1m2aSandbox

When we moved to Texas a couple years ago,
we moved into a much bigger space than our New York apartment had
been. Everything about the house is bigger than NYC, and the master
bathroom is no exception – I think our bathroom and closet
combined equal roughly the square footage of our first New York
apartment. Sadly, I’m not exaggerating.


Last year, we discovered wood rot in our bathroom and had to re-do
most of it, and took advantage of the tear-down to build it exactly
the way we’d want it. Our shower is, um, really nice- not
Donald Trump nice, but roomy - and with the little bench space and
such, our walk-in shower is the size of our New York bathroom.
Sadly, I’m not exaggerating.


I have a point here, I promise, and it’s not to brag. My
point is that we’ve got a really nice shower with a really
big shower head, and though I’ve been trying for years to get
the girls to enjoy showers instead of baths, it’s been only
in the last month or so that they’ve discovered the beauty of
our shower.

One of my parenting discipline choices
I’ve made is to say “no” as little as possible. I
try to give in to any reasonable request, so that when I do finally
say “no” the kids will respect that and accept it. At
the same time, sometimes I see the need to say “no”
just so they can practice their obedience and acceptance, so the
whole thing gets muddied. Add to that the fact that I desperately
try to never reverse myself, and so hold off saying
“no” until I’m sure I mean it and will stick to
it, and the whole “no” thing becomes a road fraught
with peril.


My kids, of course, have quickly learned that the word
“no” has many shades of meaning. For example, if one of
the girls asks me if we can go out for lunch as we head home from a
morning spent with friends, my mind will race through all the
ramifications even as my mouth opens. When was the last time we
went out to lunch? Do we seem to go out to lunch every time we have
a play date, and thus need to go home so it doesn’t become
taken for granted? What commitments do we have after lunch? How
much money do we have left this month?


What’s in the fridge that I can make lunch with, anyway?

Yesterday I was riding in the car with my
mom, Maddie, and Cora, and Maddie was asking Cora about the plates
she’s picked out for her upcoming birthday party. Cora said
enthusiastically, “It’s got Ariel, and Snow White, and
Belle, and Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty on it!”


“Does it have Melody on it?” Maddie asked, referring
(for all you poor schmucks who didn’t know) to Ariel’s
daughter in the Little Mermaid straight-to-video sequel.


“No, just the princesses,” Cora said definitively.

At the end of last week, Cora was playing
with a little friend, and I overheard the following conversation:


For whatever reason, the subject of chocolate came up. Cora,
standing, said something to the effect of, “Wouldn’t
you love some chocolate?” and her friend, sitting, answered,
“I’m not sure if I can have chocolate.”


At which point Cora dropped down to her friend’s eye level,
gazed intently into her eyes, and said, “We live in America.
No one can ever take chocolate away from you. Not even Obama.
That’s why this country was made – so no one can ever
tell you that you can’t have chocolate. Well,” she
amended, “except maybe your Mommy. She beats President
Obama.”


Ok, I may be responsible for this one.

Yesterday I got an email from our church,
stating that this Sunday’s topic is “gut-level
forgiveness: How do you forgive people when you’ve been
punched in the gut?”


It started me thinking about how well I am (or am not) teaching my
girls about forgiveness. I know they meant figuratively punched in
the gut, not literally, but certainly most of the forgiveness that
has to go on between me and the girls is on the physical level: I
can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been punched in
the eye by flailing arms; had my hair pulled out by an
over-enthusiastic toddler climbing all over me; been cracked with a
stinging blow on my nose, drawing tears and blood; or even actually
punched in the gut by a toddler unwilling to have her diaper
changed.

Yes, it's almost as exciting as Christmas
day for me. And sadly enough, I'm not exaggerating.


I don't know where to start! Earth Day's become so mainstream
that you can throw a rock and hit a store doing a giveaway. Many of
them are, unfortunately, just trying to cash in on Earth Day for
their own selfish purposed (shame on you, Disney!) so I won't tell
you about most, but I will tell you this one - Pottery Barn Kids is
giving away free plants, 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. Take it home and enjoy
taking care of it - and eventually planting it in your back yard -
with your child.


Looking for ways to celebrate? Google "pick your own" and your
state, and find out if there's a place near you with some
strawberry picking or rhubarb picking or whatever available. Head
to your local Home Depot and spend a buck on a seed packet and
start some seeds in dixie cups and your kitchen window. Throw out
your stinky, icky cleaners and crack open a bottle of vinegar and a
box of baking soda. Ride bikes to school with your kids. Buy
organic for the day. Go out to dinner at a place that supports
local farmers.


DO SOMETHING!


And then tell me about it. I wanna know - how do you celebrate?

Maddie’s always had vivid dreams
– she spent part of her twos and threes battling bad dreams a
few times a week, and now has extraordinary, fanciful dreams with
some regularity. And feels the need to share them with us.


In excruciating, time-bending detail.


Here’s a recent sample from this morning's breakfast
table: