The Ballet

I'm full of bright ideas.  Really, I am.  I like to think I do a good job of exposing Punky to different things to encourage her imagination, broaden her horizons, and inspire her dreams.  But once in a while, things don't go off exactly how I had previously envisioned.  And today, unfortunately, was one of those times.

We were up and out early this morning because my company was hosting its annual children's Christmas party at ten.  To my delight, in fact to everyone's delight, the usual puppet lady entertainment was nixed this year and replaced by a funny magician with lots of experience amusing kids and grown-ups alike. His show was a breath of fresh air and Punky absolutely loved him.  He made her a balloon poodle and then pulled her up on stage during his act to retrieve a long, white scarf from her ear (it must have snuck in there with the popcorn kernel almost two years ago).  After singing some carols, Santa made a grand appearance and all the kids had a chance to sit on his lap and get a gift. Punky was thrilled with the Hello Kitty Diary she received and she couldn't wait to get home to play with it, but I threw a wrench in her plan.

See, the bright idea had been bouncing around my head for a full twenty four hours at that point and I was fully ready to commit.  When Punky's dad picked us up after the party, we made a quick stop at the store, had a nice lunch at a restaurant, and then headed to the theater to surprise Punky with something I thought we'd all really enjoy: The Nutcracker.

Despite the fact that I love its music and insist on listening to it every year while we decorate the tree, I somehow managed to make it to forty without ever actually seeing the ballet.  Even though they play it a gazillion times on TV around the holidays, I've never watched more than a minute or two.  In fact, I've never watched more than a minute or two of any ballet.  But, Punky loves ballerinas.  The Nutcracker is a classic.  And we all love live shows, period.  Maybe this will be the start of a new family tradition every Christmas?

Punky could hardly contain her excitement as we waited for the curtain to rise and I'll never forget how her eyes lit up the instant she saw that first ballerina twirling around the stage.  We were all mesmerized by the lights, the costumes, the spins, and the music, but by intermission I think we had all seen enough.  

Punky was bored and getting rambunctious by that point, her dad admittedly dozed off twice near the end of the act, and I was honestly very disappointed in myself for feeling, well, less than entertained, I suppose.

Okay, bored.  I was bored, too.  The music of the Nutcracker always sucks me in, I feel it resonate through my entire body, it's one of my absolute favorite things about Christmas... But the actual ballet part?  Yawn.

Yes, I do really feel bad for saying that.  I obviously know very little about ballet, but I was still able to see just how hard the ballerinas worked to reach that performance and how incredibly talented they all are.  The little kids in the show really blew my mind; I had no idea any child could ever be so graceful at such a young age.  Because it was a local theater group, the audience was filled with proud parents, grandparents, siblings, and so on, all intensely watching the entire show with bouquets of flowers on their laps. How could I not appreciate such a beautiful, magical, classic ballet?

When it resumed after intermission I tried so hard to love it, I swear I did, but I still had no clue what the hell was going on and it seemed like the ballerinas kept doing the same three or four steps, over and over and over again, to every single song, in every single scene.  Punky lost interest entirely and found the contents of my purse more amusing than the show, and I think I heard her dad snoring once.  Alright, twice.  After what seemed like an hour of bows, applause, and bouquet presentations, I hung my head in shame as we quietly left the theater and walked to the truck in silence.

If nothing else, the afternoon was a learning experience.  We now know to read the story behind the ballet before actually going to see one (not that we ever will again) because we obviously aren't intelligent enough to figure it out while watching.  On the drive home, the three of us discussed what we thought the story of the Nutcracker was really about and we didn't agree on anything.  We were all proved wrong as I consulted Wikipedia and read the story aloud over dinner that evening. 

Punky's dad sees it as three hours he can never get back, but I don't feel that way.  I can now say I've seen a live ballet.  I can now say I've seen the Nutcracker.  I can now attempt to sway Punky toward jazz or tap dance lessons and not feel a bit guilty for doing so.  I love my daughter with all my heart but I just can't even imagine sitting through ballet recital after ballet recital.  The poor girl is stuck with old parents and we need something far more exciting than a plie to keep us awake and alert in the audience.  

And, I can also say I did manage to start a family Christmas tradition of sorts. I bought Punky a ballerina ornament during intermission to commemorate the occasion and I can say without a doubt that each year, as it's discovered in the box and hung on the tree, we will relive our afternoon at the ballet and the realization that we are just about as uncultured as it gets.

Laughter in the Rain

Nearly four months in, I don't even need a full hand to count the number of positive things I have to say about being forty.  I still hate the very thought of it. 

I hate the fine lines on my face that somehow appear more noticeable since my birthday. 

I hate the white strands of hair that seem to be spreading all too quickly now.  It might not be so bad if they at least attempted to blend in, but the obnoxious little shits have a mind of their own, sticking straight up and out like the bristles of a wire brush. 

I hate that I've recently noticed a few small spider veins developing in my legs.

I hate that I consciously pay attention to ads for things like leaky bladder medicine because my over-the-hill body might break at any minute and leave me Tena-twisting all over the place.

I hate terms like 'middle age', 'seasoned', and 'mature'.  And, so help me, I will slap the next person who says, "Forty is the new twenty."

No, it isn't.  It's nowhere even remotely close to twenty.  In fact, it's twenty away from twenty.  In no other case would anyone even consider those numbers as equals.  Next time you're out shopping, find an item priced at $40 and offer the cashier $20.  See how that goes.

But if there is one gem I've discovered about this whole over-forty racket, it's the fact that I truly care less what other people think of me.  I spent the majority of my life being self-conscious about, well, everything.  I'm sad to say I missed out on a lot of things I may have loved if I just had the courage to take a chance without worrying what others would think.

I'm not sure if it's a "with age, comes wisdom" type of thing, or if it simply took me this long to get over my insecurities.  Maybe I'm truly a slow learner in the life-lesson department.  At any rate, I've found a whole new type of freedom with this revelation and it's led to mornings like this one:

The sound of the rain pelting the air conditioner woke me from a dead sleep.  I barely poured a cup of coffee when Punky stumbled out of her room, no doubt also awakened by the downpour passing through the neighborhood.

We chatted a bit while she ate her cereal and I told her we were likely to be stuck in the house most of the day.  The weather forecast called for rain, rain, and more rain. Blah.

"Can we go outside and play in the rain?" Her eyes lit up just asking the question.

"Oh honey, I don't know if that's a good idea."  I mumbled. 

"You said we could sometime."  Her matter-of-fact tone isn't so cute when she's right.

"I know, Punky, but it really has to be a nice, warm day with a nice, warm rain, and no thunder or whipping wind."

"I don't hear any thunder, Mommy."

"I haven't either but it's a really heavy rain.  And I doubt it's very warm.  And it's only 8:15 in the morning.  And Mommy really doesn't feel like getting soaked right now.  Maybe later in the day if it warms up.  Besides, I just poured a cup of coffee."  I was seriously fighting the urge to crawl back under the covers for a few more hours.

Just then Punky's dad came in from playing outside in the shed, or whatever it is he does for hours in that tiny shack of tools, grease, and broken stuff.

"Boy, that's really a warm rain this morning.  Now they're saying it should be over by noon and we will see some sunny skies after all today." He bent down to kiss Punky's head without realizing he just sealed my fate.

"Daddy said it's warm, Mommy!  And it's not going to rain later!  Please, Mommy!  Please, please, please can we play in the rain?" she hopped of the stool and bounced around the kitchen.

I admitted defeat with a long sigh as I shot a sarcastic thank-you look to her dad.

"Yes, Punky, yes.  Finish your breakfast and we'll play in the rain."

So, we kicked off our Sunday by running up and down the street in a total downpour, jumping and splashing in every puddle we found, giggling hysterically, and dancing in the rain like no one was watching. No doubt the neighbors think I'm a lunatic (did I mention we were still in our pajamas?) but to my four year old I'm clearly the coolest mom ever.  And that's worth every drop of mud and water I had to clean off the kitchen floor once we finally came inside to hit the showers.

Mother's Day Jewels

Last year for Mother's Day, Punky made me a bracelet at school. Despite its brightly colored rainbow beads and overly snug elastic, I've worn it faithfully every day (except a handful of times when I forgot it entirely or chose to skip it for fear of losing it - like on amusement park days).

As you'd expect, I absolutely love it. I love that she made it herself, I love the little block beads that spell her beautiful name, I love that she still checks my wrist a whole year later to make sure I'm wearing it, but most of all I love it because of how proud she was to give it to me as a Mother's Day gift. I'll never forget how she beamed from ear to ear as I unwrapped it and tried it on for the first time. She seemed so grown up in that moment and I relive it each time I wear the bracelet.

The company I work for has a very formal office environment and professional attire is expected at all times. The men wear suit jackets and ties every day, business casual is frowned upon, and there are no dress down Fridays for us. I think the walls would burst into flames if everyone showed up in jeans.  Anyway, my childlike multi-color bead bracelet doesn't exact match my work wardrobe, but I've worn it religiously nonetheless and answered many questions about its origin when I remove my suit jacket or let it slip out from under a long-sleeve shirt.  It's small and easy to conceal if needed, and most people think it's adorable when they hear the story behind why I wear it.

When I got home from work on Friday, Punky was waiting with a red, tissue paper package in hand.  I knew instantly that it was this year's Mother's Day project at school.

"Is that for me?" I asked, pretending to be surprised.

"Yes, Mommy! Open it! It's for Mother's Day!" she could hardly contain her excitement.

"Well, Mother's Day isn't until Sunday.  I think maybe I should wait to open it then." I flashed her a smile and a wink.

"No, Mommy! You have to open it now! I want you to wear it!" she screeched.

Wear it?  I was a bit nervous.  Surely the package was too big to be another bracelet.  What if it was some kind of hand-sewn hat or something?  What if she expects me to wear it every day?  How could I possible love another hand-made gift as much as I love my bracelet?

I stalled for time but ultimately lost and ended up opening the package.  As I carefully peeled the tape and opened the tissue paper, that familiar look of pride swept across Punky's beautiful, little face.

A necklace.  Big.  Long.  A seemingly endless string of random beads in multiple shapes, colors, and sizes.  She'll want me to wear it to work every day.  It will stick out like a sore thumb.  The bracelet is one thing, but the necklace just can't be hidden as easily.  I love it and all but I just can't...

"Do you like it, Mommy! I worked on it a long time and just finished it in music class today!  I put lots of heart beads on there 'cause I love you so much.  And see the little square ones?  They have the letter 'M' on them for 'Mommy'.  And I made sure to use lots of different green ones because green is your favorite color! Let me put it on for you, Mommy!"

My eyes filled with tears as I leaned forward so she could slip the necklace over my head.

"I love it, sweetie," I managed to whisper, "I really, really love it.  It's absolutely beautiful, just like you."  

Looks like I have a new necklace for work tomorrow.  And I couldn't be more proud to wear it.   

Bravery, Pint-Sized

After our trip to the movies a few weeks ago, we topped off our day of fun with a visit to Toys R Us so Punky could pick out her new big girl bike. Technically she could still ride her tricycle this year because it's really high and meant for kids up to age five, but it just isn't an option for the rocky, muddy, bumpy campground roads she will face most of the summer.  And she really wants to keep up with her crazy cousin but the tiny, solid rubber wheels on her tricycle are no match for a seven year old boy with a kick-ass two-wheeler sans training wheels.

Santa almost brought her a new bike this year, but we advised him against it in the end.  We thought it would be more fun for her to pick out exactly the kind she wants, plus it would give her a special treat to look forward to through the long, cold, snowy, shitty winter.  Oh, come on, I've hardly written at all for months.  You didn't think I'd pass up the opportunity to bitch about Mother Nature's bullshit antics this year, did you? She needs a throat punch.

Anyway, it didn't take Punky long to decide on a sparkly purple Hawaiian-themed bike which truly surprised me.  I fully anticipated something Disney Princess-y or Barbie-ish, all pink and good-girly like, not something cool and funky with iridescent glitter, stylin' palm trees, and white tires with knobby tread to tackle the worst terrain her little legs can handle.  Of course, the bike she chose was out-of-stock at the store and I thought for sure she'd change her mind and settle for something else.  But, ultimately she liked the purple one enough to wait the whole three days it took them to ship one to our house.  The three days were easy compared to the two hours it took her dad to assemble it once it arrived.  

True to their ritual, Punky danced around him in circles, touched things she shouldn't, moved pieces and tools out of his reach, and asked seven hundred forty two questions about the purpose of each part strewn about the floor and if he would be done putting it together soon.  I was grateful that all but the last fifteen minutes of assembly took place before I got home from work.

It wasn't even forty degrees that day, and the sun was less than a half hour away from disappearing for the night, but Punky insisted on taking her first ride on her new wheels.  We bundled her up and headed out for a quick trip around the neighborhood just to make her happy and see how she handled her new toy.

I have to say her dad and I were both impressed. Getting her to pedal and steer her tricycle seemed to take forever, so I guess we just expected a similar learning curve with the new bike, but there was no curve whatsoever. She hopped on and took off, much faster and farther than we anticipated for her first attempt at riding a two-wheeler with training wheels.  Based on that initial ride alone, I think the training wheels will bite the dust before summer's end.

Over the past few weeks she's had several opportunities to practice riding, steering, coasting, and stopping on her new bike.  She caught on fast, but we knew the first dump was inevitable.  We tried to prepare her by telling her, and even demonstrating, how to put her feet down if she feels the bike tipping and how to let go of the handlebars and just fall instead of trying to hang on and save it.  It was an ugly waiting game, I tell you, and it finally ended this afternoon when her beautiful, little face met the road in a bloody scene.  

I was walking behind her as she made her way around the loop in the neighborhood, but she got a bit too far ahead of me when I saw a van backing out of a driveway.  I yelled for her to stop, and then she saw the van about ten feet ahead of her and panicked.  She tried to turn and stop at the same time on a patch of gravel and it didn't end well, mainly because she forgot everything we said and kept her feet firmly planted on the pedals and her hands gripped to the handlebars.  Her face broke her fall.

I watched the bike tip over in slow motion as my own panic mode kicked in, and my heart jumped into my throat when I saw the blood running from her nose and mouth.  Her dad heard her cries and quickly ran to help me out.  He carried the bike home; I carried my crying baby girl.  

While she sat sobbing on the bathroom counter, I cleaned up her boo-boos, examined her teeth, kissed her incredibly fat upper lip, and told her the story of how she had the exact same busted lip injury right before Easter three years ago.  She said her lip was throbbing so I offered her a small dose of Tylenol and a Popsicle to help with the swelling.  As soon as she finished it, she did something I never expected.

"Come on, Mommy, let's go!"

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Back outside for another bike ride! I can do it, Mommy, I'm not scared! Please!"

Well, how could I say no to that?  I am so proud of my brave little peanut. I've said many times that Punky favors my sister a lot, and when my sister had a bad bike wreck one year, she didn't ride again for the rest of that entire summer.  I didn't think Punky would be that extreme, but I expected her to hesitate a bit.  I thought it would take at least a day or so to regain her confidence, not twenty minutes.

I managed to log 21,139 steps (nearly nine miles) today, most of which occurred while I walked/jogged behind her as she pedaled around the neighborhood.  Looks like I should have no trouble staying in shape this summer, but I better invest in a new pair of running shoes.  And more bandaids and Popsicles.

The Locker Room

Lately Punky's been on a roll with new experiences and today was no different.  She was invited to a birthday party for a little girl in her class at school.  This is the first time anyone in her group invited the class and Punky was over-the-moon excited, partly because it was the first party with her friends and partly because it was a swimming party at the YMCA.

I had to buy her a new swimsuit for the party, since the one she had last year was tight by the end of the season, and of course I had to pick up a present for the birthday girl.  I imagine this birthday party stuff will get expensive quick once Punky starts kindergarten and is invited to a party every other weekend.  And it's hard to decide what to buy for kids I know nothing about.  Punky chose a mermaid Barbie for her classmate.  I hope her friend loves them as much as she does.

After pizza, and cake, and presents, it was finally time to head to the pool. The excitement in the locker room was immense as all the little girls scrambled to get into their suits and out to the pool. Screechy, high-pitched giggles echoed through the tiled room as they compared the various colors, patterns, and styles of their bathing suits.  I don't often have the opportunity to observe Punky with her peers so I enjoyed taking it all in.

My mind drifted back to my own youthful past.  I remember those days of giggly girl fun.  I remember the skating parties, the slumber parties, the party when one brave mom took two carloads of awkward, clumsy, pre-teen girls to an enormous walk-through haunted house that sparked the earliest bout of insomnia I ever remember having.  I remember the hours upon hours of boy talk when we discussed in great detail who we would marry, where we would live, and the quantity and names (first, middle, and last) of our perfect, future offspring.  We were blissfully innocent, ignorant to how the real world works, full of hope and excitement for our futures, and for a split second I almost wished I could go back in time...

Then, one little girl made a snide remark about another's freckle-covered shoulders and my daydream ended abruptly.

On one hand I'm so excited to watch Punky grow up and have all those experiences, but my heart sinks when I think of all the not-so-fun moments that are bound to accompany them. Peer pressure is rough. Fitting in is not always easy.  Best friends will come and go.  Crushes will break her heart. And kids will pick on kids for the tiniest little things.  That moment in the locker room reminded me of just how hard growing up can be.

I honestly don't think I'd voluntarily go back through adolescence for any amount of money in the world.  Maybe if I could keep the wisdom I have now at forty, I'd consider it.  On second thought, no, I wouldn't even want to under those circumstances.  Kids are mean.  Adults don't understand anything.  And I had acne issues.  Even though it would be my escape from forty, I'd still pass.

Punky is sitting at the very beginning of the long journey through school to adulthood.  I hope I can guide her through it, not just as her mom, but as her friend.  It's bound to be one hell of a trip, for both of us.

The Movies

Another first for Punky this month: her first trip to the movies.

Again yes, I know she's four. Many kids have their first experience at the theater long before four. These days animated movies are released in incredible numbers and the marketing directed at children is astounding. Each film is accompanied by mounds of related toys, clothes, books, candies, and endless other trinkets. The branding is everywhere and there's no escaping it.

The main reason I haven't taken Punky to the theater sooner is because I'm simply not a movie person. Once in a while I'm in the mood to watch one, but rarely ever at the movies. It's much more convenient, not to mention a hell of a lot cheaper, to watch in the comfort of my couch and pajamas. And my microwave popcorn has way less calories.  Plus, Punky's not all that fond of the dark, she doesn't like loud, and sitting still for ninety consecutive minutes?  Nearly impossible without duct tape or glue and last time I checked those options were still illegal parenting tools.

Lately though we've been having family movie night quite regularly. Punky's interest and attention span have finally matured to the point where it's almost possible to watch an entire movie with only a handful of interruptions. We've gone beyond our skimpy shelf of DVDs and actually rented some movies from the local grocery store and on-demand through our cable.  We even picked up a few cheapies from the $5 bin at Walmart.  

Now that Punky is finally excited to watch different movies (rather than the same three or four over and over and over and over again until her parents' eyes bleed), the time was right to have her first experience with the big screen.  I saw the online preview trailers for The Croods and thought it would be a good movie to introduce her to the theater.  It's animated and colorful, funny and adventurous, and has a mix of interesting characters to hold her attention.  I hoped, anyway.

As it turned out, the movie itself wasn't as nearly as good as I expected it to be, but the experience went rather well.  Punky was completely captivated by the immense size of the movie screen.  I was so surprised that she didn't complain once about the loud volume in the theater.  She literally sat on the edge of her seat the entire film.  She smiled from ear to ear, she laughed out loud, she shoveled handfuls of buttery popcorn in her mouth, she drank more soda in one sitting than she probably has all year thus far, and when the movie ended she asked when we can go to the theater again. 

I'm so glad she enjoyed it.  I'm thrilled she made it through the whole film without losing interest and acting up out of boredom.  I'm happy she now understands why I always say popcorn tastes much better at the movies. And I'm glad to know we have another option for something to do when the weather stinks and we want to get out of the house.

However, given the fact that it cost us forty dollars to see a Saturday matinee with one tub of popcorn and two sodas, I don't see us visiting the theater more than once or twice a year.  I can't even really wrap my head around that cost.  It's ridiculous.  I don't care how good the popcorn is.

The Report Card

We had Punky's yearly evaluation at school on Thursday.  It was the moment we'd been waiting for since September.  Did we make the right decision to put her in the pre-K class a year ahead of schedule?  What decisions are we facing for fall?  Just how smart is she anyway?

In short, yes, none, and very.

She definitely holds her own in class and academically she's at the top.  She's ready to start kindergarten, maybe even first grade as the director put it, but her age will prevent that from happening in any public school in Pennsylvania. Her social skills are on par with the others in the class as well.  The only place she falls a bit behind is on fine motor skills - she's right on target for her age, but her age is a year younger than the rest of the kids.  If we choose the private school route, she will have no trouble passing the tests for admission.

But, we have already decided to let her stay and repeat the pre-K class at this school next year.

In all fairness, I have to admit that part of that decision was based on finances and convenience.  I hope that doesn't make us bad parents, but private school is so expensive and she would have to go to a school in New York.  I could take her every morning, but pick-up would be an issue with our overlapping work schedules and we have no one available to help fill in those time gaps.

The pre-K teacher told us about her plan to keep Punky learning and engaged if she repeats the class next year.  She also assured us that once she finally does start kindergarten, she will be sure to contact her new teacher to give her some background on Punky's academic level.  She told us that there may come a time when public school wants to bump her up a grade, but we can cross that bridge when we come to it.

Punky knows that all her friends will be moving on to new schools in September.  She also knows the reason she isn't going to kindergarten is because of her age.  They are letting her participate in the pre-K graduation with her class in May even though she technically won't graduate.  Even though her attitude about all of these statements is stellar thus far, I don't think it will be all smooth sailing.

She loves her school and she loves her teachers.  Aside from us, they know her better than anyone.  I'm confident the director will make next year's class interesting for Punky.  And it's not like she never learns anything at home. We always talk about math, spelling, and reading, and lately she's been so interested in science that we've been doing mini-science projects in the kitchen.  She's been teaching me sign language since I forgot all but the alphabet I learned as a kid, and I continue to teach her various words and phrases in Spanish and Italian.  There's no doubt we'll be able to keep her engaged until she finally starts kindergarten.  

With this evaluation we got her first official report card. It's so cute. We showed it to her when we got home and told her how proud we are of her. And she was quick to remind me that I gave my nephew five dollars for his good report card.  She doesn't miss a trick.  I happily forked over some cash for her to add to her envelope to save for the American Girl doll she wants so badly, and then I put the adorable report card in her memory box for safe keeping.

I'll never be one hundred percent confident in the decision we made, but I wouldn't have been if we went the other way either.  The hardest thing about being a parent is that her life is truly in our hands.  We make all the decisions that will mold her into the person she will become and the life she will lead. In this case, we're setting the timeline, too.  She could be a year ahead in life - finish school sooner, graduate from college a year earlier, start her career faster, and possibly even get married and start a family sooner.  Considering the age of her parents, that might not be such a bad thing.  

But we've decided to keep her little a year longer.  And that's not such a bad thing either.

Loosening the Strings

Punky had an overdue milestone moment this weekend: her first sleepover. 

Alone. Well, not alone alone. Just without me.

And she liked it.

My sister really enticed her. She set up a cool tent in the living room for an indoor camp out, complete with a bouncy air mattress and two crazy cousins begging her to stay. I wasn't sure she'd go for it, and she hesitated right up till the last second, but finally decided to give it a shot.  She ultimately ended up in her aunt's bed early the next morning, but she made it through the night with no tears, no fears, and no phone calls begging me to come get her at three a.m.

I'm not going to lie: leaving her for the night was tough.

Yes, I know she's four.  Yes, I know she was with my sister, not some stranger off the street.  Yes, I know my nephew and niece have spent the night at my house many times.  But I've never spent the night without her. She still sleeps with me often, and when she doesn't I still wake to check on her at least once a night, if not twice.  Sometimes even three times.

Her dad's rotating work schedule means Punky and I are alone together more often than not.  She's really attached to me, and I to her.  I love that we have such a close relationship and I hope it always stays that way. Maybe it will keep her from locking herself in her room and totally ignoring me when those dreaded teen years hit.  Okay, probably not, but I can hope.

I figured I wouldn't sleep a wink without her under the same roof, but my sister loaded me up on port wine before I left.  Two glasses later I was warm, fuzzy, and having trouble keeping my eyes open.  I was asleep in no time flat.  I didn't even wake up once during the night to worry about my little peanut.  Come morning, I felt a bit guilty for sleeping so soundly.

I'm so proud of her for making it through the night, but I must admit I was happy to hear she asked for me first thing in the morning.  Baby steps, people, baby steps.

The Valentine Tattoo of Death

Sometimes I simply don't understand my child.  Once in a while I allow myself to smugly think I have her all figured out, and then she does something so unexpected that for a brief second I have absolutely no clue who she even is.
  
On the heels of her big Valentine's party at school, I could tell she was on a bit of a sugar high when I finally picked her up after work.  As we sat and ate dinner together, we read all the Valentines she got and separated the candy and trinkets into containers.  Mixed in with the pile of cards, lollipops, tootsie rolls, pencils, candy hearts, and rubber bracelets, we found several temporary tattoos.  She thought they were stickers at first and I tried to explain the difference.

After dinner I innocently asked if she'd like me to put one of the tattoos on her leg.  From her reaction, you'd think I asked if I could chop her leg off with a butter knife.  

Anyone reading along knows that 'fearless' is a term I've used often to describe Punky. She is not afraid of, well, anything.  As a baby she wasn't too keen on her bare feet touching the grass and that's about the biggest fear I've seen her exhibit in the last four years.  She's not intimidated by people, she's never been scared of the doctor, she has no fear of water or jumping into swimming pools ten feet deep, she hugged and kissed the totally scary and disgusting zombie dummy her dad made for a Halloween decoration this year, she happily rode every single amusement park ride she's been tall enough to ride thus far, she has no fear of heights, no fear of speed, no fear of monsters, no fear of the dark, and normally no fear whatsoever to try something new.  She's never even had a nightmare that's scared her enough to wake me up in the middle of the night.

Yet, for whatever reason, she carried on like I was trying to kill her when I suggested the tattoo thing, and I spent the next hour trying to calm her down and reason the fear out of her little head.  At one point, she actually ran in her room and hid under her covers.  She was genuinely terrified, and crying, and begging me not to do it.  And I was fairly clueless on how to handle the whole situation.  I'd never seen her so scared, and let's be honest, fearing a temporary tattoo is simply absurd.

I finally decided to take the 'lead by example' approach and put one of the tattoos on my right calf.  She watched in total horror, like I would drop dead at any second, and ran out of the room the minute I pulled the paper off to reveal the little car on my leg.  She refused to look at it, all the blood drained from her face when I had the nerve to suggest she touch it, and she sternly instructed me to keep it away from her.

I had no choice but to accept complete failure on this parenting challenge and admit defeat.  All the reasoning in the world wasn't landing in her head and putting one on myself made the situation worse, not better.  I even attempted bribery: unlimited candy consumption for the rest of the night. She wouldn't even bite when I offered to fork over the rest of the money to buy the American Girl doll she's been saving for so diligently.  I threw in the towel.

I gave her a big hug and solemnly swore I would never bring up the tattoo topic again.  I assured her it was her body and she has every right to dictate what others are allowed to do to it (that message can't be reinforced enough in my opinion), and also reminded her that she can trust her mommy wholeheartedly, and that I would never, ever, ever do anything to hurt her, and that I would never lie to her.  And I couldn't resist telling her that I hope she remembers this tattoo discussion when she's a teenager and decides she wants a real one.  Hey, something good has to come from this, right?

She stopped crying and we got on with what was left of our evening.  I sat down to pay some bills and she lost herself in the world of Barbie dolls currently taking over our entire living room floor.  About twenty minutes later, she was at my side.

"Mommy?" she asked in her sweet 'I want something' tone.  "Can you put a tattoo on me now?"

This is one of those moments in parenting where you struggle to resist the urge to stab yourself in the eye with a fork while verbally expressing utter pride and encouragement for your child's sudden burst of bravery.

The tattoo application went off without a hitch.  It didn't hurt, sting, burn, or result in the loss of a limb as Punky previously envisioned.  In fact, she requested another.  And another.  I drew the line at three and she happily danced around in the living room, flailing her inked arms this way and that way, and she instructed me to choose a short-sleeve shirt for school tomorrow so she could show off her pretty arms.

I have no clue what caused her abrupt change of mind, but I'm glad she found the courage to face and conquer her fear.  It's a valuable lesson that will serve her well in the future, even if it means begging and pleading with her not to get a real tattoo when she's a teenager.

Today You Are Four

Dear Punky,

I can hardly believe that title.  Four.  It's amazing how quickly time passes.

As I sit here in complete silence, my mind can't help but drift back to your birth and the nineteen long hours of labor leading up to it.  I suppose it's normal to remember those excruciating moments every year on your birthday.  I guess it's what most moms do, no?

Even though I saved my very last vacation day of the year to have today off for your birthday, you went to school.  You wanted to go.  You wanted to bring cupcakes in for the class, and hear them sing to you, and pick a special surprise out of the birthday chest like the other kids all got to do on their birthdays.  That's okay though, I understand.  Plus, your Dad and I had big plans for the day anyway.

After we left you at school, we headed to the toy store to get you the perfect birthday present.  But things began to fall apart before we even arrived, thanks to the ultra-convenient cell phone world we live in now, and quickly spiraled downhill from there.

Your godfather was at the emergency room last night - he has bronchitis. Your Pappy is at the hospital right now - he's very sick, too.  Your godmother is sick.  Your cousins are sick. There's a big winter storm set to hit tonight. And the toy store didn't have the present we wanted in stock.

We had to cancel your birthday party for tomorrow.

I'm so sorry, Punky.  I have to break the news to you after school and I'm dreading it.  You will be so disappointed and heartbroken.  Believe me, I am, too.

But I promise, as soon as the weather breaks and everyone is feeling better, you will have the best birthday party we can manage.  And your Dad is en route right now to another toy store an hour and a half away to get you the present we planned on buying this morning.  By the time you get home from school, he'll be back.

While I have a rare window of quiet time alone, it's the perfect opportunity to write this birthday post.  Three was certainly a challenging age, for both of us, and I'm excited to see what four has in store for this year.

I know I tell you this all the time, but I really am so proud of who you are. You amaze me each and every day.  We are so very different, yet exactly alike in many ways.  I love watching you grow, and change, and laugh, and learn.  Through my eyes, this is who you are at four:

Adventurous, spontaneous, and downright daring at times.  You make my heart stop with your tendency to leap before looking, but there's never a dull moment around here.  You'll try anything once without hesitation, and twice if the first attempt is even remotely successful.  Even at this early age it's clear you'll never be a wallflower.  I admire your bravery, your spunk, and your persistence.

Intelligent, witty, and curious beyond belief.  You have yet to meet a fact you didn't memorize.  A far stretch from the typical kid your age, at your request we end each night with a series of questions before bed.  Addition, subtraction, spelling, and science are your favorite categories these days. You told me you want to know everything, and that you will when you're one hundred years old.  There's no doubt in my mind you'll get there.  I hope you always approach learning with the same hunger you have now.  You might just change the world some day.

Silly, funny, and a total giggle machine.  You love to laugh, and you love to make others laugh even more.  Our house is filled with the sweet sound of little girl giggles and the hiccups that follow shortly afterward.  I love how one tiny chuckle can totally change my mood and brighten my day instantly.  I love your silly, playful side.  I love that you can never brush your teeth without racing us to the bathroom.  I love that your socks never match your outfit when I let you choose the pair you want.  I love your silly faces, wacky dances, and funny stories.  Keep on laughing and inspiring others to laugh with you.  It sparks friendships, deepens bonds, and creates memories that last a lifetime.

Stubborn, independent, and impatient.  All typical for your age, but frustrating for your parents nonetheless.  Nothing makes you more angry than something you can't master in the first three seconds of trying.  Your independent streak runs deep, and your insistence on doing everything yourself makes us all crazy at times.  You want what you want when you want it, and have no patience when things don't go exactly how you envisioned it.  Unfortunately these traits likely stem from my half of your DNA profile, but hopefully you'll grow out of it.  At least some of it.  Maybe.

Your favorite things haven't changed much over the years.  You still love your blankie and sleep with it faithfully.  You still love macaroni and cheese, apples, pickles, and watermelon, but have recently discovered your love of chocolate (yes, my DNA as well).  Hershey kisses top your list of sweet treats these days, followed closely by candy canes and sweet tarts.  You have finally taken an interest in baby dolls and play with them more than your musical instruments lately.  I'm not sure what to make of this new trend, but the house is a hell of a lot quieter, that's for sure.

And, of course, at four you are still my favorite little girl on the planet.  Being your mom is the toughest job I've ever had, yet the most satisfying bar none.  There's no doubt we'll hit some potholes as we continue our journey down this road together, but I look forward to the bumps just as much as the moments of smooth sailing.  We will continue to learn and grow together. Just take it easy on us - your parents aren't exactly spring chickens, you know.

I love you, Julia Allyn.  

Happy fourth birthday!

Wants, Needs, and Spoiled Brats

Punky is a good kid.  Mostly.  I mean, she's three and often very good at it. She has the occasional tantrum, some typical acts of defiance, the expected exertion of her independence here and there.  But on the whole, she is a sweet, loving, polite, respectful little girl.

Until recently.

Lately she been falling more in the demanding, ungrateful, unappreciative, spoiled brat category.  Just in time for Christmas and her birthday.  And I don't know how to fix it without doing something drastic.

I've always tried to explain to Punky that she is a very lucky girl.  Granted we really don't have much and basically live paycheck to paycheck, but it's still a hell of a lot more than many people have these days.  She has food in her belly, clothes on her back, a cozy home, more than enough toys for one child, and we go places and do things regularly.  Even though she's very young, I've tried to explain the concept of money and how sometimes it's necessary to make decisions about how you spend it based on what's needed and what we can do without.  She made her first purchase with her very own money a few weeks ago, a new baby doll, and so far she treats the doll like gold.

We talk often about kids less fortunate than her.  We talk about how great it was that she participated in a trike-athon at school and raised over a hundred dollars for the sick kids at St. Jude's.  We talk about the importance of sharing with those in need, and she never passes up the opportunity to toss some spare change into a charity collection bucket, whenever I have some in my pocket that is.  

When she asks for something at the store, the answer is often no.  But sometimes it's yes, like when she's been exceptionally good, when I have the extra cash, when she asks for something educational like a book.  Up until recently, the answer didn't matter.  Either way, she was okay with it.  No arguing, no tantrums, no snotty attitude.  Lately we haven't been so lucky.  

When someone gave her something, be it a toy, or clothes, or a book from a yard sale, she would be thrilled and appreciative and always said thank-you without having to be told.  She didn't expect people to give her things, so her surprise always added to the excitement.  The last time she saw her godfather, she asked him right out if he had anything for her, like he always does, before he even had a chance to take off his coat. And I almost went through the roof.

She just started watching TV with commercials in the last few months, and now she wants everything she sees.  The ads opened a whole new world of want for her, and I don't like it one bit.  I mean, I know she's three and all, and it's not really the fact that she wants things, it's more the attitude that accompanies that want.  It's like she feels the world somehow owes her these things, and denying her them, no matter the reason, sets off a pissing, moaning, whining, groaning, stomping, yelling tantrum.  

I'm really at a loss here.  I don't know how to handle it.  I'm always as honest as I can be without burdening her with issues beyond her years.  I don't want her to act like a spoiled rotten little brat, but I don't know what else I can possibly say at this point.  If she were older, I'd drag her to a soup kitchen to help out for a day but three's a bit too young for that.  I'm at my wits end, seriously.

I suppose there's a chance she's acting totally normal for her age, and it's just a phase like the hundreds of others she's endured thus far, and it's simply something she needs to go through and grow out of over time, but I can't help my impatience.  I guess all I can do is keep reinforcing the lessons I've been trying to teach her since birth.  

She knows Christmas and her birthday are right around the corner.  And I know, as I have every year, about the wall of stuff about to hit our house and a part of me is dreading it.  I obviously want her to be happy, and I love seeing her little face light up when she gets something she's really wanted, but this time of the year is overkill on presents.  I'm not exactly sure how I'll respond if she reacts poorly to any gift she's given, or if she carries on because she didn't get something she wants, or if she doesn't like something and has the audacity to say so.  Mommy's likely to lose her shit.

This parenting stuff is hard sometimes.  It's a never-ending chain of crises and dilemmas, but I wouldn't trade it for the world.  Seems like every time I think I have it all figured out, a new problem comes out of nowhere and punches me in the gut. This one in particular really has my panties in a bunch, and even more so now since we found out today that her dad is laid off from work, effective immediately.  He thought he would be safe until after the holidays but we weren't that lucky, as usual.  Things are going to get ugly quick come January, so I suppose I should just let Punky enjoy all the spoiling she gets in the next few weeks.  We have some extremely rough months ahead of us.

Waiting and Watching

Punky is on the right side of the couch, peacefully asleep for now.

I'm on vomit watch for the next few hours.

In round one she managed to get the carpet in one long, nasty streak from the living room, up the hallway, and into the bathroom.  After dozing off for about an hour, she soaked the left side of the couch in round two, right through the towels I stockpiled under her.

So, I suppose I have some time to kill while I enjoy my Lysol high and wait for the inevitable round three.  And for the washer full of puke towels to stop so I can get them into the dryer.

I'm always whining that I never have time to write, so I may as well take this opportunity to bombard you with random tidbits of shit I would've written about in the last few weeks if I had the tiniest ounce of self-discipline and determination.

Let's see, where to start?

The election?  Meh.  Politics aren't usually my thing but what the hell.

Truth is, I really don't have many positive things to say about either candidate.  One is a financial disaster, the other a social disaster.  In my opinion, the lesser of the two evils won in the end.  As I explained it to Punky, my uterus is happy but my piggy bank is scared.

All I know is this: if we stand any chance at fixing this country and healing all that ails it, politicians need to spend less time worrying about gay marriage and what women do with their reproductive systems.  Their beliefs on such issues are rooted in the teachings of their religions and therefore have no place for debate in a country that was founded on the very principle of separation of church and state.  And one way or another, everyone deserves to have health insurance.  Period.

Sandy?  Wow.  She packed quite a punch.  We weren't really affected here, aside from some strong winds and rain for a few days, but the devastation on the coast is horrific.  While I am in no way, shape, or form a beach person, I do love the boardwalks of the Jersey coast, especially Atlantic City. My sister inherited my mom's taste for a nightly glass of wine; I inherited her love of an occasional jaunt to a casino.  In the last few years I haven't really had the time or the finances to indulge much, but I have some great memories of the yearly trips we used to make to AC on Black Friday.  We gambled while the rest of the country shopped.  It was our thing and I really miss those trips.  I wish all the devastated areas a speedy recovery.

My weight?  Holding steady.  I bounce between 133 and 138 and haven't really had any issues with maintenance.  I try to stay on the lower end of calorie intake during the week, and then eat what I want on the weekends. So, the scale reading tends to be the highest on Monday morning, and the lowest on Friday.  It's a great balance and really works for me.

My back?  On the whole, much better.  But it's still not quite right.  I haven't returned to the chiropractor since that last painful rib-muscle-stretching visit. I was sore for weeks afterward.  I haven't started working out again, and I've decided to wait until after the holidays.  I'm thinking the beginning of February.  It will give my back a bit more time to heal but still leave me plenty of time to get in shape for summer.

Finances?  Yuck.  A sore topic around here.  The switch in Punky's dad's schedule has impacted us just like I thought it would.  Things are tight, but we are getting by and making ends meet for the most part.  This Christmas will pale in comparison to last year, that's for sure.  Since my whole family is in the same boat, we've agreed to focus on the kids and skip the gift exchange between the adults.  I've already finished my niece and nephew, and we're about 90% done with Punky.  I even wrapped about half of what I've bought thus far.  So, I think we'll weather the holidays okay.  The most important thing is that the kids have a great Christmas.  But it's going to get even uglier come January.

Unfortunately Punky's dad is facing a massive layoff after the holidays. Company wide, the "safe" date has been rolled back to a hire date in 1984. It's very likely he'll be off for an extended period of time, and we'll be forced to make some extremely hard decisions.  Should we sell the camper we only used twice and enjoyed so very much this summer?  Should we break our contract and pull Punky out of school?  There's no way we'll afford it with him on unemployment, but it will be a great disservice to Punky.  She's so smart, so advanced, and she absolutely loves school in the pre-K class this year. Should one or both of us look into picking up a second job now instead of waiting until we we hit rock bottom?  We're rolling with the punches for now. My stomach turns just thinking about it.

There, the washer has stopped and the puke towels are clean and in the dryer.

This week was rough for Punky in terms of illness.  We've really been luck this fall, so I guess we were due for some shit.  She woke up with a low fever on Saturday, and as the day progressed it climbed higher and took her cranky meter with it.  After eating a banana as a snack before bed, she told me her throat hurt when she swallowed.  I grabbed a flashlight and was horrified by the puss bubbles lining the back of her throat.

Thankfully our pedi office has weekend hours in case of emergency.  I was convinced she had strep so we made a Sunday morning jaunt to the doctor. The rapid strep test came back negative and she told us that most of the puss-filled sore throats they've been seeing are viral in nature and it simply needed to run its course.  She was still too sick to go to school on Monday, so her dad stayed with her in the morning and then I came home after lunch so he could go to work.

She was still slightly feverish on Tuesday but otherwise fine so we sent her to school.  Come Wednesday I missed another half day of work because they decided to close the daycare at one o'clock.  All the teachers were sick and they didn't legally have enough available staff left to stay open.  When I took her to school this morning, the daycare director told me most of the teachers had respiratory things, possibly even the flu, but she had the stomach flu and spent twenty-four hours with diarrhea and vomiting.

Guess which one Punky picked up?  I suppose it's the better of the possibilities.  It's the messier one, that's for sure, but it's over relatively quickly with very little chance of major complications or hospitalization.

I am so relieved that I already have a vacation day scheduled for tomorrow because otherwise I'd be calling off again, but the reason I'm off is because we are headed down state for my nephew's birthday party this weekend. Punky and I both have an appointment for desperately needed haircuts tomorrow evening, so were were planning on hitting the road relatively early tomorrow morning.

All I can do now is wait to see how she is tomorrow.  There's no way I'm making a two and a half our drive with a pukey kid who has the potential for explosive diarrhea at any moment.  She's still asleep and I don't dare move her.  I'm not stirring up her remaining stomach contents, if there's even anything left in her tiny belly.  I guess I'm looking at a night spent sleeping on the living room floor.  My back won't appreciate it, but I won't leave her alone in case she vomits in her sleep again like last round.

It's been over two hours since that last bout and I suppose I should try to get some rest while the getting is good.  Here's to hoping her dad and I escape catching this crap, and that this is the end of pukefest 2012.

Halloween Shortcake

When I glance at the number of posts I've actually managed to complete this year, it's terribly disappointing.  But, on the bright side, my lack of time and diligence means you are spared some of the yearly bitching and moaning about things like the upcoming cold winter and my utter hatred of Halloween. So, with that in mind, I'll keep it short(cake) and sweet.

By mid-September, I started pushing Punky to decide what she wanted to be for Halloween.  I wanted to avoid the last-minute, desperate search we had last year.  If it were up to me we'd skip celebrating the holiday entirely, but being a good mommy means sucking it up and pretending to be excited about costumes, pumpkins, ghosts, and going to strangers' homes begging for miniature candy bars.  Okay, I actually enjoy that last one.  The chocolate, not the strangers.

Her first choice for a costume was a mouse.  Not Minnie.  Not Mickey.  Not even Jerry or Mighty.  Just a plain, ordinary mouse.  Why, you ask?  I have no clue.  She has no mice stuffed animals.  She never talks about mice.  We haven't had mice in the house.  I have no idea how she came up with the idea but it sounded simple enough.  Surely I could find a mouse costume somewhere, right?  Easy-peasy.

Wrong.  I spent hours web surfing every costume site I could find and came out empty-handed.  Most didn't have any mice, and the ones that did were sold out already.  Apparently rodents were very popular this year.  If you have an inkling as to why, please fill me in 'cause I definitely feel like I missed something.

Punky was disappointed but she quickly forgot the mouse idea when she saw a witch costume at the store.  She truly had no interest in being a witch for the sake of being a witch.  I mean, witches are scary and she doesn't like scary, but this particular witch costume had lights sewn into the fabric and she was captivated by their twinkle.  In hindsight I should have bought it and been done with it, but I wanted to think on it a bit.  When I returned to the store a week later, it was gone.  And so, I had to disappoint my child once again.

Choice number three left me just baffled as the first two: a pig.  She wanted to be a pig.  Again, not Miss Piggy, not Olivia, and not even Peppa.  Just a plain, ordinary pig.  I found myself back on the internet in search of the perfect pig costume but, as it turns out, pigs are almost as elusive as mice.  I found plenty of adorable pig costumes for babies, but only two for kids Punky's age and they were just about the ugliest pigs I have ever seen.  How could I put my beautiful, little girl in an ugly pig costume?  It just didn't seem right.

When I broke the bad news about her third choice, I seriously think she wanted to punch me.  I wanted to punch something, too.  I was beyond frustrated and I needed to put an end to it once and for all.  For the next hour she sat with me in front of the computer as I bounced from site to site showing her the options.  There was no giving up.  I was determined to order her a costume.  Something.  Anything.  I think I would've agreed to a cardboard box at that point.  I just wanted it done so I didn't have to spend any more time and energy on the great costume hunt of 2012.

We managed to find a handful of really cute costumes, but getting her to make a final decision was like pulling teeth.  All of a sudden she morphed into a shopping diva and my patience was running dangerously low.  She was getting tired, hungry, and bored, and I had to pee so bad I was about to explode, but nobody was moving until I had something in the cart, dammit. It was a battle of wills, I tell you, and mommy wasn't caving.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we had a winner:

Despite the itchy wig and freezing temperatures, she had a blast hitting the town and collecting her treats.  She was thrilled with her costume and, if I have to say so myself, she was the cutest Strawberry Shortcake ever.  The real kicker is that she isn't even into Strawberry Shortcake, at least no more than mice, witches, and pigs.  She simply baffles me sometimes, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Punky's Houseguest

When I arrived at school to pick Punky up last Monday, she was across the room playing with her friends.  I headed to her cubby to get her crap together and found a backpack in it that didn't belong to us.  Just as I turned to tell a teacher about it, Punky came zipping across the room at top speed.

"Mommy! Mommy! I get to go first! I'm the first one that gets to take Sloppy Joe home! Look, Mommy! Look at his backpack!"

I stood there dumbfounded as her teachers tried to contain their laughter and fill me in on the joke.  I obviously missed something.

Finally, Miss Jackie said, "His name is Jungle Joe, not Sloppy Joe, and he's all yours for the next week.  He's in the backpack with all his things.  Just remember to write in his journal before bringing him back next Monday!"

Punky was dying to open the backpack and show me Jungle Joe, but I made her wait until we got home.  The backpack weighed a ton.  I couldn't imagine what the hell was stuffed in there.  I really hoped Jungle Joe was not a living, breathing animal of some sort.

As soon as we got in the door, Punky dumped the entire contents of Jungle Joe's backpack out on the couch.  I was relieved to see that J.J. was just a little stuffed bear in a safari outfit, and boy did he have the stuff.  A flashlight, cellphone, blanket, story books, toothbrush, and extra outfits were just some of the things crammed in the backpack, but most of the weight came from the journals stuffed in the bottom of the bag.

As it turns out, the pre-K class at the daycare has been taking J.J. home for years, and all of his visits and adventures have been documented by the parents.  Some wrote daily diary-like entries; others wrote only once at the end of his visit.  Some included photos of their kids with J.J.; others had the kids draw a picture of him.  Some were neat and well-written; some were sloppy and rushed.  But as I started reading back through years past, I was amazed at all the places the stuffed animal has been and the sheer number of kids that had the experience of taking him home.  

While I lost myself in reading the adventures of Jungle Joe, Punky showed him the ropes.  She gave him the grand tour of our tiny house.  She showed him both bathrooms in case he needed to pee during his week-long stay. She showed him the pantry so he knew where to get a snack if he got hungry. She showed him nearly all of her toys, one by one, so he could find things to play with if he got bored.  

For the next seven days, she toted him everywhere.  He was within arms reach at all times.  Whatever she did, he did, too.  She brushed his teeth every morning and night.  She snuggled him close at bedtime and made sure he had his special blanket to sleep.  She talked to him, sang to him, and told him stories.  They watched cartoons, colored pictures, and played musical instruments.  He even accompanied us on a trip down state this weekend to visit family.  And, when we sat down last night to write the story of their week together in his journal, she cried because she didn't want to take him back to school today.

"But I'll miss him so much, Mommy!" she muttered through her sobs.  "I won't be able to play with him anymore!  I'm so sad, I can't stop crying, Mommy!"

From reading his journals, I was able to offer her a bit of comfort.  It seemed like every kid had two turns to take J.J. home each school year, so I assured her that he would visit us again soon but she needed to wait until it was her turn again.  Once she finally stopped crying, I finished the journal entry and taped a picture of them in the book.  After she fell asleep with Jungle Joe last night, I packed all his things in his backpack and set in next to her school bag.  
When she first brought him home last week, I wasn't exactly sure what, if anything, she was supposed to learn from the experience, but now I can easily list about ten lessons that can be learned and/or reinforced through a week with Jungle Joe.  What a clever idea.  The little fuzz ball and his two-ton backpack are welcome here anytime.  Punky's already looking forward to his next visit.

Three and Three Quarters

Punky started her pre-K class the beginning of this month.  So far, she is doing really well.  She is so proud to be one of the big kids, and I love hearing her daily report on all the fun things they do in class.  She has her own tool box stocked with crayons, pencils, glue, scissors, and other miscellaneous craft supplies.  She has learned to write her name on all her papers.  She absolutely beams when she gets to be the line leader or the one who passes out papers to the class.  

There's no doubt in my mind that we made the right choice by letting her move to this class a year ahead of schedule.  She's definitely holding her own with the older kids, in fact the teacher told me Punky is currently helping her teach the others the letter sounds.  Even though there are only eleven kids in the class, they added another teacher in the room which really allows for individual attention.  It's especially great news for Punky because a teacher has time to take a lesson a step further for her since she already knows much of the core material.  And, as always, she's soaking it all up like a sponge.

Punky is now at the age where she's asking to do things, and the hardest decision for us will be deciding what, where, and how we can even pull it off. She wants to take karate.  She wants to take dance lessons.  She wants to be a gymnast.  She wants to learn how to really play too many instruments to type.  She wants to go to friends' houses and have them visit ours.  All of those things take time and/or money, neither of which we have very much of these days.

Enrolling her in any activities will be especially challenging given where we live. We are at least twenty minutes away from anything, and most of those activities would require a good half-hour drive.  On weeknights, I'm lucky to be home by five-thirty.  Getting her to a dance class that starts at six will be nearly impossible.  Not to mention that we're heading into winter and bad roads will only further complicate things.  I told her to wait until after her birthday in December, and then she can pick one activity to try.  I think karate will be her first choice.  We'll see come January.

There is another new phenomenon in her world: TV commercials.  Ninety-nine percent of her television experience thus far has been commercial-free kids channels, but now she's getting into shows on other networks that don't have the same policy.  Plus, her favorite channel of all has recently abandoned its pledge and now suddenly allows advertisements.  What this means to Punky is an eyeful of toys and games she never knew existed, and a Christmas list a mile long with months yet to go.  I guess it was bound to happen sooner of later, and I guess it's good for us to have an idea of what she's thinking so we aren't speechless like last year when it's time to write her letter to Santa.  

We managed to sneak in one final trip to Knoebel's two weeks ago.  I found an envelope full of ride tickets, and my sister brought a cooler full of food, so it didn't cost us much beyond the gas to get there.  Punky was so surprised, especially since I told her the park was closed for the season.  It wasn't a lie, honest.  I really thought it closed after Labor Day.  She was thrilled to have one more day at an amusement park before winter arrives.  She's a ride junkie, no doubt about it.  I really hope she's tall enough to do some of the bigger rides next year.  She's dying to tackle a real roller coaster.  That's my girl.

Sometimes I look at her and simply can't believe how fast the time has gone. She seems so grown up, so independent, so damn smart.  Like she hardly even needs me anymore.  She can feed herself, dress herself, wipe herself, and entertain herself.  When she wants a drink, she gets it.  When she's tired of TV, she turns it off.  When she's bored she bounces from one activity to another, destroying the house and leaving a trail of toys in her wake.  But eventually something happens and she wants or needs my help, and all seems right with the world again.