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Archives for May 2010

The Smallest Girl in the Room

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Nora’s preschool sends home a report every day.  Here’s last Friday’s report:

Nora plays a wicked air guitar when we sing Rock N’ Roll ABCs.  Her ability to match letter sounds is awesome.

Nora was feeling sad after a couple of friends made comments about her size.  I assured her and the rest of the class that everyone is special and unique.

Have a fun weekend! (Closed Monday)

Nora had her three year well child visit last Wednesday.  She in about the fifteenth percentile for height.  Our doctor is not concerned and neither are we.  I am five-foot-one.  Ben is five-foot-eight or nine.  I’m reminded of comedian Rob Schneider saying of he and his wife, “We are breeding down.  We’re going to be Shetland people.”

But the report of kids saying mean things about Nora’s stature had Ben very upset.  Naturally, he doesn’t want anyone making his girl sad.  It must have been on Nora’s mind, too.  After dinner, while I was loading the dishwasher, she told me, “You’re not strong enough to be at school — you’re not big enough.” 

“Yes I am!” I replied.  I got down on my knee next to her.  “And so are you, Nora.  You’re the best growing up girl I know.  You eat healthy foods and you’re growing bigger everyday.  You’re exactly the size you should be and I’m very proud of you.”

Later, as I lay with her for a few minutes at bedtime, she said, “Do you know what happened at school?”

“No, what happened?”  I asked.

Details began to trickle out without me having to even turn on the tap.  Mr. Ian, her usual teacher, was not there.  There weren’t very many kids at school due to the holiday weekend.  So the “Pre-K” kids came into Nora’s preschool class and according to Nora, “They didn’t like anything.”  It’s my guess that these are the “friends” (a generic term they use for all the students) who commented on her size, not her usual classmates, who are familiar with her big personality.  They may have been irritated at being herded into a room with younger kids, so they took it out on the smallest girl in the room.

This is our first brush with older kid style bullying.  This is not a toddler struggle over toys.  This is power-play type stuff.  And it’s inevitable.  And it’s going to hurt. 

Our job is to make the ground under her feet solid, her job is to learn to stand on it.

Saturday Feature: Mistakes – Vacation Edition

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Every Saturday I bring you a parenting mistake my husband and I have made. Please have a laugh or cry at our expense — we really are good parents, I swear.

Ben and I took the week off. Nora went to daycare for three of five days. I am not sorry for this. We had to build a fence and do some work in the yard. It was take her to school while we knocked it out or have a “little helper” and let the task stretch into her college years. 

The problem was, I didn’t really prep Nora.  Tuesday, when we picked her up, I asked her, “How was school today?”

“Um, good! How was work today?” she asked.  I fought the urge to lie.

“Um, I didn’t go to work.  Daddy and I stayed home to work on the fence.”

It took her a second to process this. Then the wailing began. “I wanted to help!” I should have known — she as now at an age where she is keenly aware of being left out.

I assured her that there was much help still needed. She would be my helper in the garden and could even come to the nursery with me to get plants.

Wednesday she stayed home with us and helped me put some edging along the flower bed in the pouring rain, handing me pieces as I needed them.  We went to the farm store for chicken feed.  She picked out some radish seeds and we bought broccoli and lettuce starts. 

Thursday, she went to school and our evening scene repeated itself. This time I told her I had work to do away from my desk.  She seemed to accept this more readily.

By Friday morning, I had my act together and let her know I’d be at home, but she got to go to school so she could bring her dinosaur for show and tell.  And I explained the long weekend ahead, and all we had to look forward to together. 

This morning, she is running errands alone with daddy, and I’m feeling a bit left out myself.

After I’m Ten

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Since her birthday, Nora’s had some questions about the aging process.  We’re all laying in bed for story time.  Nora says, ”After I’m three, then I’ll be four and after I’m four then I’ll be five and after I’m five then I’ll be six, uh — then how old will I be when I’m done being six?”

“Then you’ll be seven,” we tell her.  Ben and I exchange glances, both trying to picture a seven-year-old Nora.  Still shorter than everyone else, but doesn’t know it.  Skinny legs with bruised shins.  Her hair needs brushing.

“And when I’m done being seven?” she asks.

“Then you’ll be eight.”  And we’ll no longer be of any help with her math homework.

“And when I’m done being eight?” she asks.

“Then you’ll be nine.” She’ll be asking to go an overnight summer camp.  Gulp.

“And when I’m done being nine?” she asks.

“Then you’ll be ten.”  Double digits.  It takes forever to get to double digits.  Unless you’re the parent watching it happen.

“And after I’m ten?” she asks.

“Then you’ll be eleven.” More glances. Discomfort set in.  The teen years are approaching.

“And after I’m eleven?” she asks. 

“Then you’ll be twelve.” Maybe she won’t want to help in the garden anymore.

“And after I’m twelve?” she asks.

“Then you’ll be thirteen,” we say.  “You’ll be a teenager!”  Ben looks about to pass out.  He must be thinking about boys.  Nora smiles.

“And after I’m thurteen?” she asks.

“Then you’ll be fourteen.”  She will start dying her hair in manic panic colors and pestering us for a tattoo.

“And after I’m fourteen?”  she asks.

“Then you’ll be fifteen.” Nausea.  Learner’s permit time.

“And after I’m fifteen?” she asks.

“Then you’ll be sixteen!” we shout back.  She will be amazing.  We will ache to look at her beautiful face.

“And after I’m sixteen?” she asks.

“Then you’ll be seventeen!”  We are winded.

“And after I’m seventeen?” she asks.

“You’ll be eighteen.  And all grown-up.  You can move out if you want to,”  Ben says.

“But you don’t have to,”  I quickly add.

Ben and I exchange a final glance.  And sigh.

Best Laid Plans

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Ben and I took this week off to build a fence and put in the vegetable garden.  It has poured down rain every day.  The soil was perfect for tilling a week and a half ago; now it is a soggy mess.

Monday was the only day the forecast didn’t guarantee rain, so we took Nora to the zoo.  We saw:

  • a male black bear named “Tough” get the bejeezus scared out of him by an intimating, glossy black female (all she did was approach him quickly);
  • a really big frog;
  • a cougar who took a particular interest in Nora and kept looking from her to me, as if asking me for permission to let her in to play (or be eaten);
  • a baby elephant messing with a huge log in the swimming hole (I kept thinking of my mother-in-law who has a weakness for baby elephants —  she would have been a puddle);
  • two otters who thought very highly of themselves, displaying back-flip skills against the aquarium glass;
  • some primates, who make one question the whole concept of a zoo, so human and forlorn do they appear;
  • and a pride of lions casually lounging on some rocks.  They looked like they could jump the ravine and pick off a few middle schoolers any time they felt like it. 

Farmer wanna-be that I am, my favorite exhibit was the family farm, with miniature cows, goats, chickens and a raised bed garden.  I now want raised beds.  This would be advantage in a number of ways, the biggest one being there would be no annual argument about if we should till and when we should till.  You build the bed, put great soil in it and leave it the hell alone.  The soil doesn’t get trampled by dogs and toddlers and it warms faster in the spring, so early planting can begin without concern about the tiller wrecking early crops come May.  And they look cool.

It’s ten years since we moved to Portland, the webs between our toes have fully formed — so we forged ahead on constructing the fence around our garden, it is nearly complete.  Putting in the garden beds will have to wait for a few weeks of dry weather.  I’m trying to roll with it, but sometimes I get a bit uptight about gardening.  I strive for Martha Stewart like tidyness in the garden which is not realistic without a staff of dozens and oodles of cash.  And she doesn’t have a toddler to contend with.  Nora’s garden enthusiasm is strong, but she’s a soil tromper and will tear open a seed packet and fling seeds every which way.  My only hope of keeping her as my garden companion is to chill out. 

In the meantime, I can catch-up on laundry, because if Martha Stewart saw my basement right now, she’d be appalled.  Do I care what she thinks?  Not really.  But Nora’s almost out of clean underwear.