Tooth Fairy Pillowcase

Let me just say that I hate the person who came up with the Tooth Fairy. I try not to do that, hate a whole entire person like that, but this one deserves it.

I mean, Santa Claus has it bad enough, having to sneak around after the kids have gone to sleep and set up pleasing displays of presents in the living room very, very quietly, but the Tooth Fairy! Good grief, the Tooth Fairy has to actually enter the sleeping child's bedroom, lift the sleeping child's head and trade a tiny, eensy, weensy, little tooth for money. And if the Tooth Fairy is caught in the middle of the trade, then that's it, game over, all childhood fantasies are ruined forever and child will probably have to have years of therapy to get over the fact that their parents lied!

Stress. Ful.

Plus, my kids always make sure to lose a tooth on days when I have done something really dramatic, like vacuum, and am completely exhausted and just want to go to bed at nine o'clock at night for the love of God! What will happen is, they will wiggle the tooth at 8:55 and wiggle it at 8:57 and wiggle it at 8:59 and then as soon as I pull the covers up to my chin, they will run into my room, triumphant, tooth in hand.

I will feign excitement over the lost tooth while secretly cursing my ruined early bedtime. Now, I have to stay up, wait for the kid to get over their excitement of loosing a tooth, wait for the kid to finally lay back on his pillow with the tooth underneath, wait for the kid to get up three more times to show me how he can now stick his tongue in the empty space between his teeth, wait for the kid to get up three more times to tell me how he can no longer say, "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," wait for the kid to get up three more times to tell me that he has another loose tooth . . . and then once child has finally gotten to sleep, I will forget all about my role and go to sleep too only to awaken in a panic at three a.m., run to my wallet to discover that I have no cash, take cash out of my kid's wallet, stumble all over my kid's bedroom, search for fifteen minutes under the kid's pillow for the tooth, find it, lose it, find it, make the switch, and return to my bed, now too flustered to go back to sleep.

To help with this (somewhat) I made a handy tooth fairy pillowcase for my kids and it has been a godsend. It has a Velcro removable pocket for the tooth and a pocket sewn onto the pillowcase to put the Velcro pocket in. Each pillowcase is also treated with fairy dust that makes the kid go straight to sleep so that the Tooth Fairy can come.

My nephew's birthday was coming up so I made one for him because what does a four-year-old want more than anything in this world? That's right--a pillowcase!

Since this was for a boy, I had some difficulty finding material that he would like for several years. As usual, I found tons of fabrics that would have been so cute for a girl, but boys are tricky, so I went with blue and green because it's bright and fun and I was sick of walking around the fabric store with my shopping cart with the squeaky wheel.

A pillowcase has to be the easiest thing in the world to sew. It was the first thing that I learned how to make, but whenever I go to make one, I always forget how to do it and have to drag out a pillowcase, turn it inside out, measure it, sniff it, and take out a few seams to figure it out. I mean, seriously, I made this lovely dress for my daughter with layers and layers of tulle and chiffon, but I struggled with how to make a pillowcase. And I've made TONS of pillowcases!

I was going to do this whole cool tutorial on how to make a pillowcase, but I tried and I quickly discovered that I suck at tutorials. So, go here to figure out how to make a pillowcase, 'kay. Since this is my blog, I must make one small modification--between steps one and two insert the instructions, "Pour a glass of wine." When  you're done with the pillowcase, cut a piece of fabric 7"x8" and turn under the ends and sew onto the pillowcase and then cut a piece of fabric 11"x5", turn under ends on each narrow side and sew Velcro strips to each narrow end, then pin wrong sides together, sew the seams, and turn inside out.

See. I told you I suck at tutorials.

And here's what you get!

Fun! Yay! Now we can all find the tooth! If someone can help me find some cash to give to the kid (because my kids don't accept debit card payments from the Tooth Fairy yet) and a way to stop banging my head on the top bunk, I'm open for suggestions.

Awards Day

I wrote this a few years ago when First Son was in first grade. After going to Second Son's awards day this morning where over half his class made all A's for the entire year, I was reminded of it. It's the whole, all-the-kids-are-above-average and if-everyone-is-special-no-one-is thing.  


Welcome to awards day! 

Can we please have every single child in first grade line up on stage to be recognized for their achievements. First we will hand out awards from our twisted reading program that strives to help children to learn that reading is first and foremost about the number of points that one can accumulate. As we all know, children hate to read. Hate it. All children. They hate to read. Didn’t you all know that? So what we do, is give your children points for the books they read and this my friends insures that they will not pick up a book based on an intrinsic love for reading, but instead for the point value associated with it. And we’re all okay with that, right? Good. Here’s an award for every child for participating in the twisted program. 

Next, let’s move on and honor all of our average students. Here’s your award and a medal for being average. Stand up and take a bow. We are all so, so, so proud of you for your mediocrity. Can we give a hand for the average kids? Great! 

Okay, next we move on to the kids who aren’t quite average. Yes, you too get an award and a medal because you did come to school and you did try hard. Or maybe you didn’t try too hard, but I’m sure that you all meant to try hard and that my friends deserves an award and a medal. Because meaning to try hard some of the time sure does make you special. 

Our above-average students will also receive the same award and medal as our average and below average students, because we don’t want to make the other kids feel bad. What we want to do is make sure that all of these kids feel good about themselves because an over-inflated ego will take them far in life. 

And while we’re on the subject, aren’t you so proud of us for not handing out ribbons on field day? I mean, first place, second place, third place, does it really matter? Field day is just about having fun, we don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea and think that some kids are better at some field day events than other kids. That might cause hurt feelings and no one wants that. 

That’s it for awards day. Thank you all for coming out. If anyone has any suggestions on how to fix the education system in this country, let us know, because we can’t figure out why it’s not working. I mean, the kids all feel great about themselves, they just can’t show that on the tests. What could we possibly be doing that’s not working? 

Can I? Huh? Huh? Can I?

I got up early this Sunday and marveled at the stillness of my house. Husband had an early game of sand soccer at the beach and kids were sacked out, exhausted from our busy Saturday.  I thought about going back to sleep, spending the morning in bed, but then I thought about that huge, luscious Sunday paper—crossword puzzles (not one, but two) and Sudoku  (not the easy one’s that appear in the paper Monday through Saturday that I can do with my eyes shut, but the challenging one) and Cryptograms. I thought about the ads, slick pages full of stuff I wanted to buy. I would save the Target ad for last, like dessert.

I slid out of bed, tiptoed down the stairs, poured a cup of coffee, quietly opened the front door, and retrieved the paper. I sat at the kitchen table and readied myself for some quality, uninterrupted newspaper time. As soon as I slid the paper out of the plastic sleeve, six little feet clomped down the stairs and demanded food, drink, and entertainment.

After the tenth request to play the wii, I had a moment of panic. Husband and I don’t allow video games at all for First Son during the school year and very little for Second Son. But they are both allowed to play during summer vacation and it’s starting next week. I cannot listen to “Can I play the wii?” ten thousand times a day for three months. I cannot! So, instead of reading the paper and doing puzzles, I opened up Excel and made these flyers for First and Second Son because the newspaper keeps and sanity does not.

They can play the wii twice a day for forty-five minutes, but first they have to tear off the little forty-five minute tag on that day of the week and give it to me so that I can set the timer. They can’t play wii without tearing off that tag. And once their two tags are gone for that day, they are done playing wii, no argument (yeah, right!), no exceptions. I know—ingenious!  

I made First Son’s tags yellow because he is a huge Steelers fan (Ugh! Gross!) and Second Son’s tags red because for some odd reason that I don’t recall, he is a huge Arizona Cardinals fan. Hopefully, this will be a small step towards making my summer more peaceful. If someone has an idea on how to make them stop saying, “I’m bored,” or “I’m hungry” ten thousand times a day, I’m all ears!

Parenting and Staying Sane All at the Same Time

Note: My favorite part about being a writer is having someone respond to something I wrote and say, "Yes! Me too!" It's comforting to know that others feel or have gone through the same things as you. I often have the feeling that I am the only person who has ever experienced certain things in my life—a terrible, isolating feeling. I'm sharing this story (at the encouragement of a friend) in hopes that it may help others (and I know there are lots out there) who have gone through similar circumstances.

I was completely prepared to be a mother.

I was going to be the best mother any child ever had.

What a lucky kid this baby was going to be.

I mean, you know, I had worked in day cares and church nurseries since I was fifteen. I babysat so much in high school that it was almost a full time job for me. And parents loved me. I was in high demand. And let's not forget the fact that I have a minor in early-childhood education and was completely devoted to being a teacher until I hit the age of twenty-two and developed a bad case of the Who-Am-I's.

That being said, there are two things that motherhood has taught me:

1. Reality's a funny little guy.
   
2. God uses everything to bring us closer to him.
   

First son was from the beginning . . . difficult. At the age of two, he was extremely high energy—but he was a boy and he was two. At the age of three, he was impossible to potty train—but he was a boy and he was three. At the age of four, his preschool teacher would call me in so that I could, literally, scrape him up off the floor—but he was a boy and he was four. At the age of five, we received weekly notes about his inability to focus—but he was a boy and he was five. At the age of six, his teacher called me in and asked if I thought about having him tested for ADD—but he was a boy and he was six. At the age of seven, his teacher called me in and asked if I thought about having him tested for ADD—but he was a boy and he was seven. At the age of eight, his teacher called me in and asked if I thought about having him tested for ADD—but . . . but . . . but . . .

So . . . something's clearly amiss.

But, I don't believe in giving children serious mind-altering drugs. I just don't. I've never believed in it and I never will. Fortunately for me, I made a wise decision at the tender age of twenty-three. It frightens me now that I made this decision at such a young age when I was quite a different person from the one I am now, but I made it nonetheless, thanks to God—I married Husband.

Though I have core beliefs that I have held for my entire adult life and that I feel certain I will hold for the remainder of my life, I must admit that when it comes to some things, I am easily swayed. When I would spend the entire evening every school night helping my child with homework that should take an hour, I was tempted to give him drugs. When I would spend night after night teaching First Son (who can build complicated legos by himself) the difference between a verb and a noun, I was tempted to give him drugs. When my expectations for honor roll grades fell to hopes of As, Bs, and Cs, and then to hopes of just-please-for-the-love-of-God-don't-fail, I was tempted to give him drugs. When teachers called me in and spoke of the miraculous turn-arounds that they witnessed in medicated children with First Son's condition, I was tempted to give him drugs. And, honestly, the only reason I didn't was because Husband wouldn't hear of it.

Let me say up front that I do not judge anyone who has decided to medicate their children. I disagree with it, but I do not judge it. A few different life decisions on my part and I would have almost certainly been one of those people—so, no judgment.

I'll admit that Husband's uncompromising stance against medicating First Son angered me at first. After all, I was the one taking on the full burden of homework, conferences with teachers, and pressure to do something. But really, it was my pride that was hurt. I always imagined that my children would be like me and that school and good grades would be of the utmost importance to them. And here was my first child, not giving a lick about bad grades or good grades, indeed acting as if he didn't even realize that he was being graded in the first place. Is there a pill that will make him care about how bad he's making me look? Is there a pill for this?

Yes, there is a pill for this. There is also a pill for people who feel that they are not outgoing enough. There is a pill for those who are not as happy as they would like to be. There is a pill for an achy head. A pill for food that won't digest just right. A pill for sore muscles after a hard workout. A pill for someone who wants to overindulge but doesn't want to be fat. Can't go to sleep at night? Take a pill. Can't wake up in the morning? Take a pill. "Why be uncomfortable?" the medical community asks us, "when you can be medicated."

What is our aim in all this medication? Are we trying to create a uniform society in which we all act and feel the same? I, for one, have struggled with acute shyness my entire life. In my youth, if I were offered a pill that would make me less socially awkward, I would have jumped at it—anything to not feel so different. Now, though I don't embrace my shyness like I should, I see that it has protected me in many ways and brought me to this place of peace and contentment in which I find myself at this time in my life.

I thank God for this, in helping me to see that He loves me and accepts me for what I am and that it doesn't matter that the world views shyness as undesirable because it is impossible to please the world, but so easy to please God, by merely loving and accepting Him in return.

I had to remember all of this in regards to First Son. No, he will never be a straight-A student. No, he is not going to cry when he is sick and has to miss a school day like I did. No, he will never sit perfectly still in his desk. No, he will not need someone to help him carry his certificates home on Awards Day. No, he is not me. He's just him. And that's okay. In fact, it's amazing, because that's who God wants him to be.

Once I was able to accept First Son, it was easier to help him. Easier—not easy. Husband and I started by taking away all video games and almost all television, except for Saturday morning because we quite like a sleep-in on Saturday morning and with three kids that is impossible without the television (so sue us!). Any kid, not just one who has trouble focusing, should not be watching too much TV or playing too many video games in the first place. After all, these things aren't life. These are things that are used to check out of life. Why do we want our children checking out of life?

Husband and I then, as John Rosemond suggests in his many wonderful books on raising children, tried to discipline First Son with an old-fashioned approach. In other words, not concerning ourselves with his "self-esteem" and instead concerning ourselves with some basic things—you are the child, I am the parent, I make the decisions, you accept them, the same goes for all adults in your life, end of discussion. This isn't as simple as it sounds. Husband and I had become lazy with our parenting. It's easier and more fun to be your kid's friend instead of his parent. But that's not our job. It's a serious business raising kids and we had stopped taking it seriously.

Husband and I don't pride ourselves on our patience, but we knew that it would be impossible to make some much needed changes in First Son without patience. We made patience a priority. In addition to being more patient, we tried to be more understanding of First Son without feeling sorry for him, and to make sure that he was accountable for his actions.

I also forced myself to make him responsible for himself. Instead of checking over homework and making sure it was all completed and sitting neatly in his folder. I would ask, "Do you have everything you need for tomorrow?" And when he said yes, even though I could clearly see his multiplication problems sitting on his desk, I didn't point it out. He would have to take the consequence.

So, he started taking the consequences. Progress reports came out right before Christmas break and First Son's grades were so appalling that I could barely look at them and wanted, like an ostrich, to bury my head in the sand and sing "La, la, la, la, la, la" in the hopes that I could forget all about them. But forget about them, I could not.

We had two problems—First Son was making bad grades and First Son didn't care that he was making bad grades. Bad grades are unacceptable. They just are. So, Christmas break wasn't all joys and laughter for First Son. While his brother and sister were playing with friends and new toys, First Son was reading books and writing book reports on them and editing book reports and re-writing them and completing worksheets and reading more and crying about it the whole time.

A couple of weeks ago, his teacher called me crying too, saying that she has seen the most remarkable difference in him and that he is now taking his time with tests and reading over things carefully and he made A's on three tests! I cried with her and thanked her for her part and she said the most perfect thing that a teacher can say, "It's not me, but God."

It's not me, but God. God gives us everything we need to be parents. Dr. Drames is an angel when I need antibiotics for a bad case of strep throat, but I don't need her to help me parent. It's not me, but God. We know what to do, we know it in our heart and in our head, we just let other people make us doubt. It's not me, but God. Like I could even do it myself. Why would I even want to try?

I'm not ready to start celebrating our victory, yet. I'm not even ready to check out the fourth-grade-hall yet. But still, I finally have something that I didn't have before—hope. This hasn't happened overnight and I think, like all things that are worthwhile, it will still be a difficult road. But there are two things that I know to be true—with God, we can do it and I'm sick of Husband always being right about everything.

Is it September Yet?

Twenty ways I can tell my kids are out of school for the summer:

1. At any given time, two out of three of my toilets are stopped up.

2. At any given time, two out of three of my children need me to do something for them.

3. When alone, I find myself pondering the mystical questions of the universe like: Who was the first Jedi Knight and will anyone ever invent a real lightsaber?

4. Justin Beiber is starting to grow on me.

5. The house mysteriously empties of food as soon as I bring it in.

6. The words, "I'm hungry" have become background noise that don't even register with me, just as one does not hear the air conditioner running or people breathing because these are sounds that are ever present.

7. Ditto with the words, "Can I play the Wii?"

8. Nap time has lost all meaning.

9. Bed time has lost all meaning.

10. A giant tub of cheesy puffs seems like a wise purchase.

11. Going to the gym is the most relaxing part of my day.

12. A piercing scream heard on the other side of the house will only make me roll my eyes and yell, "KNOCK IT OFF!"

13. I find myself gazing at my beloved children and wondering . . . when in God's name did I last bathe you???

14. Pizza and cheesy puffs seem like a good, nutritious choice for lunch.

15. Cereal and cheesy puffs seem like a good, nutritious choice for breakfast.

16. I'm starting to think the orange, cheesy puff stains on the carpet give the living room a certain flair.

17. I'm thinking of having my name legally changed to Mommy-Watch-This.

18. I'm excited when the kids go to bed early because now I can finally . . . iron.

19. Okay, so . . . Friday morning I decided to sneak out real quick to the fenced backyard to put a final coat of paint on the table I'm refinishing and thought it would be silly to change out of my shorty pj shorts and itty tank since I was just going to be inside my privacy fence for fifteen minutes . . . to paint, you know. To make a long story short, I spent the better part of the morning locked in my backyard, too embarassed to go around front because of my lack of appropriate cul-de-sac living attire. Second son has a sick sense of humor.

20. I am getting WAY more kisses and hugs than any human being could possible deserve on a near constant basis. I'm considering home schooling.

Life is What Happens

A brief pause while I reflect on something serious . . .

This past week, my daughter turned four. This seems ordinary in and of itself, but it struck me out of the blue what this actually means. She's the youngest of my children and her leaving behind the three-and-under stage is so significant that I can't quite get my head around it.

I am no longer that woman.

I see that woman at the grocery store and at the gym and at the park and at the mall and I recognize her the way you recognize a picture of yourself from your old high school yearbook—you can't quite believe that it used to be you.

But it did use to be me pushing the shopping cart with the baby carrier sitting so precariously atop it (Am I the only one who feared it would topple?), and then with the next baby in the snuggie and the toddler in the shopping cart, me feeding him gummies, praying that they would last until my shopping was complete, and then, finally, with the next baby in the snuggie and the two toddlers fighting over the gummies in the gigantic shopping cart that was shaped like a fire truck and impossible to navigate through the narrow aisles.

That used to be me . . . but, suddenly and strangely, not anymore.

While it's happening, it seems like it will never end. You know somewhere in your head that one day you will not consider sleeping two hours in a row a triumph. You know that one day you won't freak out because you just used the last diaper. You know that one day you won't watch with fearful anticipation as your toddler eats one . . . now two . . . now three bites of vegetables, thank God. You know that one day you won't spend each evening draped over a bathtub, trying to keep shampoo out of sensitive eyes. You know that one day this will all be a distant memory. Good grief, everyone tells you that it goes by too quick—everyone tells you this, but you never quite believe them . . . until it actually does go by too quick.

I don't exactly miss it.

I rather like the fact that I can go to a store without having to first pack a suitcase. I like the fact that I can tell my kids jokes that they get and they can tell me jokes that make no sense whatsoever. I like the fact that they can show kindness and compassion and empathy. I like the fact that I can outright refuse to get out of bed before nine o'clock on a Sunday.

But still . . . it makes me a little uneasy. It's like my daughter turning four is a big flashing light telling me not only that my children's toddler days are over, but also that my youth is over. Of course I knew this in theory. I am thirty-three and have been married for ten years and though I can occasionally plaster on enough make-up to convince a nervous and near-sighted waiter to card me, I don't actually resemble someone who could be mistaken for twenty. The lines are invisible only if I keep my face completely neutral and I consistently grab my hip when standing after sitting for too long.

This is it, this is adulthood . . . and it scares me. As long as I had young children, I felt like adulthood was some far off land that I hoped I wouldn't have to visit . . . ever. But I'm running out of excuses. I'm running out of time. I hear myself saying things like, "Let's get this mess cleaned up," and "Don't use that tone with me, I am your mother," and "I will turn this car around if you don't calm down back there." These sound suspiciously like things an adult would say.

So this is the shape that my life has taken. I happen to be one of the most blessed people on the planet, but still it gives my restless mind pause. This is my life. This is what I have built.

Will it change? No doubt.

Will it be better? Sure it will.

Will it be worse? Sure it will.

Will it all be okay? Who knows?

I'm too old to consult the magic eight ball anymore.

Mommy May I

Has anyone else seen this newsletter that Gwyneth Paltrow puts out that is supposed to make her look like the all normal-motherly-type? It's really useful if you need to puke. It can help you do that.

I'll admit, I'm not the best one to comment on this. I mean, there's a reason why this is NOT a Mommy Blog. And that reason is . . . I'm not that great at it. The Mommy part, that is. My house is always a wreck, my kids tuck themselves in bed a couple nights a week, I consider a dip in the public pool as an acceptable substitute for a bath, I let them fudge on homework when I don't feel like doing it, when Husband is out of town they eat nothing but fast food and stuff from the freezer, and the big secret . . . they get on my nerves sometimes.

But . . . we have a lot of fun, probably because I'm on the same level as they are maturity wise (they've already surpassed Husband) and there's lots of that gooey love stuff in my house.

Apparently Gwyneth and her friends are perfect at it just like they are in every area of their life. She has this lady friend who is a CEO at some company or another write in some tips for moms. This lady, this lady right here says that she feels so good after she exercises but she can't make herself do it, so what she does is have a personal trainer come to her house at 6:00 in the morning. Out of touch with reality much? I mean, you know, I'm like all yeah, right, exactly the answer I've been looking for! I mean, you know, I hate to exercise and this pile of money that I've been sleeping on is just not that comfortable, so now I have the perfect answer to both of my problems—a personal trainer at my doorstep every morning!

And these ladies and their flaxseed oil! Seriously! Oh, but they're just like us because one of them forgot to give it to her daughter last week. Oops, I'm such a normal mom who forgets to do important things like give my kid flaxseed oil.

Let me read some posts about Gwyneth Paltrow cleaning up those fun yellow puddles that mysteriously appear around the toilet after her kids have gone tinkle and then maybe I'll feel a little like she's a normal mom.