Araceli and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day

Araceli forgot her lunch today. Her mom brought it to school too late. She was already eating school lunch. It was so yucky, she had to lay her head down on her desk and rest after lunch. (The main ingredients in school lunch nowdays are additives and preservatives.)

Araceli fell down the stairs at recess and scraped her knee. She came home wearing a bloody band-aid. Her mom told her it wouldn't interfere with playing the cello. Her hair was down and all disheveled, like it had had a rough day, too.

At ballet, she left her leo and tights in the car and had to go get them in bare feet because she didn't wear shoes. Then her ballet teacher (me) sat on her toe and squished it. And her hair was still down and disheveled, not in a nice bun like usual, because her mom was too scared of it to put it up. And she forgot her new ballet skirt.

Araceli's mom accidentally gave her Ruby's homework to do. It was really hard and took a long time. After she did that, she had to do her own homework.

Araceli's mom made pumpkin bread pudding because she knew it could make everything better. Ari asked if she could please take a big piece of it over to Coco and Bill. She knew that showing up at the door with a big piece of Coco's favorite dessert would make her very special, indeed. When you have a bloody-knee-yucky-lunch-squished-toe-hard-homework kind of day, you need to be recognized as very special. The bread pudding trick worked. Coco and Bill were delighted to see Araceli and laid on the praise and adoration as thick as whipped cream.

At the end of the day, Ari's mom asked her if she had a good day or a bad day. She sang out, "A GREAT day!"

See, bread pudding can make everything better, but only if you share it with your grandparents. Or maybe the bread pudding has nothing to do with it. Maybe it's just grandparents who make everything all better. Even so, the bread pudding can't hurt...

Throwdown!

Guess who made the scarecrow doll? If you guessed Scott, that is really scary, but you were right. Scott made this doll for me 11 years ago. I have no idea why, and I'm sure he doesn't either, but it is extremely cute. When I got it out for Fall yesterday, Scott looked at it and said, "I'm going to challenge Gingham World to a throwdown. My doll rocks!" Michelle, I can hear you laughing! The witch doll was handcrafted by Michelle at Gingham World. Although there will be no more Scott Originals, there are more Witch Dolls available from the Gingham World Shop, and they are beautiful. NOT as beautiful as Scott's scarecrow doll, of course, because my husband has SKILLZ when it comes to a needle pulling thread! What CAN'T this guy do??

Felshaw

My dad ALWAYS said he'd whip us when we were kids, but he NEVER did. He ALWAYS gave us "one more chance."

My dad ALWAYS told me I was a genius. He NEVER, to my knowledge, found out I wasn't.

My dad ALWAYS asks me, "What is your integrity worth?" He NEVER cheats or bends the truth.

My dad has ALWAYS been a runner. My diary from 1980, on the day of one of Dad's marathons, says, "My dad won the race! 64th place overall!" In my eyes, he NEVER loses. He NEVER quits, either. He once ran a marathon with a sprained ankle. He won that race, too.

As kids, we would ALWAYS act exasperated when Dad would say, "Everybody! Hurry! Look at the sunset!" Now I NEVER miss a chance to point out a beautiful sunset to my kids.

My dad ALWAYS calls his grandkids to invite them over. If they don't show up, he NEVER waits too long to come over with his Afghan hounds to see how school went or share a pertinent newspaper article.

My dad NEVER stops teaching. He is ALWAYS learning. For a "gift" one time, my dad bookmarked a big stack of encyclopedias for me for a report on Alpha Centauri, the Nearest Star to the Earth. I was hoping, not for a stack of reference books, but for a Bonne Bell lipgloss, but I wouldn't have remembered a gift like lipgloss 25 years later. The real gift was my dad's excitement.

My dad's kids NEVER did learn Latin. Dad ALWAYS called us into his library and tried to give us Latin lessons. All I remember is "Florida est une peninsula." Hey, aren't most of those words the same in English? Sorry, Dad.

My dad is ALWAYS up for an adventure. I'll NEVER forget the trip I took with him last year to the Florida Keys, all the way at the southern end of the "peninsula." (See how those Latin lessons paid off?) We drove all the way to Key West and all the way back in one long, perfect day. Nobody else would have done that.

I'll NEVER concede that there's a dad out there better than mine. I hope my dad ALWAYS remembers that. Happy Birthday, Dad! Love ya, proud of ya!

Panama

Oh, I wish I were going to Panama! No, I was just thinking about the famous palindrome, "A man, a plan, a canal, Panama." It makes it sound like a man woke up one morning, came up with a plan, and -voila!- the Panama Canal was built. I'm sure it wasn't that easy, but it's a really cool palindrome. Araceli's decisiveness made me think of it. When she wakes up with a plan, nothing can stop her. We don't even try anymore. Yesterday, she woke up with a fully-formed itinerary for the afternoon. She went straight to Scott and told him, "At 5:00, you're going to take me to get my ears pierced and the earrings are going to be silver and Xanthe can come too, and maybe we'll get her ears pierced. Maybe."

So that's what they did. Only the earrings are pink. Ari was outraged at the mistake and claimed, repeatedly, that it was because the lady "wasn't paying attention!" Fortunately, the pink earrings look darling. Ari, being the responsible person she is, has to stop what she's doing about every six minutes to twist her earrings so they won't...well, I'm not sure why. But that's what the lady said to do.

Hey, if you need a canal built, or just have to get something done that doesn't seem humanly possible, Araceli is your girl. My dad saw her walking to school one day and reported that she was walking at a 45 degree angle, her head way ahead of her feet, as steely and determined as a guided missile. This kid will change the world. Because the world certainly is not going to change her. And that's a good thing.

True Gem

I've been thinking about the Christmas song, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, because it wishes a merry Christmas to "kids from one to ninety-two." Nana Ruby turned ninety-two today, so technically, she won't qualify for the song next year! That's quite an accomplishment, aging out of Merry Christmas! The thing I love about Nana is how, every decade or so, she comes right out and says she doesn't like something. Back in 1979, we were listening to a record of whales "singing." I thought it was cool, but Nana laughingly declared it to be "dumb." Then, circa 1992, I was sitting next to Nana at the opera when she leaned over and whispered, "This is so STUPID!" I'm still laughing about that one. Maybe she was right!

Today when I asked Nana what one of my cousins is majoring in, she replied, "Oh, world domination or something."

And those are the three things Nana has said in her life, that I know of, that weren't 100% positive and uplifting. But they were still funny! I love Nana, the peaceful and orderly feeling she cultivates in her home, her love and talent for music, how she loves each of us completely. Nana prays for every one of her progeny by name every night, and there are almost 100 of us, including in-laws. One day, soon after we brought Xanthe home, I was in Nana's bedroom and saw on her nightstand a little scrap of paper that said one word: "Xanthe." It's a crazy name and she wanted to remember it just right for her prayers. Knowing that I have a grandmother who prays for my family and me by name every night makes me feel safe and loved, and inspires me to be as good as Nana thinks I am...or knows I could be. If she thinks any of us are less than perfect, she never lets on. She always says, "You're my favorite...besides the others!" I'm Nana's favorite! Besides the others!...

Practice Makes Permanent

Practice doesn't make perfect, practice makes permanent. Just another axiom designed to make moms feel guilty and/or inadequate. According to Dr. Suzuki, not only does your child have to practice "only on the days he eats," but it has to be good quality, too, or you're just developing bad habits. The pressure! My kids definitely aren't the prodigies you see on PBS, but they won't be the ones who later lament the fact that their mom didn't make them practice as kids, I promise you that! On September 15, all of them started a One Hundred Days in a Row challenge. Posting our progress on the blog will motivate me to keep it up, so thanks for being my enforcers! Here are some of my practicing motivators, in hopes that you'll share your ideas with me...



Leaving the instruments out until all the practicing is done. It makes the task seem easier if you can get started on it quickly, and the instrument is a visual reminder. Golda likes to go through one book at a time and set each one aside as she finishes it. Her main motivation for doing well is that she doesn't want to hear my footsteps coming toward her room, which tends to happen when a note or a rhythm is repeatedly wrong.

Extreme measures: (no pun intended) practicing at the same time when we're in a hurry. I call this "turbo speed practicing." If it's a day where we're out the door early, at least I feel like we got something done beforehand. It makes for a chaotic ride, though!
Involving friends, as in, "Hey, kids! It's time for music class! Ari will show you how to hold the bow!" That works better than waiting until all the friends are gone because Ari loves to be a teacher, and Freestone loves to have an audience. A friend favorite is "rhythm class," where Freestone gets his Twinkle variation clapping done and all the kids have fun.
Freestone loves to count things. When it's time to practice, I grab a handful of some random item, like crayons or flash cards and each time he does what I ask, he gets one. Coins are a big favorite. He sits on a circular rug and puts a coin on the edge of the rug until the coins circle all the way around. Today, I let him open the package Tiffany gave me. It was a treasure trove of fun ideas. We put the candy corns in the love box one at a time. Tomorrow, we'll use the sugar babies, and the next day, he'll get to turn a page of the Halloween book each time he plays something. Thanks, Tiffany! Inspiration is more fun when it's colorful!

Ari loves to check things off. If I give her a "100 times chart," she'll practice forever, trying to fill in the chart. Ruby's style is to work by herself for awhile, then go through everything with me to smooth out what she's learned. That way, everything gets done twice as many times, once alone and once with me. She gets frustrated if I help her before she's had a chance to work it out on her own.

My best weapon is the Minnie Mouse Board. All the practicing that doesn't get done before school gets written on a dry-erase board so we can keep track of what still has to be done. It's called Minnie Mouse because it lists what, hopefully, are "mini" assignments, if you've gotten most of your work done before school. Now I write homework assignments, reading and class/lesson times on it, too, so everybody knows what to do, when. It's weird what will work and what won't, but the Minnie Mouse Board seems to do the trick. As of now, Freestone is finished with practicing, Xanthe has 10 more minutes, Golda has 20, Ari 18 more, Ruby has 35 more...I can't remember all this stuff without a cheat sheet!

If you're a parent with practicing (or non-practicing!) kids, give me all your secrets. (I can just picture Golda trying to tell me that she's going to become a "non-practicing flutist.") As you know, our bag of tricks has to be refilled daily. With nine days down and 91 to go, I'm going to need some more ideas!

Memory

Few things in life are as good the second time around. We tend to romanticize our memories, so to relive them falls short of our expectations. Well, Mister Mistoffelees was working his magic tonight, because CATS was every bit as magical as ever, only this time I got to share it with some pretty amazing kids! Chuckling, I noticed some things that dated CATS a little bit, like the fact that the cats' costumes all included leg warmers. Holy 1983! We got there in plenty of time because, well, I just couldn't wait any longer. We had time to hang out around the stage door, study the CATS poster intently and get treats to share in the lobby as we watched the theatregoers filter in.

All the littles got red velvet cushions to sit on and - get this! - there was nobody in front of us! The nice man at Arttix had put us on the fifth row, so we were right in the action. Even before the first note, cast members were slinking right by us, looking straight into Araceli's eyes. It was pure delight all the way around. At intermission, Ruby was panicked that it might be over. No, we still had time for a second round of treats, then back to our seats to hear the familiar "Memory," among other favorites. Unexpectedly, Grizzabella brought me to tears, just like in the eighties, when she hit that "Touch me! It's so easy to leave me!..." At the end of the production, the crowd jumped to their feet, screaming like their team had just won the world series. I swear, the kids were glowing with excitement. Golda and Ruby, especially, looked at me like, "I get it, Mom! I love it too, now!" Araceli just couldn't stop laughing. Freestone said, "I think everything is Jellicle," and Jake was already practicing the cat moves, headed directly for the stage.

On the way to the car, I felt like I was on the set of Fame, watching the kids dance their way down the street, singing. At that moment, I don't think there was a kid among us that didn't secretly wish to be on Broadway one day. That's the magic of the theatre.

What a spiritual way to spend a Sunday morning: admiring fine art in person. The UMFA was filled with a rare collection of procrastinators today, the very last day of the Monet to Picasso exhibit, and my parents, Trajan, Golda, Ruby and I were among them. I had goosebumps the entire time. I had forgotten what it was like to stand two feet away from works of art like Picasso's La Vie and that painting by Van Gogh of the two poplar trees. Van Gogh used so much paint! No wonder he was always destitute, spending all his centimes on oil paints!

I posted these three paintings because Angela had them on her blog, and I stole them. Thanks, Ang! They do happen to be among my favorites. I love Modigliani. I think I loved the Picassos more than anything. I admired his early works for their realism, his later works for their raw emotion, and the Cubist paintings for their innovation. Although I still haven't fully figured out how to look at a Cubist painting.

I'm so lucky to have been uplifted like this today. The infinite possibilities that each human spirit holds are a true testament to Divinity. Thanks to Pablo and Vincent and Claude and Amedeo for their remarkable genius.

Puzzling

Parenting is so surprising. The journey gets more and more nuanced and nebulous as we go. I thought having kids would be so straightforward. I pictured my children all looking and acting very much alike, dressed in smocked dresses and liederhosen, speaking several languages by Montessori school graduation. They would be prodigies on their tiny violins and read on a high school level while still in diapers. At six, they would say things like, "Nietzsche said God is dead, but now Nietzsche dead." We would spend summers in the Algarve so they could brush up on their Portuguese, and for Christmas, they would receive intricate model cars, antique dolls and first editions of Charles Dickens.

Eleven years later, my kids can't even flush a toilet. They can't. Xanthe is enrolled in a preschool I chose from a sign at Albertson's. My first grader is reading at a first grade level. Golda is convinced I don't know anything about music.  Nobody plays the violin.  Ruby is getting bones broken by bullies. Freestone acted like a human pinball at group guitar tonight. None of this was part of the original plan. I did not picture my son as the one who would flap his arms wildly and shout uncontrollably in a guitar lesson. I thought my kid would be the one in a Ralph Lauren tie sitting next to the shouting boy, wondering what was wrong with him.

Each child is a 500-piece puzzle, and each situation that arises is only one piece. Sometimes I feel like I get the piece to fit, and sometimes I cannot find where it goes. It would help if I knew what the puzzle was supposed to look like when it was finished, but I don't. I'm focused on these five beautiful, intricate puzzles, and I don't even know if I'm putting them together right. I might be damaging the edges. I might be forcing pieces to fit where they shouldn't. I might be getting it all wrong. I don't know.

I do know this: Parenting is a spiritual journey. We are not in it alone. I have asked for help, I have been blessed with it. With each child, I have been given strengths I didn't have before. Puzzles take patience. I'm praying for the inspiration to get all the pieces to fit. And praying Freestone can someday control his cute little arms and legs.

Love Halloween

Look what Tiffany gave me to celebrate Halloween! Thanks, Tiff! Isn't her wrapping beautiful, with all the little trinkets? If you love perfection, go see Tiffany's other love boxes. Now I'm ready to start Halloweening!

Waiting for the Jellicle Moon to Rise

Last night, Golda came in the kitchen at 11:00 PM. I thought I had put her to bed ages ago. I said, "Golda, what are you doing up? It had BETTER be because you've been listening to CATS." Clearly, my priorities are out of order. Nevertheless, I did feel better when Golda started singing Skimbleshanks, The Railway Cat. It got her right off the hook for being up so late.
Don't even tell me CATS isn't about anything. That would be like me breaking it to you that Sarah Palin doesn't rock. Let's not talk hot button issues. CATS is the best musical ever. I bet Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote Phantom of the Opera using a leftover melody from CATS. See, I'm getting all worked up about it. That's how fanatics get. I've seen CATS many times, the last time with Scott. He didn't love it, but we stayed married, and we're working through our differences.

Listening to CATS in the car with the kids, I can tell what song is coming by the static that precedes it. It's one of those soundtracks that I wore out when it was new. I know SWS shared my obsession, and maybe even started it. I'm pretty sure we both transcribed all the lyrics onto paper by hitting the rewind button over and over, before we realized there was a book by T. S. Eliot that had all the lyrics in it! Gold mine!

I can't wait to take the kids to see CATS in person. Even though cats have nine lives, the run can't last forever. This could be their last chance to see the breathtaking set or have a cast member walk right by them! I'm starting to get all teary-eyed thinking about it, and it's not my allergy to cats that's causing it. I'm remembering when my parents bought me the CATS sweatshirt at intermission at the Winter Garden Theatre. Joy! Getting tickets with my equally-enamored friends for the West End production. Bliss! My enthusiasm is on par with the excitement Scott felt about seeing David Copperfield a few years ago. But Scott, even "the greatest magicians have something to learn...from Mister Mistoffelees' conjuring turns!"

Get used to it. I might be spouting CATS lyrics like a Tourette's sufferer for awhile. And it might be contagious.

Wac-a-Mole

I thrive on having a big, long list of things to do and neatly checking them off as I go. The problem is, the list won't hold still. The things on my list, instead of standing there in an orderly single-file line, act more like they're in a crack-enhanced game of Wac-a-Mole. No sooner do I start one task than another one pops up. I just try to beat down as many of those little moles as I can. Here's a sample from today's list: Mission accomplished: semi-healthy after-school snack (whole-grain waffle, blueberries and Breyer's Vanilla) consumed by everyone. (Even Jakey...sans blueberries, of course!)
Mission in progress: Apricot nectar, aka "runny nose medicine," bought at Bowman's case lot sale, brought in the house, waiting to be taken to the storage room. So far, no takers on making 10 trips to the basement and risking a broken toe in the process. You know you're going to drop one of those suckers.
Mission overaccomplished: I cannot be trusted to broil things while helping kids with homework, practicing and "getting another drink." Why do I think I can? My attention span didn't even last long enough to set the timer after I popped the bread in the oven.

I'll tell you one thing, I'm just thankful for the list. I know something is wrong with me because downtime makes me crazy unless I'm sitting right next to a calming body of water. For today, like every day, I'll roll my unfinished tasks over to tomorrow, just like phone minutes. There are only three things that have to be finished every day, no rollovers: getting to lessons on time, homework and practicing. The rest is just Wac-a-Mole. You can't win those carnival games, you know. But it's fun to try!

Achy Breaky

The jury is in. Ruby's arm is broken. It happened Saturday during Ari's soccer game. Ruby was hanging upsidedown on the "bar" when an ugly little girl in a light blue soccer jersey shouted at her, "Get off!" and pushed her. OK, the girl wasn't ugly, and I don't know who she was, but I'm still a little mad at her, bless her little heart. Grrrrrr! It's the mother bear instinct.

Ruby fell right on her arm, and although she cried and complained about it, I thought she'd be fine. I'm from the "It's Just Growing Pains" school of thought. Maybe there isn't a school, but that's what my mom always said, and it's what I always say, too. To my credit, I did take her in for X-rays, where the on-call doctor gave her a sling and said if it still hurt Monday, it was probably broken. Genius.

With the help of a mega-dose of ibuprofen, Ruby valiantly went to a birthday party, a food festival at the Thai Buddhist temple, swimming with cousins and out to dinner. If you're going to be miserable, you might as well have fun at the same time, right? Towards the end, though, she wasn't having a whole lot of fun.

This morning, Dr. Scheu. helped us get into a great orthopedic surgeon. (Thanks, Mike!) Although the doctor couldn't figure out how to enlarge the X-ray on the computer screen, he was able to diagnose a frature by putting his face close to the screen and squinting. Not exactly standard procedure, but I'll take it. Notwithstanding his obvious lack of tech savvy, the doctor was knowledgable and efficient. Within minutes, Ruby was sporting a bright pink cast, set at just the right angle to allow guitar practicing. Because I'm a bad mom AND a mean mom!

Ruby immediately felt better, with the cast protecting her tender arm, and her mind at ease. My uncle had the best advice about this whole scenario. At the Thai festival Saturday, he pointed out the Buddhist monks in their orange robes and told Ruby how they try to live good, simple lives and treat people with kindness. They love peace and try to set a good example. With that said, he told Ruby, "There are jerks in the world. You'll run into about one a year. Don't let it affect you." That simple advice makes this whole episode seem like a minor inconvenience in the whole scheme of things. It could have been a lot worse. We don't even have to worry about it one bit. We'll just be thankful Ruby doesn't have to run into another jerk for a whole year, if all goes according to Uncle Jim's Philosophy of Life!

Read With Your Child

If there's one thing I've learned from years of PBS kids' television, it's that reading to your child is very important. I started the morning letting Xanthe choose a book. Whenever Xanthe opens a book, she mimicks Ari and Free. She opens the book, points, and says stiltingly, "SEE! SAM! I! SEE! SAM!" I thought Xanthe should probably be aware that you don't have to bark out the words like a first grader when you read.

I opened the book and began, "Santa's sleigh was piled high with toys."
Xanthe studies the picture and says, "No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"OK. Down the chimney Santa went."
"Why?"
"Because."
"Betuzz?"
"Yes. So he could leave toys for the kids."
"Where's MY toy?"
"You're not in the book. Let's keep reading."
"Yes I am!"
"Santa left a shiny yellow truck for John."
"That's MY truck! He brought it for Xanthe!"
"No, he brought it for John because Xanthe isn't in the story."
"Yes I am! That's MY lellow truck! Where's me?"

"Xanthe, how would you like to watch a very special episode of Curious George?"

Simple Thing

Once a week, Ruby, Freestone and I rock out. They each have a guitar lesson, after which we do something fun for a couple hours. Then they each have an hour-long group lesson, Freestone first. Spending that much time with the two guitar students is a luxury for me, made possible by everyone else holding down the fort at home.

While Ruby was in her group class, Freestone and I sat down to a brownie and a bag of Haribo raspberries at Cucina on Second Avenue. We were having a conversation about how Freestone "didn't have time to learn ANYTHING at school, actually." Free had valiantly tried to hold still and manage his unweildy guitar for the past hour, and he was oozing with energy as he organized his candies into a pattern. He started singing that song, "Oh simple thing! Where have you gone?" Only it came out in boisterous tones, "Oh thimple fing!! Wheh have you gone!?.." Then he fell off his chair.

My eyes filled with stinging tears at his innocence. Freestone popped up looking slightly alarmed at my watery eyes. I remembered something out of a book: "If a child is not the voice of God, God never spoke."

This simple thing, this straw-haired boy in the autumn light, is what every child is. A gift from God that we can hardly begin to deserve if we work our whole lives at it.

I said, "Freestone, I'm proud of you for being such a great kid."

He replied, "No you're not. You're crying."

Only because I just caught a glimpse of something simple: The divinity behind all the sound and fury of our lives.

Bend THIS

You can tell which kids are the soccer kids in one glance. It's not the girls who are picking flowers, wearing a dress and floral leggings with shinguards over them. Frankly, soccer just isn't our thing. Yet every season, we seem to end up with at least one kid joining AYSO. The first season with Golda, I raised my hand at the first practice and asked when the girls were to receive their costumes. It's been downhill ever since. I won't even go into Freestone's soccer experience last year, during which he scored several goals for the opposing teams.

The ineptitude began a generation ago, before coaches started giving every kid an equal chance. I was always the kid who stood there trying to look focused while the ball was in play at the other end of the field. Halfback? I even lagged seriously behind when it came to getting an orange slice at halftime. There were never any left by the time I jogged all the way over from the far end of the field.

Here is one reason I'm not a "soccer mom" in the strictest sense:

"Hello, is this...uh...Erachelli's mom?"
"Yes. Hi!"
"Hi, I'm Amy. I'm coaching Erachelli's team, and they just called me last night when the dad who was supposed to coach dropped out. So we have our first practice today at 4:00 and a game Saturday at 12:00. Bring a ball and wear cleats and shinguards."
(I'm thinking "OK, the practice is during ballet and the game is during cello. Oh, and let's see...do I have time to go and buy cleats before 4:00?")

On so many levels, I despise soccer. The lack of organization, the way it abruptly butts into our schedule for six weeks in the fall and six weeks in the spring, the incessant running after the ball with no clear idea of technique, the parents who won't stop shouting things like "Way to hustle!" I'm also miffed about the way proponents tout AYSO as character-building and self-esteem boosting. If you want your kid to build character, put her in a ballet program where if she works consistently for several years, she might get pretty good. Have her play an instrument and teach her to practice every single day, not just 12 times a year. And for crying out loud, do not give a kid a trophy when his biggest accomplishment was eating the most fruit snacks after the game! Still, when Ari asked to do it, I said yes because it's good exercize, and because the older kids got to try it. Also, it's a good lesson in following through with something because you said you would. Truth be told, I like having an excuse to get outside and relax for an hour on Saturdays. Or a half hour if the game inexplicably starts twenty minutes late and Ari has to leave after the third quarter to get to cello.
When we left for soccer practice today, Ari said, "OK, I'll go. Even though soccer is the stupidest thing in the WORLD!" Mission accomplished right there. She gets the dedication thing, yet she's not likely to try it again. Way to hustle, Erachelli!

On FIRE!

We have a new creature living at our house. We call her The Spicy Beast. Once she was a cute little baby. Now she's a loud, brash, demanding preschooler. I'm not saying she was ever placid. She's always been a Spicy Girl. But her status has been upgraded to Spicy BEAST since she started school. Xanthe is taking this whole "big girl" thing to the extreme. I'm not even allowed to go all the way to the door when I drop her off. Yesterday I told Xanthe's friend, "I'm going to be at preschool tomorrow!"
Xanthe scowled at me, folded her arms and said, "No you not! You too OLD!"
The funniest part, and I don't know if you can relate to this, is that she sounded exactly like the steroetypical "Scornful First Generation Asian-American Mom" out of a movie. "No you not! You too old!" Think Joy Luck Club. She even looked the part in her retro dress. I could almost picture a cup of green tea in her hand, or a mahjong tile. She is SO FUNNY!

The day starts with the Spicy Beast standing groggily at the top of the stairs, her hair wild and crazy, her eyes daring anyone to cross her. When I see her, I can hear the Psycho theme music in my head. Her daily activities include screaming "Maaaaaaaaama! Maaaaaama!" anytime one of the other kids talks to me, sitting on my lap whining "My turn! I pwactice! NOW!!!!" whenever I help someone else practice, demanding that I constantly hand her random items while I'm driving, and most recently, pushing her drink off the edge of the kitchen counter. She was surprised and pleased when the cup shattered on the floor.

I'm delighted Xanthe is asserting herself instead of developing her passive-aggressive tendencies. This is a positive step, and an adorable one. I love my little Spicy Beast. That doesn't mean, however, that we don't all breathe a sigh of relief when she falls asleep in her macaroni! Terrorizing the neighborhood is hard work!

Turning Tides

Some days are for making dreams come true and some days are for "growing experiences." Golda didn't get the part of Clara, and she was so disappointed. Even in the moment when her devastation was fresh, she sought out the girl who got the part. Golda hugged her and shared in her celebration. Later, she kept saying through her tears that she was excited for the girl. I couldn't help but be proud of Golda's graciousness. It's not when you win that your character comes out. It's when you're defeated.

Golda got the part of Oriental Servant, which is the part I had when I finally made the Nutcracker. I'm really excited about her following in my footsteps! Ruby got the part of buffoon, and she was elated. Last year, she set her sights firmly on buffoon, to the extent that I let her take gymnastics so she could learn how to do handsprings in preparation for the audition. She worked at it doggedly, but gymnastics turned out to be a big challenge, and she didn't get the buffoon part. So tonight, Ruby was doubly thrilled that her goal was belatedly realized.

It was hard for me to balance Ruby's joy and Golda's dejection. Ruby consoled Golda, kindly putting her own excitement aside. It is tough to watch helplessly as these character building experiences arise, but it's the only way. Parents just have to grit their teeth and let the waves of despair wash over them sometimes. The alternative is being a parent who goes behind the scenes, trying to nullify or erase all the disappointment and heartache, trying to shield kids from growing and progressing. I won't be that parent. All I really had to offer Golda were tales of my own failures as a young dancer. The times I was the first one cut. The time I was the very last one cut. The time I was the only girl in the car on the way home who didn't make it. Then there was the time I was still standing after all the cuts had been made, and I still treasure that Nutcracker experience.

The tears are all dry now. Golda is thankful to be an Oriental Servant, and I am thankful to have another of childhood's hurdles behind us. Mostly, I'm thankful to have girls I'm proud of, no matter what part they dance onstage.