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.