Three Peas in a Pod

I just returned from my very first visit to Parnassus Books in Green Hills, Nashville's newest bookstore.

I'll definitely be going back soon, too.

Located at 3900 Hillsboro Pike, Parnassus is the bookstore famously launched by one of Nashville's own Ann Patchett, one of my favorite novelists, and her business partner Karen Hayes, who was a Random House sales rep. Patchett and Hayes decided to open their own independent bookstore in part as a response to the dwindling number of places for people to buy books--and to revel in books.

The store opened on Saturday, and from what I hear, it attracted quite a crowd. I didn't make it, so I planned to swing by this morning.

First of all, yes, fellow parents, there is a children's area, and yes, there is a train table. We all miss the glorious train table and children's area at Davis-Kidd, and let's admit it: that's the main reason that most of us used to frequent that particular bookstore. I say that as someone who's a reader, too. The children's area is located at the rear of the store, and the train table (Chuggington, if you must know) is right smack dab in the middle of it. My toddler strained at his stroller straps, trying to launch himself toward the trains.

Secondly, the bookstore is beautiful. It is not large, but it is lovely and warm. The floors and shelves are polished wood, and the people who work there smile at you. I like both qualities in a bookstore. It feels friendly, and I believe that bookstores should feel inviting and welcoming. Also, they have a magazine section, and I'm a magazine junkie.

And finally, the staff are willing to order books for you. They'll talk about books with you, and they'll help you procure the books that you want. This is a key point that I want to get across. They want to sell you books there, and y'all, if you want to keep this glorious little gem of a bookstore in Nashville, we all need to go buy some books there.

In case you don't remember, we just lost all of our Borders stores and Davis-Kidd because bricks-and-mortar stores are losing ground to the Internet and discount stores when it comes to book sales. I'm guilty of it myself. I've picked up a discounted paperback at a warehouse store or ordered $25 worth of books from Amazon (to get the free Super Saver shipping, natch).

I can't promise that I'll never do those things again because the reality is, I probably will. But I can purchase some of my books and book-related gear in person from a real live bookseller. And I plan to do more of that. So I bought a book at Parnassus this morning.

I hope you will, too. This is a great little store, and I hope that it will be around so I can take my children there as they grow up. I want to take them to a place where they can actually look at the books and thumb through the pages, where they can spread several book out before them and decide which one (or ones) they want, where they can discover new authors and new stories.

So if you haven't been by Parnassus yet, think about going on over soon.

Raise your hand if you've ever done something like this.

It's time to leave for soccer practice. Your child has disappeared into the recesses of your house. You sigh. And then you loudly call his name to tell him to get a move on already.

Except that you don't actually call his name. You call his brother's name. But he's not even home. So you call his name again. Except that again, you don't actually call his name.  You call your own brother's name. Clearly he's not here. You try again. You call your husband's name.

Finally, finally, you get your own son's name right. He slouches into the room and rolls his eyes at you.

"Gosh, Mom, I'm only your SON, and you can't even remember MY NAME," he huffs.

Guilty. If I weren't typing, I'd have my own hand in the air.

I swore I would never do this to my own kids. You see, as a child, I was the one rolling my eyes while my dad ran through a roster of names before he got to my mine.

"Judi!"

(That's my mom.)

"I mean, John!"

(That's my brother.)

"Beverly?"

(My cousin.)

"Jessie!"

(The dog.)

But just so you don't misunderstand, this wasn't a peculiar habit of my dad. My mom was guilty of it, too. She'd sometimes say, "John, I mean, Johnny, I mean, Jennifer" when trying to talk to me. My grandparents occasionally ran through my dad's name, my uncle's name, and my name before they'd get to my brother's name when they were originally speaking to my brother all along.

Yes, this is one of those things that I swore I'd never do when I became a parent...and yet, I find myself doing it more often than I'd like to admit. I never thought I'd drive a minivan either. Or say "Because I said so." Or eat so much macaroni and cheese.

So, yeah, every so often, usually when I have a bunch of other things on my mind, I call my younger son by my older son's name. I occasionally call my older son by my brother's name. My husband does it, too, only, of course, he substitutes his brother's name for my brother's name.

However, at least we have never called either of our children by the dog's name.

Only because we don't have a dog.

My five-year-old son is learning to read.

So as you might guess, our lives have been very calm, joyful and serene right now, with absolutely no drama whatsoever.

Bwahahahahahahahaha! It's a good thing that lightning didn't strike me just now.

Okay, so the whole learning-to-read business is fraught with drama. The screaming. The crying. The moaning. The flinging down of books.

My son's not having much fun, either.

I never thought I'd actually have to teach my child to read. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I was an early reader. In fact, I don't even remember not knowing how to read. I was all over "Little House in the Big Woods" and "B is for Betsy" before I even started the first grade.

I just assumed my son would be an early reader, too. I guess I just naively assumed he'd just...pick it up somehow. My belief was bolstered by the fact that he started picking out random words on signs and remembering them. Zoo. Stop. McDonalds. Sweet CeCes.

But here we are. He's five, he's a month into kindergarten, and I'm getting notes home in his school folder letting me know that they're going to start testing (!) the kids on basic words now. So we're working on sight words. I gamely picked up a stack of Stage 1 readers at Target and Books-a-Million, and I even broke down and bought flashcards.

A week ago, I would have probably started to cry if you'd ask me how the reading was going. But through the magic of persistence and a Sesame Street-themed Stage 1 reader called "I Can Do It," I'm seeing some major progress.

After a few frustrating days, my son is now powering through that Sesame Street book, and he's even doing really well with the flashcards. We also suspect that he can actually read more words than he's letting on. He's had this attitude that if he can't read something really ambitious, he's not really reading. In other words, his mindset has been: any of the Harry Potter books=reading, but parts of "Splat the Cat"=not really reading.

Okay, and I admit to some bribery. I give him a dollar every Thursday if he works on his reading for 15 minutes each day. He has to pay for those Hero Factory toys somehow, right? But it works. It is working.

But today, my son came home and announced that he successfully passed the test for the first set of five sight words. It's a small start, but it's definitely progress.

On to the second set of sight words! And hopefully, a little less drama.

It's mid-July, and I've already started shopping for school.

There are two major reasons for this. First, my son is starting kindergarten in about three weeks, and I'm working out my residual anxiety about this Major Milestone by preparing all the physical accoutrements that will be necessary. His school publishes a list of very specific supplies needed for each grade, and I, of course, have started fretting about making sure we are able to find all of those very specific items. I tend to find myself worrying about whether I have actually purchased the correct type of gluestick, since I have to buy two dozen of them.

The second reason is...well, okay, I'll admit it. I adore new school supplies. I love a box of perfect new crayons, their tips unsullied from scribbling. I love fresh new notebooks full of smooth white paper. I love shiny new scissors and bottles of glue that aren't all tacky from leftover glue leaking down the sides. I love new lunchboxes that don't bear any stains from old peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I love new ballpoint pens with no teethmarks on the caps.

I love it all. I loved buying new school supplies as a kid, and I'm enjoying it just as much now that I'm a parent.

While I was cruising the back-to-school aisle at Target recently, I discovered something really interesting: they're selling Trapper Keepers again. Remember those? Those big clunky binders with a cover that velcroed shut and took up all the room in your already overstuffed backpack? My favorite one featured a photograph of a hot air balloon. I think I was in the fourth or fifth grade when I had that one. I adored it. It really wasn't very useful, as we were supposed to use different colored paper folders with the brads in the center for most subjects. But oh, it was cool. Everyone had one--or at least wanted one.

The Trapper Keeper at Target now isn't nearly as cool. For one thing, I'm thirtymumblesomething now. Also, it's made out of a weird fabric that seems to be a hybrid of canvas and vinyl. And there are no pictures on the cover; the modern-day TKs only seem to come in solid colors like aqua, magenta and green. But worst of all, there is no velcro closure. How else is a student going to call attention to the fact that she's getting out her Trapper Keeper to show off if there's no ripppppping noise from opening the velcro?

Ah well. My son will never know the appeal of the Trapper Keeper, but I'm sure something else will come along to take its place in the hearts and minds of students in his generation.

We have nearly finished an entire week of June, and I'm feeling pretty good about the list of "summer" activities that I've managed to accomplish with the kids so far.

Feed the ducks in Centennial Park? Check.

Ride the new train at the Nashville Zoo? Check.

See the train exhibit at Cheekwood? Check.

Go swimming at our neighborhood pool? Check.

Begin swim lessons? Check.

Sign up for t-ball? Check.

Attend a Sounds game? Check.

Frolic at Dragon Park? Check.

Gorge on ice cream at the Miss Martha's Ice Cream Crankin' at First Presbyterian Church? That will be a check after this weekend.

(Confession: we did some of those things the last week or so of May, too.)

Weirdly, now that I can check those off the list, I'm feeling a little relieved. Now we can relax a little and just enjoy the summer--and whatever it may bring--without fretting about whether we've done all the things that we're "supposed" to do in the summertime.

Because I'm a firm believer in the value of sometimes just doing nothing at all. It's good for us all to have some unstructured time when we can just...be. When we can just do whatever happens to occur to us. When we can do silly stuff or serious stuff. When we can fill the little water table and splash in the backyard 'til we are all soaked and not have to worry about getting cleaned up to be somewhere else on time. When we can decide at the spur of the moment to go get ice cream cones or ride bikes around the neighborhood.

My elder son is attending some day camps this summer--too much unstructured time together passes the line into "no longer fun for anyone" territory--so we do have some scheduled activities on our calendar. But we still have plenty of hours left for just stumbling onto something to do.

Maybe we'll read some more Magic Treehouse books. Maybe we'll go for frozen yogurt at Sweet CeCe's. Maybe we'll go to the pool again and try out those new goggles. Maybe we'll make homemade popsicles and eat them while they drip all over the back patio.

We have all summer to see where summer leads us.

 

Looking forward to turning your baby's car seat around when he turns one? Not so fast...

The American Academy of Pediatrics has released a new set of guidelines on car seat safety. The AAP, which published its new policy in the April issue of the journal Pediatrics, is now advising parents to keep their children in rear-facing car seats until the age of two. And if your child is smaller than average, you might even consider keeping him rear-facing even longer.

Previously, the AAP recommended that you keep your child rear-facing until he was at least 20 pounds and 12 months. That's the law here in Tennessee, by the way.

The new guidelines also advise that parents keep their children in belt-positioning booster seats until they are 4 feet 9 inches tall and are between age 8 and age 12.

The new guidelines were very timely for my family. My younger son turned one at the end of February, but he was hovering just above the 20 pound mark. We knew that legally, we could turn him around, but somehow, he just seemed so small that I was reluctant to do it. Plus, he seemed content enough to be rear-facing. He usually rides next to his (forward-facing) big brother, so he has someone to entertain him most of the time.

So we installed his new (enormous) Britax Marathon seat in the rear-facing position. And sure enough, he seems to be doing just fine.

Note: if you've already turned your toddler around to face the front of the car, don't fret. Experts are saying that properly installed car seats really are the key to preventing most serious injuries. But definitely make sure your child's car seat is properly installed. At the top of my to-do list is to put in a call to a local law enforcement station that can make sure my son's seat is properly installed.

What about your family? Will the new policy affect your decisions about your children's car seats? Or were you already keeping your young children in rear-facing seats, like a growing number of parents I know?

 

It's nearly time to start working on the garden again.

When I moved to Tennessee in 2007, I promised myself that I would start a garden and grow myself some tomatoes. And the next year, I did. In fact, I grew tomatoes in the backyard for two summers.

It was a group effort. I did the hard manual labor of getting the garden plot ready for planting. My son "helped" plant the seedlings and "helped" put mulch around them. He "helped" water them with his little toy watering can. And my husband helped eat the tomatoes.

And oh, the ones that the neighborhood wild bunnies didn't get to first were delicious. Deeeee-licious.

Then last year, well, it didn't happen. I had a baby in late February, so I wasn't much up for mucking around in the dirt for awhile. Then the flood came, and then I broke my ankle, and well, like I said, it just didn't happen.

But this year, this year, I'm going to grow tomatoes again. I figure, I'll need to wait a few more weeks for the weather to warm up. And then I'll get out there and start getting things ready for planting. The only problem is...I never tore out the tomato vines from two summers ago. There's a big old tangle of dead vines, weeds, and Lord knows what else out there in the garden plot. I'm almost afraid to find out, to tell the truth. It might require a Major Excavation.

But my son is excited about gardening again this year. He is looking forward to helping again--and this year, I think he's really old enough to actually help, too. And honestly, I am getting excited about it, too. I know it won't be especially fun to get out there and rehab our poor little garden. But I think the payoff will be well worth it.

Just think about those homegrown tomatoes this summer...

It happens every year at almost the exact same time.

No, not the first buds of spring appearing on the tips of the trees. No, not the daffodils bursting forth on a warm day.

No, the sign that winter is coming to an end is the sight of my son wearing high-water pants.

Yes, every year, around the end of February, my son outgrows his winter pants. That wouldn't be such a problem if it happened in late April, when he could probably get away with shorts most of the time. But it seems to always happen in late February, when it's still cold (or at least cool) most of the time. I mean, we still have a good month of cold weather left, and even after that, it'll be cool for awhile. In other words, he's still going to need wearable pants for a number of weeks.

So every year, I trudge into the stores and look for pants that he can wear for another eight weeks or so. And every year, I say the same thing:

"Hey, wow, where did all these bathing suits come from? And where are the LONG PANTS?"

Am I the only one who grumbles over the bizarre retail world idea that it's a good idea to stop selling cold-weather clothing when it's still cold outside? Am I really the only person out there whose kids outgrows his winter clothes before winter is over? Are there not other young boys who grow so quickly that you could practically just sit there and watch them grow? Don't they also outgrow their clothes sometimes before a season ends?

Last year, I bought for my son a few pairs of pants that were too long because the next size down was, yep, too small. I rolled up the cuffs and called it good. Then he wore them again in the fall. That worked out pretty well, if I do say so myself.

But of course, this happens every year, like I said. You'd think I'd have learned by now to just stock up on pants in bigger sizes each fall when the stores are all selling tons of pants. (Okay, in July, when they get rid of all the shorts and begin selling sweaters and fleece even though it's still 90 degrees outside. Ahem.) But apparently, I still have not learned.

So on Saturday, I dragged the boys out to Target and loaded up on any and all decent long pants that I could find. I was just glad to actually find some, to be honest. I had to walk past all the racks of shorts and t-shirts. And I had to painstakingly sort through the sales racks to find them in some cases, and they were out of the correct size in certain styles. But at least I landed some long pants.

There is a silver lining, though. When my baby boy (who just turned one last week!) is older, we should have plenty of hand-me-down pants for him to outgrow.

One of my favorite parts of parenting is introducing some of my favorite things from childhood to my own children. The 64-count box of crayons. The pleasure of hanging up a stocking on Christmas Eve. Rice Krispy treats. Camp songs.

And of course, for a book lover like me, it's so much fun to introduce my favorite childhood books, too. Last spring, after the birth of my second child, I instituted a special reading session with my older son. I bought a copy of E. B. White's Charlotte's Web, and every night, we sat down and I read a chapter to him. I read plenty of other books to him, too, but the Charlotte's Web time was just for him and me. It was intended to show him that he still mattered to me, even with this interloper of a baby around demanding so much of my time. But it was also designed to give us time to share something that was very special to me.

He loved it. Loved it. We both did. Admittedly, I teared up a bit during the sad parts, but the story had lost none of its power since I first read it mumblethirtysomethingmumble years ago. It was also fun to have a routine. We had a new chapter to look forward to each night for a couple of weeks.

So I tried a few other beloved childhood favorites. He liked Beverly Cleary's Ramona the Pest quite a bit, too. He wasn't quite ready for Roald Dahl's books, though. I tried starting Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but he got antsy before we even got to the good part, and James and the Giant Peach was just a little too weird for him. And maybe a little too British. I've also been meaning to get a copy of White's Stuart Little, and that's on my to-read list, too.

But something I'm discovering about reading these chapter books to my almost-five-year-old son is that I have to explain the context for a lot of things. For example, last week I pulled out Laura Ingalls Wilder's Farmer Boy, thinking that he'd love the story about a little boy growing up on a farm a long time ago. Well, the operative phrase there is "a long time ago." I guess I'd forgotten some of the...shall we say rather raw details of Wilder's Little House books. I was sitting there reading along and reached the part where the teacher takes a bullwhip and repeatedly whips one of the students. Admittedly, the student was a total nightmare, but still.

I stared at the page and thought, "Okay. How do I do this?" Remember how my fellow blogger WendyLou asked if you should read the part of the story where the wolf eats the pig in the fairy tale? Well, how do you read the part of the story when the teacher is...well, let me quote briefly from Farmer Boy:

"The lash kept coiling and tripping Bill, Mr. Corse kept running backward and striking. Bill's trousers were cut through, his shirt was slashed, his arms bleeding from the bite of the lash."

Whew, right? I mean, we don't even spank our kids at our house. And there I was, trying to figure out how to deal with this part of the story. When I was a child, corporal punishment still existed in some classrooms, albeit not with a whip. Some teachers still paddled kids in school (yes, I am that old), but that's pretty much history now, too, so I'd imagine a lot of young children wouldn't have any context at all for that kind of scene.

I finally decided that I wasn't going to let one violent part of this otherwise marvelous book ruin the whole story for my son. So I decided to make this a history lesson. I improvised for the time being for that part of the story. When he's old enough, he can read the violent part himself and understand it in context of the time in which it was written.

I stopped reading, told my son that back a long long time ago, some teachers used to punish students by hitting or whipping them, but it was a long time ago. And I added that the students in this book had behaved very badly and didn't respect their teacher, and when the book was written, that was how teachers punished such students. Then I emphasized that that's not how it works today. I didn't actually read the parts about the actual whipping and bleeding and all that. I noted that the teacher did have a whip, and I read the parts about the teacher throwing the door open and pushing the students outside.

And when I got to the end of the chapter, I sighed in relief. I asked my son again if he understood that it was just a story. And he nodded yes. I think he was actually more interested in the parts of the book that dealt with making popcorn the "old-fashioned' way anyway.

Do I regret reading this book to my son? Should I have waited 'til he was older? You could make the case that I could have waited a couple of years. But he wanted to read it now, and I wanted to encourage his interest in reading and in books. I think we both learned something, too.

My four-year-old just earned his first dollar bill a few days ago. It was his very first allowance. He earned it by making his bed each morning and cleaning up his toys each evening for a week. I made a chart, and each time he fulfilled one of the items on the list, he checked it off with a red crayon. At the end of the week, I presented him with a dollar. That's Big Money when you're four.

This week, he's not quite as eager to perform all the chores, of course. It's lost a bit of its novelty, I guess. That being said, I don't feel that I'm having to remind him too much. Take this morning. He didn't make up his bed as soon as he got up, as he did last week. But I only had to remind him once, and he took care of it. (He did whine that it didn't look very good, but we're not letting perfection be the enemy of the good, or whatever that motivational expression is.) He's getting used to the expectation. And he knows there will be a reward at the end.

Now, I know some people will argue that allowances should not be tied to chores. They will tell you that children should be expected to contribute to the household, regardless of whether they earn any money for it, and allowances should be solely for the purpose of teaching them how to manage money. And in theory, I completely agree with that. Children should participate in taking care of their belongings and contributing to the household. And ideally, children should learn from earning a reasonable sum of money each week (or month) how to save, spend and donate. And I agree that expectations can change and grow as the child gets older and acquires more responsibilities.

But I'm trying this way out anyway.

And I do feel like he's learning something. I'm planning to talk more about the importance of dividing up the money for saving and spending (and donating) as we go along.  But he knows a little about spending and saving already. He knows that we don't just buy every little thing that catches our eye, and we've talked about how we need to save up money for special things. And he seems to be catching on to the importance of donating, too; he announced that the money in his piggy bank is designated for helping poor people. (He gets change here and there, and he squirrels it away in his bank.)

He's not sure what he's going to do with his new dollar bill yet. I think we'll probably talk a little more about that after he has earned a couple more. And certainly since our son is only four, this whole set-up could change later, if my husband and I decide that it's not really working.

How do you work out the whole allowance thing with your children? Do you make allowances contingent on chores or not? If you have young children, do they get any kind of spending money, or are you waiting until they get older?

I'm about to officially become a Soccer Mom.

Granted, I've been an unofficial soccer mom now for some time. I live in the suburbs. I drive a minivan. I keep pacifiers and crayons in my purse. There's even a soccer ball in the back of the minivan already.

But now I'm actually going to have a child who plays soccer. Real soccer. Not just shuffle-around-in-the-backyard-soccer. I've got the YMCA league form all filled out with my son's information. I just need to drop it off and pay the fee, and voila! Soccer Mom. I'm actually kind of excited about it. I'm silly like that.

On the other hand, my son is, shall we say, rather lukewarm on the whole idea of becoming a Soccer Kid. In fact, saying that he's lukewarm might be a generous statement. Ambivalent might even be too strong a word.

No, he's downright nervous. He's one of those kids who doesn't really like to try new things if he doesn't think that he's going to be good at it right off the bat. (Er, sorry for mixing bats and soccer balls there. I'll try to keep my sports equipment properly separated.) If he's good at something, he likes it. If he isn't, not so much.

I wasn't like that as a child. I was rarely good at anything, so I was accustomed to always looking a little silly. It didn't bother me to not be great at something the first time I did it. I figured that there was nowhere to go but up. (And I was right.)

But my son likes to be good, preferably great. And often, he is. So when he's not--or more accurately, when he thinks he won't be good or great---that's when things get tricky. But I really want him to give soccer a chance. For one thing, I think he really will have fun. For another, I'd like him to have the experience of playing on a team. This particular league is pretty well-known for being a fun league without the pressure of a higher-stakes league. So I think it will be a good fit, and it will be a good learning experience for him.

So until practices start in late February, I'm going to be playing the role of Cheerleader, in addition to Soccer Mom. I think he'll be fine once he gets out on the field and starts to have fun. I  just have to get him to that point.

"Honey, it's going to be so much fun," I've told him. "You love kicking the soccer ball around."

No response.

"Everyone's going to be learning how to play together," I've tried.

He made a face.

"You get to eat orange slices and drink juice boxes afterward," I might have suggested.

Who's not above a little bribery? That actually might have worked.

I'll let you know after the first practice.

 

 

It may be January, but you can still get a flu vaccine.

According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, flu is widespread in 11 states right now. Guess which state is included on that roll? Yup. The good old Volunteer State. The CDC also reports that eight children have died from influenza this year so far. And sadly, that number is going to increase because flu season is far from over.

So if you haven't gotten your flu shot yet--or you haven't had your child vaccinated yet, don't fret. Call your doctor and ask for a good time to come in. Or go to the health department. They'll be more than happy to help you out.

I'm very passionate about this issue, in case you're curious. You see, last year, my husband came down with a severe case of H1N1 flu. Like many other people afflicted with the flu, he developed a serious secondary infection: pneumonia. A chest x-ray showed a pleural effusion (a build-up of excess fluid) in his left lung, which explained in part why he was having so much trouble breathing. I have never seen him so sick in his entire life. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever been around anyone that sick in my entire life.

It was frightening.

My husband got sick before the H1N1 vaccine was widely available. And because I was pregnant with our second child, we worried a great deal about what could happen to our baby if I contracted the flu. Added to our worries was the fact that our then-three-year-old son had asthma. We were all high-risk cases waiting to happen. We were generally very healthy people; we ate a healthy diet, we practiced good hygiene, and so on. But still. I've written about health care as a professional journalist for more than a decade. I was well aware of what could happen. Every time one of us coughed, I fretted anew. What if we got sick, I worried. We might not get a serious case, and it might be okay. But it might not. That--and my husband's coughing--kept me up at night.

Luckily, my obstetrician prescribed a round of antiviral medication for me to take. My son's pediatrician did the same for him. And a week or so later, when the health department in downtown Nashville announced that it had a shipment of H1N1 vaccines for young children and pregnant women and parents of young children, we sped down there (literally--I got a speeding ticket en route) and got in line.

My son and I did not get H1N1 influenza. My husband slowly got well. We were very fortunate. And this year, we got our flu vaccines as early as we could. And we're doing great so far. Of course, I still have hand sanitizer stashed in every nook and corner of our house and cars. Why take chances, right? 

So when a a friend of mine mentioned that she hadn't gotten her children's flu shots yet, I told her, "It's not too late!"

(Want to learn more about this year's flu vaccine or stats about influenza activity--or learn more about why health experts recommend that children and parents of young children get a flu vaccine (either a shot or FluMist, depending on your specific situation) each year? Visit www.flu.gov.)

One of the things that they don't tell you when you take your precious new bundle of joy home from the hospital is that you will always find new things to feel guilty about.

You'd think I'd be able to predict these guilt-making opportunities by now and head them off, but no.

For example, let's take today. It began to rain lightly as we all were sitting in the minivan in the carpool lane at my son's school. As he gathered up his corduroy jacket, his school bag and his lunchbox, my son said, "I think I'm going to leave my hat in the car. I don't want it to get wet." So he left his baseball hat in his carseat and clamored out of the van.  

On my way home, it began to snow. The temperature dropped ten degrees on the drive between his school and our home in Bellevue. I was the mom who sent my kid off to school in a lightweight coat, no hat and no gloves in the snow. There were all those other better-prepared moms with their children bundled into down coats, with wooly mittens and fleece hats. And then there was my child, who didn't even have his little blue cotton baseball cap to keep his head warm.

Yes, I've been sitting here feeling guilty about this, but at this point, what can I do? I've decided that I'm just going to hope that his teachers didn't take his class out on the playground this morning. Maybe I'll insist that he at least stick his hat in his school bag each morning, instead of leaving it in the car. Maybe I'll also go buy a couple of extra pairs of gloves or mittens and stash them there, too.

Live and learn. And feel guilty. That's just what we do as parents, right?

What could be a better way to spend a cold afternoon of Christmas vacation than taking in a movie?

Yesterday, a good friend called to invite me and my four-year-old son to join her and her four-year-old son at a matinee screening of the cartoon movie 'Tangled.'

My mother-in-law graciously agreed to babysit the baby, and my elder son and I took off for the movie theater near 100 Oaks. When we got there, we purchased tickets, got our 3-D glasses and filed into the theater to find the best seats. The boys bounced up and down on their folding seats and giggled in excitement, as seeing a movie in the theater is still more or less a novelty for them. (Heck, it's a novelty for me. I've seen all of one movie in the theater since the baby was born last February. Okay, now it's two.) They chattered on about all that they knew about Rapunzel, the main character in the movie.

After we got settled, the previews began.

First up, we saw Daniel Craig appear on screen, brooding and morosely muscular. A minute or two, Harrison Ford (is it just me, or has he not aged particularly well?) showed up. There were lots of guns. And more guns. And a spaceship. And a saloon. And some more spaceships. And a whole bunch of automatic weapons going off.

Startled, the boys were still, their eyes glued to the screen. My friend and I exchanged looks. "What a weird preview to show for 'Tangled,' we murmured to each other over the shooting. I reassured myself that they've both seen "Star Wars," so it's not like they've never seen a battle scene. But the Craig-Ford movie seemed to get progressively more violent as the preview rolled, and my friend said she might stop and advise the theater manager to reconsider which previews they were showing with their kiddie movies.

The previews kept rolling. Another one featured Ryan Reynolds flexing in his Green Lantern bodysuit. Then there was a preview for some other supposed superhero movie that involved lots of bottles of liquor and more guns and some innuendo and was that Seth Rogen? And then we saw the preview for the coming-soon "Transformers" movie, which looked really creepy to me, but then I still get the heebie jeebies thinking about Hal the computer in "2001."

All of these movies seemed geared toward adults. Actually, they seemed geared toward men in their mid-30s who finally have enough disposable income to buy the toys that they wanted 25 years ago which now inspire these movies.

Then a notice popped up on the screen, instructing us to put on our 3-D glasses. We complied. At first we thought it was just another bizarrely-mistargeted preview, but after a few minutes, I realized something.

"Wait a minute. This is the actual movie. This is..." I watched an airbrushed Jeff Bridges appear in front of me. "....'Tron.'"

The parents in front of us turned around and asked, "Are you here to see 'Tangled'? We're here to see 'Tangled,' and I don't think this is 'Tangled.'" And around the theater, other parents started asking the same thing.

Turns out, they'd never switched the film out from the previous night's showint of 'Tron.' So all of our preschoolers were treated to an unexpected sneak peek of 'Tron' and a whole bunch of age-inappropriate previews.

I guess I should have been pretty annoyed, and part of me was admittedly a little annoyed because I don't particularly want to expose my child to certain things at his tender age if I don't have to.

But another part of me was highly amused at the absurdity of the whole experience. There we were to see a cartoon romp voiced by Mandy Moore about a princess who lived in a tower, and instead we got all sorts of uber-testosterone fantasy science fiction. (Incidentally, none of those movies looked very good, if you ask me, but then, I'm not exactly the target market for those flicks). Luckily, my child is accustomed to my earnest attempts to explain how certain things are just make believe and they're not for children and etc. etc. etc.

Besides, it made for a good story, which my four-year-old already totally got. "Hey, Mommy, isn't it funny that you took me to see 'Tangled' and they showed 'Tron' instead?" he asked. Hee hee hee, we both giggled.

Ever had anything like that happen to you?

Does Santa wrap presents at your house? Or does he leave them unwrapped under the tree?

The reason I'm asking is because I have recently learned that many people have very strong feelings about this. I had no idea that this was a matter of such importance, on a par with how you put the toilet paper roll on the holder or whether you prefer Coke or Pepsi. But it is.

You, see, at my house, Santa sometimes wraps presents, and sometimes he doesn't. Two years ago, Santa wrapped pretty much all the gifts that he brought to our house in the wee hours of Christmas. But then last year, Santa didn't wrap a darn thing because Mommy was pregnant, so Santa was trying to find ways to cut corners every which way she...I mean, he could. Also, Santa was bringing a toy kitchen and a Batcave for my little boy, and Santa wasn't sure how on earth to wrap items that were so large. The Batcave might have been possible, but the kitchen would required at least an entire roll of paper and an absurd amount of scotch tape. And Santa had better things to do with his time, namely to scarf down cookies and prop his big swollen feet up on the sofa for a little while. So Santa stuck big red bows on the kitchen and the Batcave and called it good. Santa did wrap a few small presents after admiring his handiwork with the bows. And then he took a nice long hot shower and sacked out.

But I have learned that, apparently, this is Very Wrong. Santa needs to commit, one way or another, and stop flip-flopping around. Santa needs to either wrap everything or nothing. He needs to stick with the same strategy every single year. And if he decides to wrap everything, he needs to choose one type of wrapping paper to use, and that wrapping paper needs to be used solely to wrap presents from Santa and nothing else. An amendment to the rules suggests that exceptions can be made for very large gifts, such as bicycles or those ride-on toy cars that cost more than my first real car did. But consistency is paramount.

Whew. I'm feeling a little stressed out, just thinking about it. Next thing you know, I'm going to find out that I've been putting out the wrong kind of cookies on the wrong kind of plate with the wrong kind of beverage. Let's not even address the fact that I never ever remember to leave anything for the reindeer...

How are y'all all handling these snow days with the kids at home?

Surely I am not the only parent who receives the news that schools will be closed for inclement weather with the following thought: "Oh no, what am I going to do?"

You see, I have a very wonderful but very, shall we say, active four-year-old son. He attends a terrific preschool five days per week, so usually he's only home in the afternoons. They wear him out at school, so when he comes home, he's usually ready to spend some time playing quietly indoors. Or on nice days, we can at least ride bikes around the neighborhood after school.

A snow day, therefore, presents a challenge. Sure, I take him outside to play in the snow for as long as we both can stand it, but let's face it. We're Southerners. We're not used to cold snowy weather for long periods of time. Twenty minutes outside is about at the outer limits of our tolerance.

So subtract 20 minutes from the oh, say, 14 hours that he will be awake, and that leaves...too much time for me to fill. Even if you throw in the requisite 15 minutes to get dressed to play in the snow and the five minutes to shuck off all the wet gear afterward, that still leaves a lot of time. Add in the fact that this most recent snow, while beautiful, was far too powdery to make snowballs for a good rousing snowball fight, and well, what can a small boy really do out in the snow that takes up anymore time? So we always wind up inside pretty quickly.

And there we are. Inside. For the rest of the day. Yes, yes, we read books and we play Candy Land, and he builds elaborate spaceships out of Legos, and we drink our snow-day hot chocolate and eat meals. And he watches "Word Girl" on the NPT station. And we get online and Google things like "map of the North Pole" and "how a Venus flytrap works" and "volcanoes erupting." But still. That's a whole lotta inside time for a boy who could power a medium-sized city with his energy level.

Yesterday, I thought I'd ask him to draw a picture. He's not so arts-and-craftsy, though, so I was delighted when he spent 15 minutes making a picture with crayons and stickers and some pompoms. So today I dragged him to Michael's and asked him to pick out a bunch of craft supplies that he might like to work with. And I told him that I'd buy him anything (within reason, of course) that he needed to make more pictures and projects.

(Note: That would have been a bank-breaking proposition for me as a child, but again, he's not that arts-and-craftsy, so I wasn't too worried.) He picked out a couple of packages of colored pompoms and some red yarn. I threw in a couple of packages of foam cutouts shaped like trees and snowflakes and some (brace yourselves!) silver glitter glue. And oh yes, some silvery little snowflakes that look sort of like confetti. Yes, they're messy, but they're so pretty and sparkly.  

I am not deluded enough to think that a bunch of cool supplies (and oh, they are so cool) will turn him into an artist. That's not my goal at all. But I do hope that they will give him something fun and creative to do while it's really too cold to spend much time outside in the snow.

At worst, I guess they will give me something fun to do while it's too cold to play outside.  

 

I've always admired those people who manage to have decorator showroom-ready Christmas trees in their living rooms. You know. They have trees festooned with satiny ribbon, delicate crystals, maybe even feathers, and hundreds upon hundreds of lights and ornaments. They look gorgeous. They look deliberate.

My question is: how on earth do they do that with young children running around?

Last December, I was pregnant. It was all I could do to lug the boxes of ornaments into the house from the garage. Early one morning while I was hunched over the toilet in the throes of morning sickness, my then-three-year-old son tore into the boxes in the living room and "decorated" the tree all by himself.

At first, I was dismayed. But that only lasted for a few minutes before the nausea came back. I moved around a few ornaments to spread them out but left many of them where William put them. Hey, at least the tree was decorated, right?

This year, I vowed to make our Christmas tree pretty. I may not have great decorating skills, but I could improve upon last year's decorations.

But once again, my young son intervened. He joyfully tore into the boxes of red and silver balls that I had purchased to hang all over the tree, in an attempt to have something cohesive to tie all our random decorations together. He hung three small silver balls from one branch, then two red balls on the next branch. He dragged the kitchen stool into the living room and perched on the top step so he could drape ornaments "a little higher up." That translated into many, many ornaments in small crowded clusters here and there, with large gaping spaces with nothing to fill them.

Yes, it looked better than last year...marginally. But it was a tree that, at first glance, only a mother could love. Oh, Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree, how...unusual are your branches.

Then I decided something. No, our tree was not going to look like something in a Neiman Marcus catalogue. Not even a Pottery Barn catalogue. Um, not even a Target flyer. But it could at least be something that we had fun decorating together.

So I abandoned any effort to make it look "pretty." I did help William rearrange some of the ornaments so at least they'd be more evenly spread around the tree. But then I left him decide where to hang many of them. He started directing me to hang a fragile ornament up high, or to put a heavy one on a sturdier limb. A couple of days later, we found another batch of assorted ornaments, and together we filled in the remaining gaps.

And you know what? I think it actually looks pretty good. We can enjoy seeing all our favorite handmade ornaments as well as the ones that were gifts or souvenirs from vacations and trips. It might not win any awards, but we like it. We had fun decorating it together. And honestly, that's all that matters.

(And maybe I'll have that decorator-showroom tree when the boys are off at college...)