Life with Clementine

It's really tempting to write an entire post about how in love we all are with Clementine. I'd tell you that we all spend hours upon hours staring at her, giggling at her silly sleepy faces, running our fingers through her soft tuft of newborn hair, counting her toes, and inhaling her sweet, milky smell.

This is our third time with a newborn, and you might think that the novelty would wear off. But no. It's all just as amazing the third time around. I stare for hours at this baby, memorizing her features, fingering her silky soft ears, and holding her as close as I possibly can. Because the beautiful and terrible thing about doing this all again is that I know it doesn't last.

I hear the voices of my big boys and set Clementine down to see what's happening in the play room. Those boys have gigantic hands that build Legos and Hot Wheels racetracks. They can get their own drinks of water. They shower by themselves. The have friends and go on playdates. They need me when they are hurt or tired, but mostly they are independent. I survey the chaos and listen to them explain their Lego and race track creations and then they go back to their imaginations and I am left standing in the hallway. And so I go back and pick up Clementine, giving her an extra squeeze and a kiss on her downy head because I know it doesn't last.

We had our first parent teacher conference at Jack's school this week. His teacher describes him as "a rule follower" and "a kind, gentle, and not rowdy boy." I have heard that your children are their best selves when they are with other adults. If this is the case, it sounds like we're doing something right.

I wanted to know if Jack ever talks to her, since he is notoriously shy around adults. "Me? No. Never. But he does talk to his friends."And I pictured him chatting away with his little kindergarten buddies and it made me smile.

Since Jack missed two days of school due to these conferences, he wanted to play school. His reading is really coming along. He reads to Sawyer and Clementine now.

It was a chilly day and so Jack wisely dragged his desk out to the fireplace and found a cozy spot to do some writing worksheets. (I love how he puts his name on his paper.)

It wouldn't be fair if I let you think that everything has been smooth sailing for the past two weeks. There have been some difficult moments, a car buying fiasco which I will tell you about later, a touch of post-postpartum depression, and my initial taste of panic/helplessness the first time all three kids cried simultaneously. 

But mostly, it's been this. And this is pretty sweet.

Tweet

Happy Birthday, Little One

You people are anxious for a name, aren't you? Well, we will get to that... But let's start from the beginning.

(Note: squeamish male relatives and former students probably want to skip this one!)

I started having contractions last Thursday. I'd been having Braxton Hicks on a regular basis, but these seemed more productive and were definitely painful. I was up for a few hours that night, trying to read and pacing around, but they eventually subsided and I went back to sleep. This was the pattern for the next few nights: contractions starting in the afternoon and continuing overnight, but never materializing into actual labor.

"You're making progress each time that happens," my midwife, Colleen, assured me. But I still felt discouraged. And I was beginning to dread each evening, knowing I'd be up and in pain throughout the night AND that I'd wake up still pregnant the next morning. My nausea had returned, and I'd had a bad taste in my mouth for over a week. "This is all part of the process. Things are happening," Colleen said.

I woke up on Monday determined to go into labor. We tried the uh... the old fashioned way... and I spent the day on my feet, hiking around at Mount Pisgah with Tracie and Xavier, a long nap in bed with a snuggly Sawyer, going to watch Brent's soccer game, and a burrito dinner at Chipotle. Tracie called during the soccer game to see if anything was happening. "Go ahead and go home," I told her and she drove back to Portland that evening.

Once we got home and put the kids to bed, I started feeling the usual discomfort. I ignored it at first and tried to go to bed but realized I needed to get up and begin my nightly ritual of pacing around the house and trying to read. Around midnight I started to notice a pattern and that the contractions were growing in strength. I decided to make some blueberry muffins.

In hindsight this seems like kind of a strange thing to do, but I needed something to occupy myself with and I figured that my support team would need to be fed if in fact I was having the baby that night. So I made the muffins and tried to read and paced around the house in my bathrobe. I felt myself slipping into the zone and trying the techniques I had used in my other labors to manage the pain. Nothing was working and I started to feel more and more anxious as the clock ticked on. The contractions had been coming every 3-5 minutes, but I wanted to let Brent sleep until 3 because I knew he'd have a long day ahead of him. At about 2:45, after laboring alone for several hours, I decided to wake him up.

He popped right out of bed and called the midwife. Though it's laughable now, in the back of my mind I had this fear that these were just really, really painful false labor pains, but I could hear Brent talking to Colleen on the phone. "This seems like the real deal," he said as I labored on the couch. I started to get really shaky between contractions and I knew he was right.

I really think there is something to your state of mind and the progression of labor because once I had Brent there with me, I started to kind of relax (as much as a person can relax during labor) and things began moving really quickly.

When Colleen and her assistant Victoria arrived a few minutes later, they took one look at me laboring on the couch and quickly began setting things up in the bedroom. Brent wanted to know if he should call in the support team of friends who had been invited to the birth. "Yes, call them now," she said. After Colleen listened to the baby's heartbeat through a contraction I asked if she was going to check my dilation. "I don't have to," she smiled.

Sawyer woke up at some point during all of this. He surveyed the chaotic scene through bleary eyes and wanted to know if he could watch a movie. 

Then suddenly I had the urge to pee and when I got to the bathroom, my water broke. This was the only time this has happened spontaneously for me, the midwives decided to break it during my other labors, and to say it was a shock is putting things mildly. I knew then that the baby would come fast. I pushed once in the bathroom and then made my way to the bedroom floor and knelt by the bed. Three excruciatingly long push-like-your-life-depends-on-it pushes and five minutes later, our baby girl entered this world.
 

My friend Kate walked in the door as Colleen handed the baby to me, just in time to let me lean my back against hers and hold my daughter for the first time. The rest of the support team, Mary Anne and Tracie, arrived soon after.







The whole labor took six hours from start to finish. Somehow Jack managed to sleep through the entire thing and awoke bright eyed and ready for kindergarten the next morning. If you are familiar with the size/layout of our house, you will be shocked by this, since the baby was born about 10 feet from where he was sleeping and I know I was NOT being quiet about it.

I have to say, though, after having two twelve hour labors and then this six hour labor, shorter is not necessarily better. It's the same amount of pain, but condensed into less time.

She passed her newborn exam with flying colors as Sawyer looked on. He hit the wall shortly thereafter and returned to bed, thrilled to have been allowed to watch a movie in the middle of the night.

And so, it is with pride and great pleasure that I introduce to you: Clementine Adele Ross. Born Tuesday, October 30th at 4:03 in the morning. Weighing 7 pounds 5 ounces and measuring 20 1/2 inches long.

We will be ready for visitors next week, I think. For now we are enjoying and getting used to being a family of five, those sleepy and milky first days with a newborn, and marveling over her incredibly long fingers and toes.

Tweet

The Pumpkin Patch

Diapers are washed and folded. Little pink onesies have a home. I have 12 receiving blankets at the ready. But no baby...

I thought it would be fun and relaxing and novel to have a few days (or even a week!) off before this baby came. But no. I'm ready. Let's get this party started.

I sat around all day yesterday while the kids were at school and tried to relax. When you are used to living your life at full speed, it's kind of hard to just chill out. So today I gave up on that and decided we would have some sort of family adventure that just might bring on this baby.

I am often the cheerleader for these kinds of family excursions and it took some tears and a time out to get us out the door. By the time everyone piled into the car, I was the only one still excited about going to the pumpkin patch.

But once we got there and the boys were able to feed the goats, it suddenly seemed like everything would be just fine.

And I am now convinced that Wednesday mornings are the only time to go to the pumpkin patch. No lines! No hoards of kids! No swarms of paparazzi parents to compete with for the perfect shot!

Jack declined our offer to go on the hayride, but Sawyer was all about it. He was especially excited about holding the tickets. Ah, to be three!

And so off we went! I was secretly hoping the bumpy ride would send the baby her eviction notice, and I could see from faces of my fellow passengers that I was not the only one thinking about my impending labor.

Sawyer kept me company with his running commentary of preschool chatter and we walked hand in hand through the muddy patch to find his perfect pumpkin. I squeezed his little hand in mind and reminded myself that this will be one of the last times that he is still my baby.

At last my little goofball found his perfect pumpkin and we lugged it over toward the wagon until a dad came running over and insisted on carrying it for us. You get special treatment when you are nine months pregnant and carrying a giant pumpkin.

I asked Brent to get some belly shots, just in case the hayride was going to do the trick.

I find Jack's comparison to be accurate.

And I'll include this one just for laughs. I am pretty sure this is one of the most awkward pictures I have ever seen...

And finally, caramel apples. Because that's half the reason I wanted to drag my family on this adventure in the first place.

And so I could hold that little hand just one more time while it still seems so small.

Tweet

Correction: No-Fun Draiser

So.... that fundraiser? Ha ha. Funny story there. Turns out that if you completely forget about the wrapping paper and candy you have sold and leave the money and order form on top of your refrigerator for weeks past the payment deadline, they will cancel your order. Even if your kid did win the grand prize stuffed alligator. So yeah... that part about our first fundraiser being a success? Scratch that. Fail.

(But don't worry- the same day that the school emailed to tell me they had cancelled our order, they sent home a NEW FUNDRAISER! Woohoo! Anybody need a wreath?)

Another fail: School pictures. Of course, OF COURSE my kid would split his forehead open the week before school pictures. What's funny (not funny ha ha, but more funny irritating) is that we have a DELUXE and SUPER SPECIAL- need I mention expensive- CUSTOM MADE fireplace cover that it supposed to prevent just this type of injury. Alas, BOTH of my children have found ways to vault over the protective hearth pad and split their heads open on the brick wall surrounding the wood stove.

Jack had a little help from Sawyer with this injury. Apparently there was some pushing and a scuffle and who the hell knows how they managed to do this, but I will tell you this- Jack is a bleeder. Sheesh.

Boys will be boys and all that blah blah. You want to know who is really to blame for ruining school pictures? The damn DMV.

A few weeks ago I received a postcard informing me that my driver's license was going to expire on my birthday. Okay, fine. Whatever. I tossed that piece of mail aside and went back to whatever exciting task I had been doing, drinking cosmopolitans and eating bonbons probably, and didn't think about it again. Then we had a three day weekend and I remembered that I needed to go to the DMV and so I scrounged up that postcard to make sure the office was open. This time I actually read the fine print (it's actually boldface and all caps, as if the DMV is screaming at you via this postcard) about the new identification requirements for license renewal. You need an original of your birth certificate and/or a passport, but if your name has changed then you also need your original marriage license.

Now this seems like overkill to me, but what do I know about homeland security?

Okay, fine. Whatever. I begin to search for these documents. No shocker here- I can't find them. And Brent is NO HELP WHATSOEVER because he knows exactly where his birth certificate and passport are and attempts to lecture me about the importance of keeping my things organized as I am tearing through every nook and cranny of our house in a fruitless pursuit. Needless to say, his diatribe fell upon deaf ears.

The birth certificate is iffy. It might be at my dad's, but since they are on an extended vacation and I can't seem to find things in my OWN house, I don't think I'll go rummaging through their stash of important documents.

But I know I have seen that passport. Where the hell is it?

And so I was searching once again in the deepest, darkest recesses of my closet instead of supervising my children when the head injury occurred. I think the blood is on the DMV's hands.

I was thinking with some direct pressure we could stop the bleeding and slap a bandaid on Jack's forehead, but Brent, having more experience with forehead wounds, thought we probably needed to take him in for stitches.

So instead of going to the DMV that day, I went to Urgent Care and waited for over an hour for the doctor to come in and superglue my kid's forehead back together.

And now I have an expired driver's license. And no birth certificate. And no passport.

But I do have these guys who are clearly enjoying the first fire of the season. And a big old pregnant tummy that should probably be photographed one last time before little sister makes her appearance any day now.

And now that I'm stuck at home with no driving privileges, I just might be able to find that passport. Or remember to order a birth certificate for this baby. Or at least make sure we turn in our fundraiser money on time.

Wish me luck.

Tweet

Fun-Draiser

One of my many reservations about sending Jack across town to the French immersion school (aside from the elitism, inequity, and all that) was that we had been repeatedly warned about all of the fundraising that's done at his school. While most kids can handle a few magazine and gift wrap sales, I know my kid and I knew he could not.

Fundraiser #1 was shoved down our throats a mere two weeks into the school year. (And don't even get me started on why they do so much fundraising because it kind of makes my blood boil with that whole elitism and inequity and all that so LA-LA-LA.) Jack came bounding in the door clutching his first ever fundraiser packet and talking excitedly about all of the prizes he was going to win. And like a fool I just waited for his enthusiasm to wane, knowing full well that once his eyes were on these prizes, he would be able to think of nothing else.

Jack badgered me relentlessly about going door-to-door on his quest for sales, but I stood my ground and refused to let him hustle his overpriced chocolates and wrapping paper in our already economically depressed neighborhood.I don't want to be that neighbor, and I certainly don't want the neighborhood kids coming to my house to peddle their wares. Jack was pissed.

"But Mo-om, how am I going to win those prizes? I need at least 7 sales to get the pencil topper, the bracelet and the bracelet plugs!"

I wanted to tell him how crappy these "prizes" really are, but as I have told you before, Jack gives absolutely no credit to my parental wisdom and/or life experience. So instead I told him I would buy a roll of wrapping paper, knowing full well that that would not be good enough. 1 sale = the pencil topper only. Like I said, not good enough.

I changed my approach and helped him come up with his list of trusted adults. It was a short list, but that's because Jack is usually pretty shy around adults and even people who have known his since birth often get the silent treatment from him. This is really frustrating to me at times, but he is who he is, and a friendly conversationalist he is not.

The grandmas were good for a few sales and that just whet his appetite for more. I tried (unsuccessfully) to hide the fundraiser packet for awhile, but Jack would not and could not let it go. I started to get really irritated about the whole thing. Maybe I would just "forget" to place the order and be done with all of this nonsense. Damn that school and their crappy prizes! The whole thing was making me grumpy.

As the end of the fundraiser approached, Jack got more and more annoying. Then one night he got up out of bed and came tearfully to the couch. You can always tell the difference between bratty crying and genuine crying with Jack because he makes this pathetic little froggy face whenever he is really sad. Froggy face said, "Mom, I'm just really sad because I want to win those prizes and get my name called over the intercom to come to the office and every day I wait to hear my name and I never do." And suddenly I realized just how important this pencil topper and bracelet and bracelet plug business really was to him. I remembered being a kid and selling magazines for crappy prizes and the excitement of the raffles and assemblies and all of that consumerism.

Later that night as I was attempting to sleep (it's getting rough here, people, the end is near), Brent came to my bedside and informed me that a building behind our house was on fire. "But I don't think you need to get up or anything," he continued nonchalantly. FIRE? OUR HOUSE? SLEEPING KIDS? I bolted up out of bed and sure enough, big orange flames were shooting up from over the fence, illuminating our backyard. We could hear the sirens coming from all directions and soon we were listening to the spray of hoses as the fiery peaks behind us began to die down.

Hopped up on adrenaline, I knew that going back to bed would be a joke. So instead I sat up with Brent and we talked until we both got sleepy enough for bed. During this time I had a mini emotional breakdown, fueled in part by pregnancy hormones, over this whole fundraiser. I was feeling guilty for not realizing earlier just how important this was to Jack. "Sometimes I think we are too hard on our kids," Brent concluded. "Jack is a good guy. Just buy some more wrapping paper so he can get his prizes."

And so, thanks to Brent's logic and some very special trusted adults, Jack managed to sell enough items to get his pencil topper, his bracelet, AND the bracelet plugs.

All the next day at work I kept thinking about what Brent had said. Jack is a good guy. He is the kid who never takes his eyes off the ball during the soccer game.



But he's also the kid who will sit for hours at a time and listen intently to an audio book.

He punches in his own number in the school lunch line. He loves school and homework and learning.



He eats his broccoli. He is a good kid and he deserved to win those stupid crappy prizes simply because it meant so much to him.

When I came home that afternoon, Jack came running up to show me everything he had won that day. Among his loot was a giant stuffed alligator named Zoe. "Where did this come from?" I asked. Brent shrugged his shoulders and Jack launched into this bizarre story about being called up to the principal's office and having to wait and getting the stuffed alligator. Brent and I raised our eyebrows and then I texted a friend who has an older child at our school and discovered that Jack had won a special raffle prize for participating in the fundraiser. And for some reason this made me feel really, really good, like all was right with the world.

Despite the fact that the bracelet and one of the bracelet plugs broke before he even got them home from school that day and Brent had to take him back to the office to get replacements. And then I had to sew up Zoe's back when she started leaking stuffing. But Jack didn't seem to mind. When you are five, even crappy prizes are super exciting.

Also, now I have plenty of wrapping paper. So here's to our first elementary school fundraiser. We survived. And with the age span of our three kids, this means we only have 11 more years of this to go.

PS: Do let me know if you're ever in the market for overpriced chocolates or wrapping paper. I can hook you up.

Tweet

Fall Stuff

I feel better! Finally, at 34 weeks of a gawd awful pregnancy, I can tell you with confidence that I actually feel okay! It's been, like, at least three weeks since I have thrown up, food looks and tastes good, and I can actually get myself out of bed each morning without the impending sense of doom that only months of nausea and vomiting can produce.

And I think I've discovered something about myself during this whole ordeal: food is really really really an important part of my life. Without the desire to cook and eat, I was lost! I know it might sound ridiculous, but I assure you that being excited about the dinner I've made is truly one of the highlights of my life. (Is that weird?)

So no more barfing means yes to cooking! And everything sounds good! And I'm pregnant, so live it up! I am now eating enough to make up for all of those months of saltines. Blech.

"My god, you're enormous!" my dad declared just the other day. He's a thoughtful one, that man. But it is the truth. I feel quite whaleish. It's all relative- I have never gotten super huge during my other pregnancies, but I am bigger now than I was when Sawyer was born.



Brent and I have some serious getting-our-shit-together to be done before this baby comes. Like rounding up all our baby stuff and narrowing down the list of names. Oh wait. I mean compiling a list of names. I'm finding the task of permanently saddling our girl with a moniker to be daunting. Suggestions?

We have, however, accomplished our biggest challenge in terms of this new baby readiness is concerned. I finally cut Sawyer's umbilical cord. His figurative umbilical cord, that is. I'm not proud of some of the shit I let that kid get away with this summer when I was deep in the throes of nausea and exhaustion. Suffice it to say, he was a three and a half year old in desperate need of a reality check.

First of all, there was the sleeping arrangement. (Again, not proud!) He had taken up residence in our bed, tunneling his way up into the middle every night without fail and then sucking his thumb loudly and flopping around like a beached octopus. For some reason I had mixed feelings about booting him out (my baby!) and I guess I must have secretly enjoyed snuggling with him in the mornings after Brent left for work. You know that weird guilt that you feel when you are about to have another baby and your youngest has no idea what is about to rock his world? I guess there was some of that going on, too.

 

But as my tummy grew (and grew and grew) and I started to get uncomfortable at night, I let those feelings of guilt be replaced by feelings of resentment. This was MY bed and MY sleep that we were talking about. And so we kicked him out. And damn, it felt good.

Then there was the carrying him business. I cannot be lugging around a three year old and this kid wants to be picked up all the time. And so I made him quit cold turkey. You can hold my hand, but you have to walk. I've probably said this a thousand times in the last few weeks. The parenting books don't tell you that, do they? Sometimes you have to do something A THOUSAND TIMES for it to sink it.

Also we've had to deal with the "I want Mom to do it" business that's super annoying especially when the task is unpleasant, such as bum wiping. Dad can wipe butts around here too, Sawyer. I think you're getting that message loud and clear.



So, are we ready? Hell no. Not even close. But we are always a work in progress in this family.

Fall update: Jack loves kindergarten. He got over the snack issue (thank you for all of the goldfish crackers!) and when I attended curriculum night last week, I saw why. And it's soccer season, so there go our social lives for the next few weeks.


 

 Sawyer is, predictably, having a harder adjustment to his new preschool. He says he has no friends and he's completely offended by having to hold onto a rope whenever the class crosses the parking lot to get to the playground. I got all excited the other day when he started telling Jack and me about his new friend from preschool. They played together, they ate lunch together, things were going so well! And then Jack asked Sawyer what his new friend's name was.

"Arthur," Sawyer replied.

"Arthur?" I repeated, just to make sure I'd heard him correctly. You don't meet too many three year old Arthurs these days.

"Yeah, he has glasses. And he's in a band."

"Wait a second, is he an aardvark?" Jack asked. "Are you talking about Arthur from PBS Kids?"

"Yes," Sawyer said matter-of-factly. "Arthur is my friend. He goes to my school."

So now he's a friendless liar. (But at least he stays in his own bed at night!)



I finally finished the deck chair covers, just in time for the rainy season. Now I'm moving onto the boys' Halloween costumes! Since my many food aversions kept me out of the kitchen until recently, Brent and I are making up for lost time with our annual food storage production. We pressed apples with our neighbor and canned a bunch of apple cider, canned pears, froze broccoli, and braved the pressure cooker for a big batch of tuna. There's still so much to be done...



And finally, what do you do when your sweet elderly neighbor swings endless bags of Asian pears over the fence for you? None of us really like them that much, and I see him over there spraying them with some toxic looking substance, so rather than let them rot, the boys have developed a bizarre use for all of this fruit.



I don't get it either. But I'll tell you this much, nobody's eating those pears now.

Tweet

The Last Days of Summer/The First Day of Kindergarten

So... I was in a wedding last weekend and I have no pictures whatsoever to document this important event because I decided that for once I would just be there to be there and not to stick a camera in everyone's face. Which was probably a good call since I barely knew most of these people anyway. I am pretty sure I was the lamest bridesmaid ever since I was completely exhausted the entire time, I had bad hair, and my feet would only fit into flip flops. But I am also sure Emily did not mind.

Brent and the kids had to stay home because the logistics of all four of us staying in Bend for a long weekend just got way too complicated and we finally just threw in the towel and off I went. At first I felt pretty bad about leaving the fam behind, but I got over that one pretty quickly once I realized that I was responsible for NO ONE for the entire weekend. And that I could drop everything and nap in peace and quiet for a change. Also, pedicure!!

I wanted to be more helpful and more fun and certainly more glamorous than I actually was, but instead I sat around for most of the weekend and ate a bunch of food. My moment of glory did finally arrive on the day of the wedding when the clasp on Emily's dress came off and I sewed it back into place. But then the other side of the clasp seemed flimsy and it was starting to gap and so I sewed her into her wedding dress. You might go so far as to say that I saved the day. Maybe.

Another highlight: I made a new friend! (Hi Shannon!) You know when you just click right away with somebody? I love that.  And the best part is, she only got to know the miserably pregnant me and we still hit it off. Just wait until she meets the REAL me! I am way more fun when I am not housing small children in my body.

And speaking of children, then it was The First Day of School on Thursday.

Holy shit! Kindergarten! Jack was his usual aloof self, but I got pretty excited. I had this great plan that the kids and I would make chocolate chip cookies on Wednesday night so that I could pack a special treat in Jack's first ever kindergarten lunch (!!) and that everything would be PERFECT and SPECIAL and all that. But then the kids were total jerks and I never made cookies and Jack freaked out when he realized that his PERFECT and SPECIAL first day of school outfit included his Batman socks and he wanted his Nike socks. And then there was some yelling and a few time outs and some threats that I am not proud of (at least I did not throw any cheese this time...) and by the time I wrangled the kids into bed I was an exhausted and emotional wreck. So I did not make cookies. But I did wash the Nike socks, so even though Jack's first ever kindergarten lunch (!!) was neither PERFECT nor SPECIAL, at least he would have the right socks on.

I tossed and turned that night. I was nervous for Jack and I was also nervous for me, since Thursday was my first real day with students. I felt bad about the time outs and the yelling and the fact that I had not made those damn cookies. Kindergarten is a big fucking deal, people, and I worried that I had already somehow screwed it up. I was also worried that I might not have the energy or enthusiasm to pull off being Mrs. Ross the next day. But then sometime in the middle of the night, these two thoughts sort of collided in my brain and I realized that it's not me who makes kindergarten special, it's the teacher. And cookies and socks don't really mean that much when all I really want is for my kid to like school. And that I should get over it already and get some sleep so that I could pull off my first day dog and pony show in which my goal is to make students laugh while simultaneously intimidating them. It's a lot of work.

Jack is a glass half empty kind of guy. I knew that he would not come home from the first day of kindergarten with anything more than a list of complaints. I was ready for his pessimism before he even walked through the door.

Nevertheless, I pounced on him with the obligatory "How was school today?" question.

"Mom, it was so boring. All they did was talk about the rules. And they didn't even give us any homework!"

"Only mean teachers give homework on the first day of school, Jack. Everybody knows that," I assured him and I smiled as I thought of the TWO items of homework I had assigned to my 8th graders that day.

And then he asked if I thought he could get moved up to first grade. Why? I wondered.

"Because when you are in first grade you get to run in the hallway."

"That's not true," I replied with authority. "Nobody gets to run in the hallway. It's unsafe and is against the rules."

But the problem with Jack is that he will never entertain the possibility that I might know something he doesn't. He has absolutely no faith in my intelligence or life experience. "Mom, you just don't understand. The first graders were running in the hallway! I'm serious." He sighed, rolled his eyes, and stomped off, completely disgusted with me.

I cornered him later after he'd had a chance to unwind with his Legos. "How was lunch? How was your snack?"

"Lunch was fine. But I need a new snack. Don't pack me craisins and round crackers ever again, okay? The other kids had goldfish crackers. I need goldfish crackers."

"Goldfish crackers? Really? Dude, this is kindergarten. I thought you would like something more.. uh.. well, sophisticated."

"No, I want goldfish crackers and maybe some fruit snacks. Can you remember that?"

Okay. Well, I can tell you who's NOT getting chocolate chip cookies in his lunch next week.

 And that, my friends, was the first day of school. It might be a long year.

Tweet