximately 597 parents and siblings waiting in the hallway, which only had 27 chairs.

If it was just me, that wouldn't be so bad. Admittedly, I don't like crowds. But I would know to bring a vodka  pumpkin spice latte and a book and park myself in a corner somewhere. But it's not just me. I have B and O with me. They'll never let me drink my vodka  coffee in peace. Nor are they going to sit quietly in a corner for forty-five minutes if there's no duct tape involved.

So we wandered around to look at the Rec center's facilities. We found an indoor track. We walked it. For almost the whole time.

This, I thought, is a perfect way to spend the forty-five minutes while N's in class.

So yesterday, we again dropped N off at class, and headed upstairs to walk the track.

We completed all of two laps before an employee yelled at me as she pointed to B and O.

"Are they in Irish dance?"

Well, they obviously aren't in Irish dance because they are, in fact, here, on the track, with me. And besides, look at them. Do you think anyone has a chance of getting them to do an actual dance step, unless maybe it's "One, two, three, kick your brother in the knee"?

I decided these thoughts were better off in my head, and told her we were waiting for my daughter who was, in fact, in the Irish dance class.

"You need to wait in the hallway downstairs".

Huh?

I think I may have said that part out loud.

"Irish dance people aren't allowed up here. You need to wait in the hallway downstairs."

Yeah, that hallway. The one with 597 parents and 27 chairs.

I wondered why it was only the Irish dance people who couldn't use the track. Apparently, the ballet, tap, and jazz people were more than welcome to use it. Not that they were, since there were all of two other people on the track.

I thought of telling her this was clearly discrimination.

I thought of telling her a few other things too. But I didn't.

Instead, I grabbed B and O and told them we weren't allowed to walk on the track anymore.

"But why?" B wanted to know.

"Because we're with the Irish Dancers honey, and the Irish dance people aren't allowed to walk on the track with all the other people". 

Even though there were hardly any other people.

Then I smiled my sweetest, fakest smile at the employee, who was obviously not leaving until we had gotten off her track.

Apparently, the Irish dance people aren't allowed on the track because the Irish dance teacher only rents space from the Rec Center.

She did inform me that we were welcome to walk the track for twenty-one dollars each time we were there.

I told her I thought we'd just wait outside.

But next week, if you're looking for me, I'll be in the hallway downstairs. In a corner. With a pumpkin spice vodka latte.

I think I'll bring duct tape.

But then again, maybe I won't.

Just Call Me Martha...

When I made the decision to stay home with N, I had visions of my new life as a full time mom and homemaker.

Since I'd be home all the time, I figured I'd have time to make homemade dinners every night  more nights than not,  keep the house spotless relatively clean, and get in touch with my inner Martha Stewart around the holidays.

I soon discovered that there was just one thing--well, one thing at that particular moment-- that was preventing me from getting in touch with my inner Martha.

The baby.

Who was I kidding? There was no time for homemade meals every night. Or cleaning, let alone decorating. My days were consumed by breast milk and diapers. And then by baby food and diapers. And then by solid food and diapers.

And then, when I thought there might actually be a light at the end of the Tunnel of Lactation and Elimination, it started all over again.

And then again.

I'm not complaining. Not in the least little bit. But I did have to adjust my expectations just a little. Fortunately, I was never much of a domestic diva even before kids, so it wasn't too hard to adjust to the fact that, with the exception of nesting induced cleaning frenzies in the weeks before each child was born, my house wouldn't really be clean again for another eighteen years or so.

I did manage to get back to cooking dinner practically every night.

Some nights, someone even eats it.

At times, though, I still have delusional episodes where I become inspired, as I sit in front of the TV watching decorating shows and eating bon bons, to try once more to get in touch with my inner Martha.

So yesterday, as I was shopping all by myself, I had a few minutes to browse. I'm not sure how I was shopping all by myself. In fact, now that I'm writing this, I'm not sure that I really was shopping all by myself. I know there weren't three kids with me. I don't think there were two with me. But there may have been one with me. Well, whatever. Shopping with one is almost like shopping all by myself.

Anyway, me and little whoever-may-or-may-not-have-been-with-me were looking at festive Fall place mats. They had bright orange pumpkins on them. They had colorful leaves on them. Some even had "Fall" spelled out in various shades of orange and brown. And, since my inner Martha Stewart learned long ago to lower her standards when it comes to decorating, I thought they'd look great on our dining room table.

I put them on the table today when N was at school and B and O were napping, and was quite proud of my inner Martha as I stood back and looked at them.

OK, so I hadn't made them myself, and it's not like they surrounded a hand made ceramic pumpkin, or even a hand carved pumpkin. But really, who has time to be Martha Stewart? I'm convinced Martha Stewart doesn't even really have time to be Martha Stewart. She just has enough money to pay other people to be Martha Stewart once she's had enough of herself.

The important thing is, we had place mats in a variety of festive colors, and Martha or not, Fall was clearly in the air.

Having accepted several years ago that Jimmy doesn't give a shit care all that much about these types of things, I didn't bother to show him our new festive place mats. But I knew N would appreciate them when she got home. After she walked in the house, I pointed to the table and said,

"So? What do you think?"

She looked at the table and smiled, as she said "Those are pretty. What are they?"

Huh.

I'm wondering if it's actually possible that she's never seen place mats on our table before, when B comes downstairs and says, "Mom, why are there big napkins all over the table?"

Oh.

Maybe it is possible.

I bring O downstairs a few minutes later. I show him the pretty pumpkins on one of the place mats. He's looking at the other place mat--the one that spells out "Fall" in various shades of orange and brown.

"F!" he says

I point out the other letters and spell out Fall.

He is stuck on F.

He is pointing to the pumpkin as he says "F..F...F"

"No O, there's no F in pumpkin", I tell him.

But we do have new effin place mats.

Happy Fall.