No, Not That Season

daphne on April 19, 2010

‘Tis not the season to be jolly.

‘Tis not the season for long, lazy days of riding bikes and lounging by a pool.

‘Tis particularly not the season to draw in deep carefree breaths of fresh air, unless you are particularly enamored of hours spent sneezing your head off.

‘Tis the season…

For jumping.

Last year I knew nothing from jump rope.  I carpooled and stumbled around blindly and despite my ignorance and incompetence we landed at the Junior Olympics and I wouldn’t have been more flabbergasted had a tornado risen up out of the sink.

I was proud.  I was stunned.  And I was stumped as to how best to support my jolly jumper.

This year, we know what’s up.  And we are all in.

For Kira, there are ropes to be jumped and ribbons to be won.

For me, there are children to be judged.   I don’t know why I thought that it would be nice to be out in the yard digging fresh seedlings into the dirt.  Fresh air and gardens evoke nothing compared to the whoops and howls of delight coming out of me during a Saturday spend indoors judging a child or 300.

That’s me; the intimidating looking judge second from the right.  I scrutinized moves as if I could tell an Awesome Annie* from a Backwards Frog*. (*Actual jump rope moves.  Go on, impress the crowds at your next cocktail party.)

While you’re busy with the image of me as a jump rope judge making you laugh until coffee squirts out of your nose, I will inform you that it was under extreme coercion with great pride that I agreed to provide direct support for my child’s chosen athletic outlet.

Because I may be clueless when it comes to handling an athlete, but I sure do love my kid.

And nothing says I love you like 12 hours in a gym.

It’s Her Birthday…and I’ll Cry If I Want To

daphne on January 4, 2010

Nah, despite my reputation to the contrary, I’m not going to cry.  I may be shaking my head back and forth in disbelief that I am old enough to have a nine year old, but there won’t be any tears.  Not when I am the proud mama of an attitude-copping, eye-rolling, delicious delightful beautiful nine year-old.

Ok, so maybe I will shed a tear or two, but that’s only because I am so overwhelmingly lucky in claiming this motley crew as my own —

family

Note, re: the helmets in this shot — we were sledding, okay?  My petition for above offspring to wear helmets plus full-body protective-wear 24/7 continues to be denied.

Turns out I’m not alone in thinking that nine is pretty darn old.  At her birthday dinner Kira pointed out the sad facts, there in black and white on the kids menu:

Kids’ meals are for children, 8 years and under.

Of course I marched right into the kitchen to have a word with the joker responsible for deciding that 9 years on this earth qualifies one to be an adult.  Well, I didn’t actually march in there, but I considered it.   Truth is I was pretty hungry and besides, what better gift to give than the gift of narrowly avoided mortifying embarrassment?

Child or no, a birthday girl is entitled to a day of  activities of her choosing.  And so it was that we set out for the Breckenridge bone-jarring sledding hill. Being nine, Kira marched herself to the top of the hill without pause and launched herself down the mountain at rocket speed before I could let loose with an over-protective blood curdling shriek of “NO WAY ARE YOU GOING OVER THOSE NECK-TWISTING, SPINE-SNAPPING JUMPS!” or maybe just a “HEY IS THAT HELMET TIGHT ENOUGH?”

Once she got the jumping part out of her system, everyone wanted to take a ride with the birthday girl.  Here she is with Good-sport Grandpa–

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And with her very own wild and crazy mom —

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And post-hill posing with her punky sister (helmet removed only for the picture, trust me.)

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Happy Birthday to my Incredible Nine Year Old.  I love you, and I love being your mom.

And the medal goes to…

daphne on August 4, 2009

Ahhhh….Home sweet home! After 45 days away, 6,519 miles traveled, 22 states visited, 3 time zones traversed I am chomping at the bit to get back to my garden-turned-overgrown jungle.  I cannot wait to resume CSA deliveries, fresh from the farm that is promising me eggplant and peaches.  I am ready to share the myriad of garden secrets and outrageous recipes that I collected on my travels.

But first things first.

Our road trip culminated in Des Moines, Iowa, which in addition to being a balmy 78 degrees during our stay was the gracious host city for the Junior Olympics.  A number of our most avid jump rope fans have made it clear that there will be no waiting for an official post.  And so, without any further ado, the results:

Kira rocked it, jumping as high and fast as her little legs would go.  She got off the floor after most events with a smile on her face, proud of her performance, and that was all that I had hoped for.   We were awed and amazed when she placed both individually and as a pair, even scoring a silver medal for her pairs routine.

Thanks to everyone who showered Kira with support, and in so doing helped me figure out how to manage my little champ.  And now, a snapshot of Kira’s events at the 2009 Jr. Olympics…

Sugar Cube Igloo with Frosting, *recipe not included

daphne on February 27, 2009

Kira threw a major hissy fit yesterday.  Maybe it was the culminating pressure of being home sick for a week.  Or it could have been the stress of listening to me harp about the post-concussion care list over and over again.  Whatever it was, she snapped.  Here’s what happened:

I got an email from her teacher, requesting that I send a box of sugar cubes and a tub of frosting to school. The kids, she wrote, would be creating igloos to further their study of Alaska.  Kira was delighted as she watched me shove the construction materials into her backpack.

She danced and sang, “We build them. Then we eat them.”

“No,” laughed I.  “You will not be eating them.”

Note that in the above sentence I was using the royal, plural YOU, as in “there is no way the teacher is going to watch YOU–27 eight year-olds–devour handfuls of sugar dipped in frosting and then sit YOU down to a lesson in subtraction.”

This is what Kira heard: “The lucky children of your class will gleefully participate in the ancient Alaskan igloo-eating ritual, but not you my little pretty.  No, not you. Ha-ha-ha. You will be sitting in the corner with a basket of chard and a sign that reads: I am the class goober.  Life is totally unfair.”

Now clearly I have made my case for wanting the children to eat healthy foods.  But contrary to what Kira may want you to believe, I am not an organically-obsessed ogre intent on wringing every last ounce of joy from their childhood.  I follow every healthy vegetable-laden dinner with an equally healthy ice cream sundae (or cookie or slice of pie or leftover piece of Halloween candy.)  Balance, you see, is key.

A recent article in the NY Times floats the idea that an intent focus on teaching kids about healthy foods could send them over the dietary edge.  A kid obsessed with fat, they insinuate, is no different from a kid obsessed with pesticides or vitamins or omega 3 fatty acids.  A kid obsessed, they feel, is a kid in an unhealthy relationship with food.

Forget for a moment that I am on the record in support of obsessions.  Am I “driving (my) kids absolutely crazy,” as Katie Wilson, president of the School Nutrition Association would apparently claim?   Kira probably would concur, but I’m not 100% ready to toss in the tomatoes.  Still, in the interest of appearing open-minded, I’ll concede that she has a point worth considering.

So here is what I am going to do while I let these new thoughts-on-food germinate against my open mind…

I’ll simply feed the kids one sugar frosting igloo for breakfast, and another sugar frosting igloo for lunch.  Then, I’ll follow them up with a healthy, well-balanced dinner.  Moderation, after all, is key.

PS–Hey, today is my birthday. And here is my birthday song:

Happy Birthday to me
I don’t want broccoli
Or anything that’s healthy
Just some chocolate cake for me!

No control, part 2

daphne on February 17, 2009

I know, I’ve already admitted that there are some flaws in my logic: feeding the kids healthy foods and making them schlep groceries home in reusable bags does not in fact create an impenetrable force field around them.  It does not insulate them in a bubble of eternal health.  It does not encircle their precious bodies with impervious walls of steel.

I know this.  At some level, I do know this.  But in the abyss of the powerless it is these little things that I cling to in a pathetic grasp for control.  It’s these little things that make me feel like I am the queen of all I survey.  Like I can control the destinies of those who rely on me.  It’s the little things, like, for example, a helmet.

On a recent quest for mother-of-the-year, I passed on my usual ‘let’s just hang out at home’ routine, picked the girls up from school and took them ice skating.  We had this interchange on the way to the car:

Kira: I thought you said 8 year-olds didn’t have to wear helmets?

This is true. I did let her go sans helmet at her birthday party, which was at the very same ice skating rink-o-trauma. It didn’t seem that scary last month at the party–

I thought for a mili-second, then came up with this in response:

OK, if you are not planning on skating backwards, or skating fast, then yes, you can skip the helmet.

I don’t know how I came up with these parameters, but somehow in my world, birthdays, slow-skating, and going forward offer all the protection a kid could need.

Kira, with haughty eyes and exasperation:  Fine. I’ll wear the helmet, Mom.

And so it was that Kira wore her helmet.

And when she fell backwards that helmet went down with her. That helmet hit the ice, hard enough to give her a concussion.  For those of you playing at home, that makes two sisters, three concussions, eight years. And just to keep things really exciting, Kira, like her sister, falls into that tiny percentage of people who get concussion-related seizures.

She is, thankfully, fine.  She will be totally fine.

Me? I’m fine too. Really I am.  It’s just that if you need me, I’ll be in the corner, replaying vividly horrible images and rocking uncontrollably.

And mourning my complete lack of control.

Happy Birthday to you

daphne on January 4, 2009

Happy Birthday baby girl.

No, wait, that’s not right.  This is not you anymore, lounging around under the table with the balloon, waiting to blow out the candles on your 3rd birthday cake.

This is you now.  Independent.  Determined.  Generous.  Empathetic.  And unbelievably eight years old. When did you make the leap from being my little baby to winning jump-rope medals?

And swim team ribbons?

I blinked, and the wrinkly newborn days are long gone.  Despite the bumbles and struggles and my blatant lack of experience going in, we made it this far.  I could have asked for no better initiation into motherhood than your patient, wise self.  Thank you for your willful insistence, for it is you who remembers the canvas bags, you who composts the carrot peels, and you who asks to take the bikes instead.

Happy Birthday dear Kira.  My funny, caring, loving, smart, incredible baby.  You are, perhaps, the Greenest Biener.