1 Mother 2 Another

In my last post, I shared the rules my family put together for our first ever Independence Day – a day when the girls got to do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, but had to be totally independent. They had to feed themselves, clean up after themselves, and if they wanted to go somewhere they had to get there under their own power and spend their own money.

So this past Monday we had our Independence Day, and let me tell you, it was a glorious thing.

First off, our top rule: no waking Mommy and Daddy. Unless the house was on fire.

When we finally stumbled downstairs at 9 a.m. (NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING!) we found the girls sitting on the couch watching a movie and eating candy. “Have you had breakfast?” I asked.

“No,” Maddie replied, “We wanted bagels and we knew we couldn’t use the sharp knives to cut them so we waited for you.”

Apparently Maddie woke her sister at 7 a.m. – couldn’t wait any longer – and they got down to business right away, snacking and watching Cyberchase for about an hour before picking out a movie.

But did you catch the part where they didn’t wake us up? It was beautiful.

After they ate their bagels –while watching the movie – I checked the weather and told the girls if they wanted to ride their bikes anywhere they’d best do it soon, since rain was imminent. This? Was big news, because they’d been planning Junk Food Run for a looong time.

The girls quickly got dressed – as did Mommy and Daddy, who of course followed them on bikes as they went out. Maddie and Cora argued about the destination: Cora wanted to hit Walgreens for candy because it is next to a local ice cream store and they could buy ice cream for later, but Maddie thought the big grocery store would have a larger candy aisle and a “decent” ice cream selection. In the end, expediency won and with Walgreens being closer, they settled on the drugstore.

If I could, I would buy the surveillance footage from that Walgreens for that morning. It was the cutest darn half-hour I’ve ever spent there. Both girls brought their cash, and sat down on the Walgreens floor crunching numbers and running scenarios. “This candy section is 3/$3, so I could get three big boxes for $3, but I don’t want three of this kind of candy. Those are only 2 for $3, but those are better candies.”

And so on.

They prowled the whole grocery section, making sure they hadn’t missed a lollipop display or end cap of gummy bears. The wandered to the refrigerated section and discovered pints of ice cream, quickly cutting the trip to the ice cream store so they could get home sooner and get started on that sugar coma. They perused the beverages, Cora settling on an organic apple juice and Maddie selecting a half-gallon (!) of organic lemonade. As she pulled out the lemonade, committing to spending $3.99 on it, she said, “Boy, you really need to make a budget when you grocery shop! Especially when it’s your own money!”

The clerk worked hard to bury her disapproval of the mound ‘o sugar piled in front of her, and Brian and I stared blandly at her.

Yes, we’re those parents.

We rode quickly home and the girls crowed over their stashes. Cora ended up with a pint of strawberry ice cream; a bag of Lifesaver gummes; a movie-theatre-size box of Airheads; a jumbo lollipop ring; a pint of apple juice;and a jumbo blow-pop. Maddie went crazy, buying a half-gallon of lemonade; Two movie-theatre boxes of Nerds; one movie-theatre-size box of gobstoppers; one movie-theatre-sized box of lemonheads; one movie-theatre-size box of Whoppers; one movie-theatre-size box of airheads, and a pint of mint-chocolate chip ice cream.

And they started eating, and didn’t stop.

The girls spent pretty much the rest of the day on the couch, watching a movie marathon and eating a candy marathon. And the most amazing thing of all? They did not fight. Once. I’m telling you, I can’t figure it out; they bicker all the time, and I was sure sugar would just make it worse. But they were amiable and happy as clams sprawled on the couch.

They did take a 10-minute play break, and paused briefly to make mac-n-cheese for their dinners. Maddie even asked me to cut up an apple for her. But otherwise it was movies-and-candy. And then do it again.

At bedtime, I lay in bed with Cora, reading a book with her. It's a vintage children's lit book from the 50's - she LOVES them and got several more for her birthday (thank you ebay). At the end of each story there's a short set of ridiculously easy questions. I read the first question to Cora: "Which friend of the duck said he makes his home near the pond?"

Cora sat there for a second and said, "I don't want to do the question things tonight. They're too hard."

My kids' IQs dropped 20 points each that day, I swear.

We had the inevitable difficulty getting up the next day, with the Mother of All Sugar Hangovers, but both girls were pretty good-natured about it and happily drank a ton of water to help detox. And they’ve both mused this week about how long the junk food affected their digestive system from start to, ahem, finish, and wondered aloud at how they might do things differently next time.

For there WILL be a next time. Seriously? I napped, caught up on HOURS of computer work, read a book – it was AWESOME.

Independence Day rocks.

Several months ago I read about a family that periodically does and Independence Day: one day with no restrictions and no help. Eat what you want when you want, but make your own meal, get out your own bike, solve your own fight with your sister. We were intrigued with this idea and discussed it as a family, and decided to have our own Independence Day. We looked for a date on the calendar with no commitments and settled on Memorial Day.

So for the past few months Maddie and Cora have been planning and plotting their Independence Day with all the care and precision of a military maneuver. They’ve been saving up money so they could bike to the store and buy the BIG boxes of candy Mommy never lets them buy. They’ve negotiated a complex system for determining who gets to pick each movie during the day, and worked out who will spread the peanut butter and who’s in charge of the jelly while making lunches.

They were ready.

As Memorial Day grew near, I realized I may need to spell out a few ground rules when I overheard Cora enthusing about all the friends she was going to have over. Ahem.

So Sunday night I printed out our Independence Day rules and posted them on the wall where we hang all important family communications. Here they are, in all their glory:

Independence Day Rules

1. The house must look the same at bedtime as it does when you wake up in the morning. You will need to clean up all toys, dishes, cooking utensils, etc.

2. You are still responsible for your usual chores, including maintaining the litter box, feeding your pet, and emptying the dishwasher.

3. Common courtesy rules still apply: no taking something of someone else’s without permission, no rudeness, etc.

4. If something is NEVER allowed on a normal day, it’s not allowed today. This includes but is not limited to: using power tools; drinking caffeinated drinks; going outside dressed inappropriately; jumping on furniture; internet surfing; physical violence.

5. If you are having trouble with something you may ask an adult for verbal help. If you still cannot make it work you’ll need to move on to something else. This includes but is not limited to: operating the television; finding something on the computer; cooking a recipe; getting out your bikes.

6. When using the stove or oven there needs to be an adult present. An adult should handle all sharp knife needs. If you leave the house and yard, an adult should accompany you.

7. Fights between sisters will need to be resolved on your own. An adult will not intervene. The exception here is physical violence: being physically violent with each other will promptly bring an end to Independence Day.

8. Bedtime is still 7:30, with lights out at 9. Any problems with bedtime will mean no future Independence Days.

9. HAVE FUN!!!

Wondering how Independence Day went down? Tune in tomorrow –

Dear Cora:

Today is your birthday, sweet girl. Can you believe it? Seven years old! We spent all weekend celebrating your birthday in one seemingly endless fantasia: your oldest friend came in from out of town to surprise you Saturday morning and spend the whole weekend with you; we had a fun party riding horses on Saturday afternoon; and celebrated with family Sunday night. Plus chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, favorite lunches, and more – it’s been a looong weekend honoring you in our lives.

So in some ways the whole Age Seven thing seems old news; but in other ways – in Mommy Time – it’s still startling and a teensy bit unwelcome.

Just keeping it real here.

You are just finishing up first grade, and have been vocal about your impatience to learn more, to be more challenged in school. You’ve spent a large part of the spring semester asking if you could just “go ahead into second grade” because “first grade is just kindergarten over again”. Fortunately for you, your teachers are some of the best in the country and they work every day to challenge you, give you extra projects and teach you new concepts as you race to know MORE. Your homeroom teacher has given you a couple old encyclopedia-type books from the 1980’s: one on Myths and Legends, and another on Holidays and Customs. You spend large parts of your nights reading them like comic books, poring over entries on Sasquatch or Greek spring festivals. You asked for an almanac for your birthday and ask your teacher when she’s going to let you work on more algebra problems. I have to say, this part of you tickles me enormously, though I suspect in a few years I’ll be running hard just to keep you mentally fed.

You run full-tilt at life, and don’t let your fears hold you back. Not to say that you don’t have fears: you definitely do. But you push yourself to go ahead and do something anyway. Some people describe you as fearless, but I know that you are simply Hugely Brave in spite of your fear.

In fact, the only thing that holds you back is yourself. You, my child, have incredibly high standards – for yourself. Kickball this year has been a big challenge for you in school, because you have been nearly paralyzed with fear, worrying you’ll be less than perfect when you line up to kick the ball. I watched you play your grade’s final kickball tournament, and the entire game you were fidgety with nerves, worrying about your time at the home plate. When you stepped up and kicked a run that got you to first, only to go on and eventually score the last – and winning – point for your team, I’ll admit I was crying up in those stands. Every time you face down your own impossibly high standards and let yourself try – and give yourself permission to fail – you grow so much, baby. I love watching it happen .

You are still fiercely loyal to your friends and enjoy as many playdates as I’ll let you have. Interestingly enough, you see all your friends through the rose-colored glasses you refuse to don for self-examination: one friend is “amazingly pretty” while another is “SO good at soccer!” and a third is “always kind to EVERYONE!” You are so effuse with your praise for your friends, and always compare yourself to them and find yourself wanting. I wish you’d measure your own self as generously as you measure your friends.

This year has been the year you’ve fully realized that you will Never. Be as old as your sister. And trying to keep up with her has been frustrating and agonizing and heart-wrenching, but you still don’t quite want to admit it’s not going to happen. Remember, Li’l Bit, that I was the younger sister too, and I know what it’s like to keep chasing the moving finish line. When you finally stop comparing yourself to your sister – or anyone – you’ll be so much happier. I promise.

You started horseback riding this year, and you’ve really enjoyed your time at the stables. You’re such a little thing on that big horse, and you still don’t want him to break into a gallop because trotting’s so hard on you, you can’t imagine what a gallop must feel like. But you sure love hanging around the stables on a Saturday, and I’m eager to see where you go with this.

Dancing is still high on your list of loves as well, and let me tell you, watching you dance is about my favorite thing in the world. When you dance, baby, everyone can see the pure joy in your eyes, and as you move we see what the music sounds like to you. Cora, you have a real gift there, and while I don’t know how you’re going to use it, I have no doubt you will use it your whole life.

You’ve also fallen in love with the stage in general, and our trip to New York last summer certainly didn’t help to slow that down. After seeing Newsies on Broadway and getting a backstage tour, you were the only kid in our neighborhood to trick-or-treat as a Newsie, in your little newsboy cap and bloomers, your messenger bag/candy bag slung over your shoulder as you earnestly shouted, “Buy a paper, mister! Trick or treat!”

I think you’ve got a real gift for taking care of people, for nurturing, for acts of service. You’re happiest when you’re helping out in a soup kitchen line, or helping me organize some items for a large group, or even assisting your teacher with a project. You love feeling useful, I think, and while I want to encourage that servant’s heart, I also don’t want you to get all your sense of self-worth in that way. You are precious, sweet girl, all by yourself, and I would love you to pieces even if all you did was sit and stare out the window all day.

What will happen over this next year? I honestly don’t know. Summer is our time to try out new things in a low-commitment setting, and you’ve asked to try a soccer camp this summer, wanting to give a sport a go for the first time ever. Will you fall in love with team sports? Want to continue with ballet or horseback riding? Decide to become more serious about your painting, and want to go deeper into that? Only time will tell.

I’ve had such a fantastic weekend celebrating your pre-birthday, baby, and am so glad you were born all those years ago! God’s given me such a wonderful gift in making me your mother.

I love you so much!

Mommy

The past few weeks I’ve been despairing of Maddie’s selfish attitude; she’s astonishingly mean to her sister, and when she’s given two pieces of candy, the first words out of her mouth are usually, “And I am NOT sharing this with Cora, so don’t ask!”

I pray nightly for her heart to be changed: that she will think first of others, then herself. I’m not trying to raise a martyr, just someone who looks to serve others – and finds that joy in serving. I don’t think Maddie’s particularly bad or horrible; I think this is a phase, and I’m trying hard not to correct the actions, but the heart behind it. Sometimes, though, it’s hard going, and I feel like I’m speaking to deaf ears.

But then sometimes, something happens to show me that my girl is listening.

A few days ago we were walking to school, chatting about the upcoming day, when Maddie brought up the subject of recess.

“I’m not sure what I’m going to play today at recess; today is a ‘free’ day for me and Elise.”

Curious, I asked, “Isn’t every recess free time? I didn’t think recess was programmed.”

“Well,” Maddie said, “Not every recess is free, since Anna is out of town.”

What?

I asked Maddie to elaborate.

“See, Anna is out of town for three weeks visiting family, and Senti is Anna’s best friend. And Senti is really shy and she really misses Anna a lot. So while Anna is out of town, me and my friends make sure that Senti has someone to play with at recess. We divide it up amongst us, and yesterday was me and Elise’s turn to play with Senti, but today it’s someone else’s so today is a ‘free’ day.”

“Why doesn’t everyone just play together?” I asked, not quite sure I was understanding this correctly.

“Because Senti is really shy, like I said, so she’s only comfortable playing with a couple people at a time. This makes her happier.”

As Maddie stopped to pick up an earthworm, I looked at my beautiful girl, the breath knocked out of me at the sheer matter-of-factness with which she told this generous story.

And I grabbed her and hugged her tight.

This? Is what I pray for every night. For a daughter whose first thought is for others, not herself. For a child that sees another person floundering, and WANTS to step in and help. And then doesn’t need to brag about it. I’ve been praying for a girl whose first thought would be for someone else, who would find joy in serving that someone, who would think that this act of service was just a normal part of the day.

And God parted the curtains that usually veil Maddie’s school day from me, and gave me a glimpse of a girls who listens, and hears, and acts. Not always, but sometimes, which is all I can hope for.

And I am grateful.

Li’l Bit, this is a tough time for you right now.

You, my friend, have such a big heart. And as we’ve talked about – a LOT – recently, Big Hearts tend to have Big Feelings. And sometimes those Big Feelings are hard to control.

Which means you’ve spilled more than your fair share of tears these past few weeks.

Here’s what happens: you get cranked up about something – Maddie not wearing the correct headphones, or my not remembering that you’d already cleaned the litter box – and then have a really hard time getting around it. And you feel like no one’s listening to you, and you get angrier and angrier and more and more frustrated, and you lash out. Like, physically, with your feet, or screaming, with your voice.

I’ve learned a few things over these past few weeks. For one, I should not EVER try to hold you while you’re wrestling with your emotions. This does not go over well, and you crawl and scooch and drag yourself across the bed, wedging yourself into a tight, tiny corner as far away from me as possible.

And while this was originally incredibly hurtful to me, this rejection of my motherly offering, I’ve since learned that you crawl away not because you’re trying to hurt me, but because you think you’re not worthy of my forgiveness/grace/love.

Oh, baby.

So I don’t push it any more. I lie on the bed next to you, reading a book to myself, until your sobs slow and your hiccups calm down. And eventually you scooch close to me, or start talking about some unrelated topic, and we gradually reconnect until you’re imprinted against me, forehead to toenails straining towards my heart.

And then we get down to the work: talking about what happened, and where you got off track, and why it’s ok to get off track sometimes, and how we ALL get off track sometimes, and THAT’S OK because God loves us ANYWAY!

I offer up morsels from my own childhood, stories of my falls from grace or my unearned meanness towards a friend or – more likely – a family member. You listen, and your portrait of me in your head gets a little more defined, moves a bit more away from pastels and into oils. These nights can take hours – literally. But I take heart in the fact that they now take, perhaps, one hour, instead of three.

I will be honest, dear girl: there are nights that I don’t think I’m going to make it through to the other side of these storms. I sometimes want so much to simply yell at you and storm out, to put my own hurt ahead of your own and crawl away to lick my wounds in peace.

But I stay, because you? Are worth it. Hands down, no questions asked, without a doubt, worth it. And I NEVER want you to think that your emotions make you unlovable, or that your actions make you unforgivable. We serve and amazing Savior, and there’s grace enough for all of us from him.

And if he can suck it up and stick it out with a sinner/crabby person/selfish mommy like me, then I can stick it out through a few tantrums with you.

I love you so much, C Note. And we will get through this, and come out the other side even stronger. You are an amazing girl, and I love the journey with you.

Even the tough parts.

Yesterday morning I headed to my girls’ school for a parent-teacher conference. As I turned out of my alley, I noticed an unmarked police car going past me. When I got to the school I found a squad car in front of the door, and when I buzzed the front desk from the remote-feed camera at the door entrance, the receptionist politely told me she could not let me in at the time, and I should come back later. I figured it was a lockdown drill and left; the school practices going into lockdown mode a few times a year.

Once at home I easily did the conference by phone and hung up twenty minutes later. A couple minutes after that, a friend called and said, “The school is still on lockdown, which is weird, and there’s a helicopter circling overhead. Have you seen that?”

I ran to the window, and sure enough, there was the copter circling right over the school. As I watched out the window I saw two more squad cars go past, and I realized: this was not a drill. And I felt myself start to lose it.

Let me tell you something you probably already know: I would do anything for my girls. ANYthing. And if I thought it would help I would’ve stormed the building, smashed in the glass doors, done anything to get to them. But I knew that there were lots of qualified professionals on the scene who were way better at this stuff than I; and I knew they’d done countless lockdown drills just so everyone would be ready if they had to do a real one. When I held still and really thought about it, I knew there was nothing I could do and I could – at least partly – be content with that.

The harder thing for me, truthfully, was the complete lack of information. Without any real knowledge, any solid facts to help me know precisely what to worry about, I was free to worry about EVERYTHING. A crazy gunman. A suicidal student. An anthrax threat. I just wanted SOMEONE to call me and tell me what was going on, and I felt as helpless as I had that September Tuesday morning.

Fortunately, the threat turned out to be directed elsewhere: a bank robbery in the neighborhood had gone wrong and the two suspects had fled to my area and were being pursued hard, and the police had locked down the school as an eminently sensible precaution the minute the robbery happened. The two men were armed and running through the streets somewhere.

I was ridiculously happy.

As soon as I learned that MY life was at risk more than my kids’, I was good. I mean, not GOOD, but I could handle it. I put my cell phone in my pocket and set my house alarm and went about my business. I’ve got a couple good friends who work in the school, and they called to tell me they’d laid eyes and my girls who were both wide-eyed but ok. My poor mom had been out when it happened, and wasn’t even allowed into the neighborhood for almost an hour; at least I could worry in the comfort of my home!

I still think about 9/11 on a regular basis, of course, and know it’s just one of those events that has shaped who I am, for better or for worse. I assume bad stuff will happen, because it has before, for no good reason. I’ve accepted this, and that 9/11 will forever color how I respond to emergencies or bad news. Over the years I’ve learned to deal with it, and now can see a plane in the sky and not assume it’s about to hit a building. It’s just the not knowing that I’m still not real good at.

As soon as the lockdown was lifted, all I wanted to do was run to the school and grab my babies, who had probably had not nearly the stress and worry over this that I had. But I restrained myself, because I couldn’t make it into a bigger deal than it already was. The girls are going to go through scary stuff in their lives, and I won’t always be there to hold them afterwards. We decompressed after school, and they talked through everything that had happened and how they felt about it all.

I hugged my girls, grateful that nothing bad had happened to them, and knowing I’d gotten through the afternoon ok. And I’m to the point where I can say that I’m grateful that I had the chance to remember once again that I’m not at all in charge of my life and need to constantly surrender that control.

If I could just get a little clue now and then during the bad stuff . . .

Every year I kvetch about the school talent show, and every year I cry during it.

So just deal with it.

This year has been particularly stressful to me: the music teacher told students they were allowed to be in three different acts at the most, which Cora took to mean “You should really do three acts.” I would not care so much, except for the fact that Cora doesn’t really like to, how should I put this, rehearse.

Which gives me a great deal of agita and just might put me in an early grave.


Since performing is what I did for a living, it’s hard for me to throw my kids up on any stage and just let them mess around. Not only would I be thinking about how they aren’t really putting any effort out, but I’d also cringe as I worried about the other parents and kids who have to sit through a narcissistic, watch-me-for-no-good-reason three minutes. And I’m not knocking people who aren’t the best singers in the world, but get up and sing anyway; or who can’t really dance but give it a good go. I’m talking about kids who decide to do something but don’t practice it or memorize it or really put any effort into it, then want us to watch them for three minutes. You know you’ve seen these kids.

I’ve spent the past few months gently (I promise!) encouraging my kids to start practicing for their respective pieces: Maddie sang a solo and a duet, and Cora sang a solo, a duet, and danced a solo dance as well. Some time in January (JANUARY!) Maddie said, “I don’t need to practice my solo. I already know it.”

Me: “Well, you may want to go through it every once in a while, make sure you’ve got it still.”

Maddie: “Why? Where would it go?”

Maddie also wanted to do movements with her solo which, since she didn’t start rehearsing that until a few DAYS ago, did not happen. That was the same point, coincidentally, where Maddie realized that singing the song to a karaoke track without background vocals is VERY different than singing along to the soundtrack.

She spent probably three hours this past weekend, going over and over it, cramming all her rehearsing into two days.

The duet was a different story: Maddie knew she needed to learn the song, and she and her friend practiced weekly for the past six or so weeks. I had no fears on this piece. And I’m happy to say that both songs went very well; even the costume changes (which we’d practiced at Sunday night’s dress rehearsal – don’t judge) went smoothly.

Then there’s Cora.

I have to tell you: when Cora’s on stage she just lights up. And for her singing solo, she picked the exact same solo as her big sister, a very difficult song from a current Broadway show. Cora “sorta” knew it, but didn’t practice it much with the background track, and I was hyperventilating on her behalf as I thought of my sweet six-year-old up in front of hundreds of people with this monster song. She ran it a couple times last night and felt confident, and that was that.

I was grateful that Cora’s singing solo was her first thing, so she could get that out of the way. As I handed my iPod to the sound guy, I turned to Cora with the lyric sheets and was looking for a music stand when she said, “I don’t want the lyrics.”

I panicked. “Are you sure? It’s pretty long and hard.”

“Yep!” she said, and walked confidently to the microphone.

My kid? Nailed it. And at the end of the song, several other kids around me said, “Wow, that was hard! That was a lot of memorizing! That was really good, Cora!”

Cora flashed a smile at the shouting boys and ran off to change for her dance piece.

For Cora’s dance solo, she chose to “improvise” a dance, just as she did last year. This, as you can imagine, gives me nightmares: what if she gets nervous and just stands there? What if she just spins around for three solid minutes? But I knew from last year that any “Hey, wanna just sketch out the general layout of the dance?” comments would be pointless.

Cora ran to the center of the stage, the music started, and she held it. And held it. Then the gentle intro music exploded.

And so did Cora.

My girl had clearly been thinking about her talent show stuff and working on it in her room at night; she had a structure to the dance and looked so freakin’ joyful it about killed me. Just like her song solo, she rocked the dancing.

When will I stop underestimating my kid?

Cora’s last piece, the singing duet, went quite well also, and even had a backdrop Cora had drawn and colored in over the weekend. For the entire show, Cora was confident, happy, and lit up onstage. I’m telling you, it’s something to see.

I don’t sweat the entire talent show because I’m worried the girls will embarrass me or make me look bad; I’m hyperventilating at the thought of one of them fumbling or faltering, and someone in the crowd yelling something mean, and my girl will be devastated. I think I’d strip nekked and streak through the gym just so everyone would be talking about ME and not my daughter. I? Would do anything to help my child avoid emotional pain like that, and what gets harder for me every year is the realization that the older they get, the less I’m SUPPOSED to help them avoid that emotional pain: the mistakes are theirs to make, the consequences theirs to survive.

Both girls looked so happy afterwards, holding the roses we always bring them for the talent show, and I smiled and once again said, “Yep, totally worth it.” Not because they’re such amazing, precious, talented children – just because they enjoy what they do, and they learn how to handle all that pressure pretty gracefully.

Clearly much more gracefully than I handle it.

We had a busy weekend with our new family business opening up Saturday morning at a farmers’ market, and while both girls had been a bit crabby about the earliness of the starting hour, it was nothing a little donut-for-breakfast couldn’t fix. By the time we’d gotten set up and ready for business, Maddie and Cora had kicked into Work Mode and were ready to go.

Ish.

Maddie put in some time at first, wearing her work apron and helping with customers, but when her friends started showing up Maddie felt the siren call of Goofing Off pulling her away and we only saw her for brief stretches after that. Maddie would run and play on the playground with a friend; come back and help five minutes; run and buy a cookie from the gluten-free stall just around the corner; come back and help for five minutes; and so on. I got a bit of work out of her, and she got a large amount of sugar and play time out of me. A reasonably fair exchange, I think.

Cora ran off and played with friends some as well, but by and large she was by my side and helping out. I’d trained her on the tablet as a cashier, and while I wouldn’t let her do it all by herself, she was right there trying. Cora was an ace at filling bags for people, helping them select the right product, putting stickers on purchases, and all those little things that need to be done. She worked hard and totally earned her $6 for the day.

By the time they left at noon for their riding lessons, both girls were a bit exhausted. But at least they’d gotten through the morning with relatively little fighting and complaining, and learned a couple lessons about serving others and being patient. All in all, they were good sports, and our matching-family look drew a fair bit of coverage in the social media, which never hurts.

Now to tell them they have to do it all again next weekend . . .

We had a hard week here last week: we had to say farewell to a beloved family pet on Friday, as well as face the first anniversary of the death of a very dear friend of mine and Brian’s. Friday night Brian and I did a concert we’ve been working on for almost a year, and at the end of the evening we were exhausted. I looked at the girls, running and happy with friends when just a couple hours before they’d been sobbing about our pet, and knew that Saturday was going to be hard.

So I cancelled the weekend. All of it.

I called the riding stables and told them we wouldn’t be in for lessons Saturday morning. I canceled Brian and I’s date night plans on Saturday night. And as we went to bed Friday evening I told the girls we were having a Family Day on Saturday, and they should sleep as late as they wanted. “You can eat sugar cereal on Saturday if you want, and watch cartoons, and play outside in your pjs. We’re going to try to make Saturday a ‘yes’ day.”

Saturday morning when I awoke my first thought was for the ball of fur that was missing from my side. I rolled over, already crying, and saw sitting next to my table a breakfast tray. Maddie had been up early, made me breakfast, and sneaked it into the room. Next to the tray was a homemade card that began, “To a very special Mommy –“

I wept some more.

Cora slept until 10 a.m. We all stayed quiet all day. Both girls read books; I puttered in the kitchen; Brian and the girls played video games; we played volleyball in the house with a beach ball; the girls painted; we watched a lot of cartoons.

It was perfect.

Craving some junk food, we decided to make caramel corn. And eat most of it. We made pizza for dinner and watched a movie together. The girls helped me in the kitchen, and laughed and played together. They were never far from a grown-up, and while they weren’t clingy, they weren’t their usual rambunctious selves.

It wasn’t a typical Pajama Day, replete with craziness and fun. It was a toned-down version, with lots of snuggles and silent space and time to just unwind.

We really, really needed it. Time to lick our wounds, and rest up, and not get hurt any more.

Sunday we finally ventured out, heading to church for some great healing time. But then we headed right back home and began puttering and playing again. By Sunday evening we felt up for a bike ride and brief soccer game, and approached the start of the school week with some sort of normalcy.

This past weekend was our last relatively unscheduled weekend until school gets out, believe it or not, and Someone must have really known we’d need it. Having that time to retreat with my family has made all the difference to me – not having to plow ahead and ignore what was going on inside gave me time to take a breath, count my blessings, and get ready to move on.

Thank you, God, for weekends like this last one.

Every year for Christmas, my girls get “experience” gifts from their grandparents: tickets to a few shows each year, accompanied by the family, of course. These shows are always children’s shows, and usually a musical written out of an existing book, such as Fancy Nancy or Martha Speaks or something like that. We absolutely love going to the shows, and the girls think that seeing the book come to life is incredibly cool.

This weekend, we had tickets to go see “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day”. It’s been a favorite at our house, because it’s so darn relatable: Alexander starts off his day by waking up with gum in his hair and then accidentally stepping on a skateboard, and the day goes downhill from there. You can practically see the black cloud hanging over Alexander as the day goes on, and his mood gets fouler and fouler. As little pebbles are thrown at Alexander – no dessert in lunch, a teacher who doesn’t like his drawing of an invisible castle – those pebbles become an avalanche until all he can do is go to bed and hope that the next day will be better.

Alexander had a rough day, all right, though the actor playing him smiled the whole way through it. Perhaps he didn’t want to make the kids feel too bad for him? That I could live with, but then came the ending: Alexander’s in his least-favorite pajamas, feeling miserable in his bed, and suddenly everyone in the family comes in to sing to him and let him know they all love him and it’s going to be ok. Alexander’s room gets a makeover, his brothers are sweet to him, and the whole family wears matching horrible pajamas in solidarity with Alexander. The music swells and they all end in a happy, smiling picture.

As we left the theatre, I was trying to figure out why I was so disturbed by this ending, and we began talking about the show on the car ride home. Both girls said – with no prodding from me or Brian – that it wasn’t the best show they’d seen, and the music seemed to be thrown in there and was “too happy” , not really going with the book at all. And they both thought the ending felt funny. A little later Maddie said it felt “a little bit like a lie”.

And that’s it right there- the ending was a lie. Because sometimes, days DO stink.

I think my generation of parents are so intent on raising kids in a happy childhood – we are more intentional about our parenting and choices than any other generation, I believe, partly because we have the options and money to be so – that we create this false world. There was face painting before the show and my dad commented on how face painting seems to have sprung up in the past few years and is light years away from where it was when I was a kid. And he’s absolutely right: I can remember perhaps two times in my childhood when I got my face painted, and both were HUGE times. The girls, on the other hand, probably get faces painted a half dozen times a year.

I’m not knocking face painting; I love it. But its ubiquitousness is a sign of the fairy-tale world we are building for our kids sometimes. Nothing’s too good for them, and we tell kids that “everyone is a princess” or “every kid is a superhero” and “each day will be AMAZING!” Because that’s what we want for our kids.

So when a book like “Alexander” is put on the stage, apparently the powers that be think our kids are too fragile to handle the reality of a world in which whole days STINK and no one apologizes or buys you a pony to make up for it. And perhaps those people think this because it’s what we’ve told them: clean up the story, don’t make it too scary, keep it happy and fun and light and peppy.

Don’t make it a downer or we won’t buy the merchandise.

But how does this help our kids? A friend of mine is an author who writes young adult fiction, and I remember him being asked once in an interview who his favorite writers were when he was growing up. “Well, too many to mention, of course,” he said, “But I specifically remember reading Road Dahl and feeling like a world had opened up to me. Up until then, all the books were about rainbows and unicorns and happy endings, and Road Dahl was the first author I ever read who admitted that sometimes, adults are just mean. And sometimes, life just stinks and isn’t fair. And it felt like something in me had been acknowledged, and validated, like I wasn’t crazy after all. The world isn’t perfect, no matter what all the parents tried to tell me.”

I’m not saying I want my kids to read Anne Frank any time soon. But the Holocaust has come up recently, and we’ve sketched in the truth about it. We’ve discussed 9/11 with the girls, and try to be truthful about hard subjects while still keeping it age-appropriate and maintaining their innocence as long as possible. I don’t want to burden my daughters with details about child molesters, but I have to say SOMETHING so they know about Stranger Danger.

And if I pretend every day is good and every night ends perfectly, how do they feel when that doesn’t happen? Do they feel like they have to pretend, or hide their feelings away? Or God forbid, even lie about it to me?

This is a whole big burden to place on a little children’s show, I know. But it got me thinking. We owe it to our kids to provide them with a great childhood. To allow them to have great memories and experience wonderful things. To teach them to see the beauty in the Everyday World, but also feel compassion for people who have less than they do. To see the reality of a broken and flawed world, while still seeing potential in people and having hope in seemingly hopeless situations.

But my kids also need to have it acknowledged: sometimes a day is just Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

And that’s ok.

We’re coming up on that yearly event when the household goes into a panic and people are frantically rushing around, sorting through songs, debating dance costumes, and arguing with friends over lyric distribution.

Yes, it’s time for the annual school talent show.

Each grade does its own show, so the show’s only an hour at a time instead of seven hours long. Each child is allowed to be in up to three numbers, and my girls firmly believe in exercising their constitutional right to be in the maximum number allowed by (school) law. So it’s getting a little crazy over here.

Cora had a friend over yesterday to sing through a song – from Frozen, natch – and confirm the choice. I set up the microphones (yes we own them, don’t judge) and then tried to leave the girls alone as they worked out who sings which part and all the other really important stuff.

Like, apparently, autograph signing.

As I was working in the kitchen I caught the words “autograph books ready” come out of my child’s mouth. I immediately began shamelessly eavesdropping, and heard Cora’s friend say, “No, Cora, I don’t want to make autograph books to give out to people. I don’t think people will want our autographs.”

“Well, you never know,” Cora insisted, “and we should be ready in case people ask for it!”

This back and forth went on a few more minutes, until Cora’s friend finally said, “Cora, I’m only in first grade! I can’t handle all this pressure!”

Finally, some perspective.

Unfortunately, not from my child, but baby steps.

We did a lot of fun things over spring break, and spent as much time as was humanly possible outside and being active. We did little hikes, and had several day-long playdates at local parks, and practically spent the entire weekend outdoors on the farm.

But my favorite outdoor time was our Big Bike Ride.

We’ve got a lot of great jogging paths right near our house, and you can get on one and stay on it for miles without having to cross a street or deal with cars. So one day we decided to pack some snacks, get on the bike, and ride to a favorite park.

A few miles away.

Maddie had done this ride before, but it was a first for Cora, and let me tell you something, that kid is TOUGH. There were a few whiney moments as we got going and our legs started to get worked, but by the time we were halfway there all Cora could think about was how BIG a deal this was. By the time we got to the park, she was panting but managed to get out, “How many miles do you think that was?”

“I’ve actually clocked it before, baby, and it’s two-and-a-half miles,” I told her.

Cora sat up and pride washed over her whole body. “Two and a half miles, huh? AND I’m only six!” she said, before parking her bike and running off to play.

The girls played happily for a couple hours, shaky legs forgotten, until stomachs started rumbling. As we climbed back on our bikes Cora said, “Ok, let’s go home!”

“Oh, did I not tell you?” I asked innocently. “We’re not going home.”

“WHAT?” Cora thundered mutinously. “I’m TIRED! I can’t go even FURTHER!”

“I suppose we could go straight home,” I said reflexively, “instead of heading to Braum’s for lunch and ice cream like I’d planned.”

Braums it was.

Braums – think Dairy Queen – was a little bit out of the way, and along a heavy traffic street up a mammoth – I mean mammoth – hill. Cora led the way, and fought the good fight, but after a bit she had to get off her bike and walk the hill. We got there, though, and I reminded her there’s no shame in walking up such a big hill. Lunch and an ice cream cone refreshed the girls before the ride home, and all told we biked five and a half miles.

The trip wasn’t without minor incidents: Cora wiped out on a large stick, her bike falling heavily on her, and at one point Maddie couldn’t slow down enough and ran into Cora’s bike, knocking her off again. But every single time Cora got back up, scraped knees and bruises and all, and said, “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

I told you, my kid is tough.

Both girls were exhausted when we got home and went to spend quiet time alone for a bit. When Cora went to stand back up after reading a while, she learned her legs had stiffened up.

Had a bit of trouble walking.

Cora bravely put her ballet clothes on and headed to class as she was supposed to, but ended up having to sit down halfway through; her little body was just done for the day and the scrapes and bruises didn’t help.

I watched Cora sit on the bench up front, watching her friends and ostentatiously rubbing her sore legs. One little girl sidled up to Cora and whispered, “Why are you sitting down?”

Cora turned on her best thousand-yard-stare and replied, “I biked almost six miles today. You know how it is.” The little girl, suitably awed, backed away and began murmuring to other friends as Cora sat and pretended not to notice.

It’s ok – she earned it. Bragging rights, indeed.

There’s an article circulating the internet about one Mom’s version of Independence Day: a few times a year, her family has a day where EVERYONE does EVERYTHING for him or herself.

This is very attractive to me.

This mom started her tradition – now something they do a few times a year, for several years and counting – when she realized that all the ways she serves her children may also be holding them back from natural independence. Shoe tying, water fetching, late-homework-bringing, all the things we do because we want our kids to have a good life, can sometimes be what keeps them from figuring stuff out for themselves.

“If I have to fix my own breakfast, I’ll just go to Panera and get a bagel!” Maddie said.

“How will you get there?” I asked.

“An adult will drive me,” she replied confidently.

“Nope – you have to do everything yourself,” I answered.

“Well, then, I’d ride my bike there!” Maddie problem-solved triumphantly. And this is fine- we’ve ridden that far on bikes before. So we discussed how, on said Independence Day, the girls would be autonomous at home but need an adult to accompany them if they leave our property.

Breakfast solved – a bike ride away, and Maddie promised to bring back a bagel for her sister.

“And while I’m there, Cora, I’ll run to the grocery store and get us those giant candy bars!” Maddie shrieked.

“How will you pay for the giant candy bars?” I asked.

Silence.

“I suppose I could use my allowance,” Maddie said slowly.

I agreed that would be the best plan. “So I guess you’ll start saving your cash now, huh?” I asked, “In anticipation of a family Independence Day?” And Cora agreed to help – they’ll both save five dollars towards ‘supplies’.

Lunch wasn’t an issue, as they’ve been making their own yogurts and sandwiches, but dinner threatened to stump them.

“Easy!” Cora declared at first. “I know how to make macaroni and cheese!”

“That’s true,” I agreed, “and that’s fine – you’ll just need to clean up afterwards, too.”

Cora stared. “You mean SCRUB the POT???” When I said that yes, that’s exactly what I meant, she moaned, “I don’t know HOW to scrub the pot! And I suppose we’ll have to wash our plates, TOO!”

Maddie patted Cora on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Cora, if it’s Independence Day and we can do whatever we want, we won’t use plates – we’ll just eat it right over the pot, and then we can bring the pot in the bathtub with us.”

My child is a great out-of-the-box thinker.

So it seems my two girls are on board for this social experiment. I’ve told them the rules: Whatever they want to do (without breaking normal family rules on privacy, etc.), whenever they want to do it, but they have to do it all themselves and clean up completely. I also warned that no adult would get into the middle of any fights over which movie to watch or who had which toy, which both girls airily brushed aside.

Unlimited junk food and television – not at ALL a recipe for squabbles, right?

We haven’t set a date yet, but you better believe that I’m looking forward to this day. I’ll be video-taping, too – saving proof that they actually CAN clean up after themselves without being told.

We try to eat healthy in our house. We definitely don’t eat enough vegetables, but we’re working on it. And the girls understand that I’m happy to let them have a cookie – as long as it’s one we’ve made ourselves. We’re working on understanding that homemade junk food is way better than store-bought junk food (and I use the word “food” loosely in that case).

Sometimes it’s hard; sometimes I think I’m lecturing waaaay too much, or turning my kids into those weird children who will sneak out of the house on a Friday night just to have a Twinkie. And then chew a piece of gum when they come home to disguise their breath.

I worry about finding that balance between not making food SUCH a big deal – it’s just what we use for fuel, no more, no less – and making sure they understand the importance of what we put in our bodies. I worry that they’ll fear food, and become paralyzed in a 7-11 when they’re 16 years old and off with friends. I worry they’ll develop a Dorito habit and hide the bags as they come in the house.

In short, I think about this a lot.

We watch TED Talks on Monsanto and genetically-modified food; the girls understand artificial food dyes and why they are bad for you; Cora can explain how our local cattle rancher, from whom we buy all our meat, is a much better choice than the mass-produced CAFO beef you get everywhere else. So I know they’re hearing me.

And sometimes, I get proof they’re really listening, too.

A few months ago we went to a quick, family-friendly restaurant with friends. Maddie chose to get a salad for her meal and went through the salad bar, happily topping her lettuce. When we got back to the seat, she looked at the little square imitation-ham cubes and said, “I hope these pigs were humanely raised.”

I told her we’d finish that conversation after the meal.

Just a week or so ago, I offered to take Maddie out to lunch and she asked if we could go to a local deli because she was craving a baked potato with all the toppings. As I started to grab my car keys, Maddie said, “Actually, never mind. They have that fake bacon that doesn’t taste good, and the imitation cheese they use is icky. Let’s just do something here instead.”

Yes, please.

Cora is finally understanding how artificial food dyes affect her – they can cause temporary ADD-like symptoms in her – and why we don’t have any artificial food dyes in our house. When candy comes home for Valentines Day and such, she willingly lets me “buy” her Smarties and SweetTarts with a couple pieces of fair-trade chocolate, saying, “This is better for the environment and better for my attitude.”

Thank you, Lord.

And just the other night, we were out at a restaurant as a family. Maddie perused the kids’ menu, then said, “Oh, no. The macaroni and cheese here is Kraft! How can they do that to kids?”

The waiter stared at Maddie.

“Mom, this stuff is full of genetically modified ingredients and artificial food dyes! I really wanted mac and cheese but I cannot eat this – it’s just not right!” and Maddie wouldn’t back down – not out of fear, but indignation. (And yes, she really talks like that.)

Maddie finally settled on a plate of pasta in a cream sauce, with chicken and broccoli. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the cream sauce was ultra-processed and the chickens probably weren’t free-range. She was trying so hard to do the right thing, and I didn’t want to rain on that parade.

It feels like a tightrope sometimes, this healthy eating thing – that balance between empowering and paralyzing our kids.

But some days, I feel like it’s working.