Half Baked

My husband doesn’t like it when I sell things on the street. Now I have my daughters doing it, too. Today it’s cookies, last time it was cupcakes and brownies. It’s always for a good cause – political campaign, puppy rescues, or like today’s sale, it’s to raise money for a camp for kids with sickle cell disease.

There is something about a bake sale that is in some ways far more effect in getting people out to support a cause. Unlike a dinner dance, pancake breakfast or wine tasting – all of which I have been involved in organizing – there is something so simple about a bake sale. It is a low cost, easy way to contribute. It doesn’t require any long term commitment on the part of the person making the donation. And besides, who can resist a cookie?

A friend of mine who donated twenty but declined to take the twenty cookies because she said she didn’t need an excuse to eat a plate on her own, told me she liked that my girls and I did cooking fundraisers together. I confessed to the reason behind it – I love to bake. Second only to writing, it is my favorite thing to do. If someone would actually pay me for my baked goods in the retail world, I would jump at the chance to make it a second act profession some day. I also want my girls to know what it feels like to help others, to raise money and turn it over to a charity, to recognize that no matter what we might be going through ourselves, that there is always someone else worse off and in need of our efforts. My mother used to always say to me, “Whenever you’re feeling bad, find someone who’s feeling worse and do something for them. You’ll find that it’s the best way to make yourself feel better.” Lastly, it is an easy ask of friends, neighbors and family – come by, eat a cookie, help someone.

We did a benefit bake a few years ago where the girls raised over $300 in less than two hours. Thanks to the beauty of email and forwarding, people we didn’t know, who were friends of friends, showed up to participate. David refused to be involved, citing his objection to my selling things on the street habit. At one point, we had about twenty or more people milling in front of the house eating baked goods and contributing for the cause. David was finally forced to come out of the house where he’d been hiding for the duration of the sale, hoping that the neighbors didn’t call to complain. Thing was, most of the neighbors were now out in front. When he finally came out, I overheard him chatting with a neighbor, who assumed he’d been part of the fundraising effort. When he didn’t deny it, I had him, and he was forced to help with clean up.

Today we’re adding milk to the occasion. And at $1 a cup, that’s extra money for the camp. Besides, what goes better with cookies than milk?

Missing Part 2

My daughter Nicole came back from her Washington D.C. trip a changed person. The person who came back is much more mature, confident and independent. It’s a little frightening and as much as I marvel at the change, I miss the little girl she was before she went on the trip.

When we went to pick Nicole up at the airport, there were fifty or more other parents waiting for the plane to land. Natalie, Nicole’s younger sister, made a beautiful welcome back sign which read, “Welcome home Nicole! We love you! Don’t Ever Go Away Again!” I felt the same way. I would never say, but part of me yearned to yell at her, don’t ever go away again! I missed her, badly. But Natalie then decided, as eight year olds will do, that she was too embarrassed to hold it up because she had drawn a bunny on it and she didn’t want the fifth graders to think she was babyish.

The parents gathered, excited and eager to see our kids, a little fearful until all of the wheels of the plane touched down on the runway. We waited, making small talk about end of the year festivities – the upcoming fifth grade culmination ceremony which seems to have grown to mythic proportions making it only slightly less important than graduating from Harvard. We talked middle school choices and thoughts about what the next school year would bring. I had brought balloons, but David made me leave them in the car. He said, “She’s not coming back from Iraq, just a week in D.C.” I didn’t care, I was getting balloons anyway, even if she would only enjoy them for the car ride home! Other parents filtered in as their arrival grew closer, balloons clutched in their hands. I gave David a look which he pretended not to see.

When the first kids started filtering into baggage claim, the parents let out a cheer, screaming, clapping. I felt sorry for the other passengers on the plane. Not only did they have to tolerate a 5 hour flight with 44 kids, but now they had to deal with the parents, who were probably missing their children more than their children missed them. We spotted Nicole, but it was difficult to get through the crowd to embrace her. She hugged and kissed us, and Natalie flashed her the welcome sign so quickly that I’m sure Nicole barely got to see it. But instead of being teary or bubbling over with excitement to see us, Nicole said – in a voice that seemed liked she was making an effort to sound grown, “Hi Guys, good to be back. Let me get my bag.” She walked over to the luggage and refusing help from both me and her father, insisted on taking her giant, 45 pound suitcase off of the carrousel. I couldn’t believe it. The girl who used to ask me to carry her lunch box into school for her because it was too much to juggle with her backpack – why she refused to put it in her backpack is still one of those mysteries of the universe which will never be solved – was now handling a suitcase that was almost as big as she was, as well as a backpack. She looked at me and said, “Mom, I’ve been lugging around my own stuff, getting myself washed, dressed and ready every morning for eight days, I got this, I can handle it, I’m Miss Independence now!”

I was shocked, surprised and amused by her comment. We’ll see how long her Miss Independence reign lasts, but I do know that the change in her has been marked since she returned and that in some ways, what my neighbor said was true – a trip away, an opportunity to go to Washington D.C. (or anyway away from their parents for a week and be on their own) will be life changing. It’s a good change for the kids, harder on the parents. I love Nicole’s newfound confidence, but in some ways, I was missing my little girl. The next day, I told David how I was feeling about it and he looked at me like I was crazy, reminding me of all the times I’d tried to get Nicole (and the rest of them) to do a better job of picking up after themselves, keeping track of their own things, basically being more responsible and independent and now that she was doing it, I was complaining? As we were talking, Nicole, who was starting to show signs of jet lag on her first day back, interrupted us and curled up on the sofa next to me, burying her head in my arms. She murmured, “Good night, Mommy,” and allowed herself to drift off before the sun had even set or dinner was served. She was tired from her trip, from all the changes, and when everything was said and done, she still needed me to comfort her and help her get some rest. Okay, independent, but always my little girl.

Note: As we head into spring break, I’m going to do just that and take a break from posting next week. Okay, yeah, I know, I’m not in school anymore, but some habits, like taking spring break, die hard. Also, isn’t half the point of having kids so that you can relive all those things you loved about childhood even though you are an adult? Posting again on 5/6!

Missing

I don’t know where my ten year old daughter is at this moment. She is somewhere in Washington D.C. on a class field trip. Four teacher/chaperones, who clearly give Job a run for his money when it comes to patience, are taking forty-four fifth graders on a tour of historic sites – Monticello, Congress (unless it’s closed), the Liberty Bell. They will travel over three states during eight days where the kids will be responsible for packing and unpacking their suitcases, keeping up with their belongings, personal grooming (at least enough that they don’t offend each other), making sure they get proper nutrition, all in addition to doing written assignments and keeping a photo journal. Oh, and the kicker…they can’t call, email, text or contact their parents in any way for the entire trip! I’m not sure I could do all that now, let alone at age ten.

When Nicole was in second grade, she announced that she would never, ever go on the D.C. trip. She repeated her declaration in third and fourth grade. But suddenly, when the teachers started talking about earning points to go on the trip – being allowed to go is merit based – Nicole promptly forgot her vow of several years earlier and became obsessed with not losing points so she could take the trip. I had mixed emotions about letting her go. I had been relieved when she said that she didn’t want to, but when she made an about face, I resigned myself to her going, knowing that I would be nervous and would miss her terribly. However, I also knew it would be, as parents of some older kids from our school have told me, “a life changing experience” for her. And indeed, I know now that it will be. It was amazing watching her in the days leading up to the trip. She has never been to sleep away camp, never traveled without us to visit family or friends. Yet, she was not nervous, and on the ride to the airport she was giddy, not worried or homesick. Even her goodbye as she got into the line to check her bag was more like a “goodbye I’m going to school,” rather than “goodbye, I’ll see you in a week!”

The teachers are tweeting the experience several times a day so we get to see photographs of the kids at various monuments. As a friend of mine said, it’s like playing Where’s Waldo? with the pictures, hunting each one to find your kid, making sure that they are still present and accounted for, checking to see that they have on their coat or combed their hair. It is our only way to know what’s going on during the trip. But the one thing I noticed in each photo is how happy and engaged the kids appear. And I marvel that my baby of ten is three thousand miles away from me, for the first time having experiences on her own. A mom I know with a toddler scolded us for letting Nicole go on the trip and said that she would never let her child travel on a school trip that far away at such a young age. She said that she knew her child would not be ready for it. And that may be true. However, I firmly believe that even if they aren’t exactly ready, most kids will rise to the occasion in order to have a chance to experience such a journey.

When I was 13, my French teacher aunt took me to Paris under the guise of taking several of her students on a study abroad trip. In fact, it was really just a booty call on foreign shores, with her promptly coming to our hotel room a few moments after arriving, teaching us a few survival phrases in French, informing us that we should not come to her hotel room for the next two weeks and instructing us not to tell our parents about it. And then she was gone. I was 13, alone in Paris with a hotel room, return ticket, guide book and a credit card. I was scared for about a nano second and then realized what an amazing opportunity I had. I cut a deal with the two girls I was traveling with, both older, high school juniors, but unable to speak the language as well as I could, that if they would go with me to museums during the day, I would translate for them at night when they went on the prowl hunting cute French guys. It was an arrangement that met the needs of all the travelers and resulted in hilarious results and lifelong memories. It turned out that my aunt had a boyfriend who I suspect was at the embassy and that she’d been following around the world for years and meeting in exotic locales. We had always marveled at her foreign trips and wondered how and why she went on such fascinating journeys – now I knew. But as a woman teacher in her day who’d lose her job to a married man with kids to support, I guess she thought it best not to marry and keep her relationship hidden – maybe her embassy guy was married, or maybe she just wanted to keep her job, either way, in retrospect, it was both terribly sad and horribly romantic! However, the biggest thing I learned on the trip was that I could take care of myself anywhere under any circumstance and it was a lesson that sparked a lifelong interest in travel and one that I carried with me as I traveled extensively, often alone and to unusual places during my pre-kid years. And as my aunt asked, I kept her secret and didn’t tell my father about my abandonment in Paris until I was 36. He shook his head and said, “That sounds like my sister.” I had been left alone in Paris for two weeks and I survived. So I knew that Nicole, who is way more mature than I was at that age, would do fine. I was the one who might not fare so well on this trip. I would miss her.

So Nicole is out of the house and it is very quiet now. There is no one dancing in the kitchen after dinner when she should be sitting and finishing her meal, no constant chatter repeating stories which she’s told us time and again, no bickering between sisters over what to watch on t.v. or who was longer on the Wii. Instead, there is a place at the table which goes unset, a bedroom neat and bed nicely made without clothes strewn about the room and the daily morning angst over what to wear. I thought I wouldn’t miss all those things, but I do. Nicole is missing from our home, and I miss her and the liveliness and love she brings to our life. Even though I know that within hours of her return, I might long for some of that quiet time again, I will be glad that she went on her journey, but happy to have her home.

No Fooling

Because I have a daughter who was born on April Fool's Day, we have ceased to celebrate the prankster's day in lieu of celebrating her birthday. When I was in labor, at about 11:30pm on March 31st, when it seemed as if Natalie was not coming out, my husband tried to get me to push her out before she was ready to avoid her having to be an April Fool's baby. He felt that it was a label that would haunt her for her entire life and that with one determined push, I could eliminate this potential hardship which might damage her psyche. But given that our doctor wasn't even at the hospital - she'd dropped by earlier on her way out to dinner with a friend - there was no way I was pushing that kid out early.

Midnight struck and April commenced. It was then that Natalie, obviously a prankster in training, decided to make her appearance. I spent an incredibly long time pushing - I remember asking the doctor, in a drug induced haze, "At what point do we give up and just take her out?" But before the doctor could answer, one final push and Natalie made her appearance at 12:58 a.m. My April Fool's baby wasn't fooling around - calm, quiet, she barely cried when they cleaned her off and she was as patient and sweet tempered then as she is today.

As a kid, I remember one April Fool's Day, I believe I was 8, when I decided to go all out with the pranks. I put salt in the sugar bowl, dipped my brother's hand in warm water while he was sleeping and seasoned the scrambled eggs with sugar. I don't remember anyone laughing. I do remember getting punished, badly. And I don't think I've played an April Fool's joke since. Which is a good thing, because now on April 1st, we have something wonderful to celebrate instead!

Low Expectations

There is something to be said for low expectations. My daughter competed in the school spelling bee last night. In the weeks before, she was hesitant as to whether she even wanted to compete again. She did the competition last year, studying words nightly, going to 3 practice bee sessions, making note cards. She invested a great deal of time and energy into it and then had an early and embarrassing defeat, the second or third kid kicked out in round one over an easy word that she knew, but misheard. She spelled further instead of farther. She went into this year’s competition with a very different attitude. She didn’t study at all except for twenty minutes last weekend when she and her classmate were over at the house and we practiced some words. He’s an expert speller – studies the roots of words, knows all the origins – Nicole refuses to even bother to break them down in to syllables when trying to spell them. But other than that, Nicole’s plan for the bee was, “I’m gonna wing it.” Her only goal – make it through round one and don’t be the first kid out.

As the competition started, it was clear there were kids who were very invested in it. Nicole was not. Earlier she refused to change clothes into something nicer or even comb her hair. I was able to get a comb through her locks under great protest and redo her pony tails, which over the course of the school day had become wild, with hair standing straight up in a fashion that made her look just a little bit like Don King’s daughter. Nicole got her bee number and took her seat at the back of the stage.

Round one came and she got her word correct. I could see the relief on her face. She had achieved her goal – she made it through the first round – after that, she didn’t care what happened. The bee continued and she kept getting words she could spell. With each word spelled correctly, she appeared more confident, more interested in competing, which is odd to see because she’s not a competitive person – except when it comes to her sister and t.v. viewing time – but sports or academically, she’s more easy going than that. It’s rare that there will be something she wants to badly that she’ll kick into competition mode. The last time she did was for the student council elections. She was disappointed when she didn’t get voted president, but then about ten minutes later, after a few tears had been shed, she came back to me and tried to figure out how she could make herself the political confident of the girl who won. Clearly, she's a born back room operator.

Nicole continued spelling and suddenly, we looked up on the stage and realized it was down to her and three other kids. They were all spellers from her class, one of them was the friend she practiced with, the spelling bee champ from the last two years. He practices words and roots and is by far the strongest speller in the class. He was going for a three-peat. A few misspelled words later, and it was down to Nicole and her friend, a fierce speller who amazes me every time – there doesn’t seem to be a word he can’t tackle. Between them, there would be a winner and a runner-up. I thought for sure that Nicole would be out after the first round of the finals, but they went back and forth spelling three or four more words until they both got one wrong. They continued spelling again until finally, one of them got a word wrong that the other could answer. Nicole was out, the runner-up, not the winner, but for her, for us, it was a huge win. The kid who was out in the first round with further, made it through a dozen or more words that her dad and I sat in our seats trying to figure out how to spell. But the best part about it was, because her expectations had been so low, she wasn’t really invested much either way. Sometimes that’s the best way to go – then you’re pleasantly surprised when go farther than you planned…or is it further?

The Making of an Ivy Leaguer

A Manhattan mother sued her 4 year old’s pre-school for not properly preparing her child for an Ivy League education. That would be like me suing Gatorade for not giving my kid the nutrients to be an Olympic athlete. The mother claimed that the $19,000 a year pre-school had the children doing finger paints and teaching shapes and colors (gasp) instead of preparing for the ERB, an admissions test children must take to get into New York City’s highly competitive, elite private schools and that by not preparing her properly, it damaged her daughter’s chances of one day attending an Ivy League school. The mom called the pre-school’s program more of a “big playroom” rather than the advertised age specific learning curriculum she wanted for her daughter. She says her daughter was forced to play with 2 year olds, and became bored by the less than stimulating atmosphere. She accused the school of committing fraud, wants her $19,000 back and is organizing a class action lawsuit for other parents dissatisfied with the pricey school’s ways.

The pre-school we sent our daughters to, which wasn’t much less than the one this Manhattan mom was paying for, was organized, creative chaos. We lovingly referred to it as a “semi-hippie” environment which was completely developmentally based, child led learning. The school’s nickname around town was, “The Naked School” because most of the time when you arrived to pick your kids up at the end of the day, they’d be running around in a diaper, undies or au natural, digging in the mud, smearing paint on themselves or others, dressing up in construction hats or frilly dresses – usually the girls in the hats, the boys in the dresses. In fact when my oldest went to kindergarten, her biggest adjustment was that she’d have to keep her clothes on. On the first day of school she earnestly asked us, “You mean I can’t take my clothes off?” She was somewhat disappointed, but she got over it.

Our pre-school did not believe in work sheets or skill drills. They read to the children, supported their play, encouraged their imaginations and curiosity, guided them in getting along with each other and showed them how to use their words to express who they are and what they needed. They supported the children’s learning, and they supported the parents as we discovered how to parent and how to help our children learn. As kindergarten approached, some parents worried that their kids wouldn’t be properly prepared. I remember one parent meeting which turned tense as a father complained that he didn’t see enough focus on ABCs and 123s. Others grumbled in agreement, expecting that very pricey tuition check to deliver more than clay sculptures, finger paint drawings and unabashed nudity. But we had faith in what they were doing (or we were too naïve to know we shouldn’t) and realized that, for our child, this was the program that would work for her. And it did. Without the pre-school using flash cards or worksheets, alphabet drills or comprehension tests to prep her for kindergarten, without us fretting over her classroom skills and competencies, Nicole left pre-school and entered kindergarten at 4 years old, about two years above grade level in English and math and ready for her academic career which would some day lead to…whatever school she wants to go to.

The other day, my youngest, Natalie, informed me that she was going to Stanford for college. I told her I thought that was a fine school but asked her what she was going to do if she didn’t get in. She informed me that even if she wasn’t accepted, she was going to go. She planned to show up anyway and go to class every day until they had no choice but to let her in. That’s the other thing our pre-school instilled in our kids – unbridled self-confidence and the idea that anything is possible. Stanford better look out, Natalie is coming, like it or not.

I think a great deal of craziness like this woman suing her pre-school is because some people don’t have enough meaningful things to do in life. If this mother had more to do, she wouldn’t waste her time fretting that her four year old might some day not get into Harvard because of a bad pre-school experience. So, you had one bad year, the next will be better. Colleges, even the Ivy League, don’t judge kindergarten math scores when evaluating you for acceptance. I’m sure the Manhattan mom's kid is smart, I’m sure she’ll do well in life regardless of a bad pre-school match, but to sue over it? Crazy. The funny thing would be if after all that, the kid decided to go to a state school. Who’s the mom gonna sue then?

For more on the story, check out the NY Daily News piece - http://www.nydailynews.com/ny_local/2011/03/14/2011-03-14_manhattan_mom_sues_19kyr_preschool_for_damaging_4yearold_daughters_ivy_league_ch.html

Bad Day at the Grocery Store

Not that going grocery shopping is ever a really pleasant experience for me – I generally hate it – but last week I had a particularly rough time. I’m not one of those people who actually enjoy strolling the aisles, looking for new items, sampling the cut up fruit in the produce section, seeing what’s cooking in the deli. I usually am sandwiching my grocery run between work or school or some other unmovable deadline and have about an hour to do two weeks worth of shopping. I have so much to get because most of the time I wait between shopping trips until my cupboards are bare and I’m sending my kids to school with marshmallows as a snack and trying to pretend there’s some type of nutritional value in it.

I hate being rushed and every time I am in the store, I am rushed. Rushed or badgered. The badgering usually happens when I make the mistake of bringing my children with me and I have to endure trying to hurry through the store while fending off pleas for Pop Tarts and Doritos which they try to surreptitiously sneak into the cart while they think I’m not looking. But I’m always looking – that thing about mothers having eyes in back of their heads – never believed it when I was a kid, but now that I’m a mother, I know it’s true!

Then there is the price issue. I hate that everything is so expensive. I know that I’m frugal, not only out of need, but by genetics. I come from a long line of cheap on one side of my family – cheap to the point of ridiculousness in some cases, as I remember my father wearing his shoes until he had holes in them…really, on a doctor’s salary??? And I know I have to curb that instinct in myself. But I do find the price of food at the grocery store so irritating, particularly these days – a buck each for an apple, $5 for butter, $25 dollars for a value pack of steaks – where’s the value in that??? Also, I’m so appalled by the prices of everything that I walk through the store talking (often to myself) about the price of the items (which incidentally seem to be put in smaller size packages just as the prices are going up).

Then at check out, I leave the store with over two hundred dollars of groceries in about a bag and a half - bags which I had to supply myself. I hate it. So basically, a trip to the grocery store for me is about being rushed, frustrated and talking to myself to the point of looking like a lunatic. You can see why the overall experience doesn’t thrill me. But now, I have something else to worry about at the grocery store – my daughter.

I ran into the store last week to buy a few items and dragged Nicole with me. At the check out line, I started chatting with the grocery clerk, an affable guy who is probably as old as some of the shoes I have in my closet (remember my father and the holes???). We talked about movies and the weather, he gave me my receipt and I pushed my cart filled with the bags I brought and about enough food to feed us for a day, to the elevator. As the door closed, Nicole said, “Oh, I wish I were ten years older.” I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. I couldn’t even imagine. And then it hit me…the grocery clerk. After picking my jaw up off the floor I asked her to repeat what she said to clarify. I have this paranoid fear that I’m losing my hearing or going slightly crazy (a fear which didn’t develop until I had children), so I often asked my kids to repeat what they’ve said so I know the crazy is coming from their mouths and not me. Nicole rolled her eyes and repeated the horrifying words she’d said only a moment earlier, “I wish I were ten years older…” Brain cells were misfiring as I tried to figure out if I should show her how horrified I was by her statement, be angry or act calm. I felt I had to have the right response, I just had no idea what that was. Instead I said the oh-so-mature and well thought out response, “Yuck.”

I realized the phrase, “Oh, I wish I were ten years older,” is one of many phrases that I really don’t want to hear from my kids as they grow older. It started me thinking about others that are on my list of phrases you never want to hear your child say:

I woke up with this weird tattoo.

A lot of girls do it at this age.

It was only 3 or 4 grams.

They said it would be off my record in six months.

He does not wear more makeup than I do.

Spring break in Vegas!

I’m sure there are others, many others I will shudder to hear. For now, suffice it to say, I won’t be going back to that grocery store for a while. I could try online grocery shopping with at home delivery. But I’m afraid of what she’d say about the delivery guys.