100 Days

Today was Monkey1's 100th Day of Preschool. Her personal 100th day, as we only counted days that she attended school. Sick days and snow days readjusted the end date as we went along.

I celebrated by turning in the last tuition check of the school year. The distracted secretary nearly escorted Monkey2 into a classroom with a tardy slip. "Oh no," I laughed, "she stays with me. Next year."

This afternoon Monkey1 put her 100th bead in her jar, and then we spread the beads out on a cookie sheet. I held my breath as we counted them, ten rows of ten, and yes there really were 100.

I found several widths of string, and Monkey1 happily separated the big holes from the small holes, the sparkly from the solid colors, the stars from the hearts. She made two necklaces and a bracelet before I had to stop helping due to a howling post-nap Monkey2 in my lap.

Tomorrow, Monkey1, told me, we start again at one. 1. Now she's practicing writing the numbers, not just counting the days.

The Other Shoe

Yesterday at preschool pick-up, a friend handed me a sparkly pink ballet flat. "Isn't this...?"

"Monkey1's shoe!"

It was the shoe she had lost last summer, appearing as plainly as it had disappeared mysteriously. How can a shoe remain hidden in a nearly empty house constantly turned upside-down by dozen of little children every week for a year?

My little Cinderella saw the returned shoe in my hand and was excited beyond my expectations. She could not wait to get home and put on the matching shoe, removing her sneaker in the car and squishing her one-year-bigger-foot into the missing shoe.

I unwisely told the truth, "I think I threw out the other one. At the end of the summer, when you got your school shoes, this one was still missing..."

She howled in protest. How could I throw out her favorite shoe?

A Bad Back-up Plan

Monkey1 is on the wait list for two Catholic schools. I recently learned that at our first-choice school there had been movement on the list, and the first three on the wait list were admitted. Since her name was "in the top 10," best case, she's number 1 now, and worst case, she's number 7. Time to implement the back-up plan: register her at the public school.

I had the whole registration packet from a friend, filled in every blank line, secured all the original copies of documents for photocopying, and walked into the school office.

"Oh no, ma'am, registration is done by appointment. Call this number tomorrow."

So I did and secured an appointment for four days later.

This morning I marched in, turned in all the papers, and marched out again. It took me longer to park, get the three-year-old out of the car, across the street, and into the building than it took for me to register my five-year-old for kindergarten.

Ten minutes later my home phone rang, the public school office.

First order of business: my cell phone number was wrong on the emergency contact form in three places. A Mrs. Howard answered.

"Um. When I can find my phone, I'll check that," I answered. How long had I been handing out the wrong number? Or had my brain really slipped since this is the back-up school I don't want her to attend? I wondered.

Second, could I check the pile of original documents that had been returned to me for one of the school's photocopies?

So a half an hour later when I called the school back, I corrected my emergency phone number, and I puzzled over having all and only my original documents, no photocopies.

"Then it must have gone in the shredder. You're the only parent that came in this morning, so it's not in any other file, and shredding was the thing I did right after you left. Next time you're in the area, bring in the birth certificate, and we'll make another copy."

Next time I'm in the area? And happen to find a place to park and drag the three-year-old across a street terrorized by 50 mph SUVs?

"Okay," I said cheerfully.

The office lost a paper within then minutes of its arrival. This back-up plan is worse than I thought.

About once a week, after depositing Monkey1 in her classroom, Monkey2 and I have a practice of walking around the school to the church and lighting a candle in front of the Sacred Heart of Jesus -- I had some Brothers of the Sacred Heart during my grade school and high school years -- "Sacred Heart of Jesus, please keep us safe during this school year." Maybe we need to make this petition every day and include next year too.

A Venture

Morning adventures best summed up by several text messages sent to friends:

"If anyone is driving around... Monkey1 has set up a cracker stand. 1 cent for a cracker sandwich."

Half an hour later:

"The stand is closed. I ran out of pennies & Monkey2 ate all the crackers."

And the concluding financial report:

"20 cents. But it was play money that came out of the pinata."

Throwing out Jesus

Recently a friend hosted a mom's haircut day at her house. A stylist from a popular salon cut hair all afternoon as the moms talked and all our children (everyone brought two or three or four) ran around in the backyard. There were very few incidents. Of course, I only remember the one that involved one of my children.

Monkey1 came running into the house, crying. The name of the offender came quite clearly from her mouth -- and the mother of said offender tore out the back door immediately -- though I could not understand the rest of it for several minutes. Apparently a boy had knocked over all the teacups. So I took her hand, and we went off to find him.

The mother and son met us at the door.

"I'm sorry I knocked over the teacups," he said, hanging his head, "I put them all back."

Monkey1 had to investigate this, and sure enough all the teacups were back in the little playhouse on the window ledge, exactly as they had been. Apparently the older sister of the teacup knocker had taught him how to properly put things back.

All forgiven.

Back in the house, the mother told me that she had been ready to confiscate the toy guns and whatnot, but her son had said that Monkey1 "had thrown Jesus out of the house and wouldn't to take him back."

I considered this, recalling the various play Mass set pieces strewn about the backyard. "The crucifix?"

She nodded. "After that I couldn't say anything. It was his idea to apologize and set the teacups back up."

Old Time Drying

I hung up a clothesline today, to deal with the drying overflow of having to wash all the sheets from all the beds due to multiple accidents during the night.

Monkey1 was fascinated. Sheets and comforter covers on a clothesline criss-crossing our backyard looked like a tent wonderland.

Wet cloth can dry in the air?

Yes. But not if you're wiping your dirty hands on the clean sheets!

Mom is such a kill-joy.

Chloris

Monkey1 was given a doll for her birthday, and rejecting the box given name ("Olivia is a pig!"), she pulled out a baby name book we consult whenever a doll needs a name.

Now, since Monkey1 can't read the names yet, usually I read them off, but I edit the list as I go. After all, she doesn't need to hear one name six times when it repeats in the list with all its spelling variations. I also edit based on the fact that she never quite remembers the doll's name for the first week, so I have to be able to remember the name. However, the grandma who gave the doll read from the name book, and she did neither of these things, and Monkey1 chose: Chloris. From the Greek, "green," a goddess of vegetation.

Heaven help me; I have to remember "Chloris."

The grandma was not convinced this was a proper choice and kept reading from the list.

Monkey1 kept rejecting name after name, getting more and more agitated, until finally she said, "But that really doesn't grab my heart!"

Grab my heart. I clutched at mine. My five-year-old said this?!

Hours later, before sleep, Monkey1 decided on a different name: Christina. No reason, just she liked it better.

It's easier for me to remember, although she still asks me, "What's my doll's name?"

Check List

Birthday cake: Potato Head Princess, as requested.

Favorite dress: washed and ready.

Presents: wrapped.

Pinata: almost done.

Ingredients for pink pancake breakfast: after going to the grocery store for eggs at 9 p.m., all set.

Still to do: clean up the kitchen.

Happy Birthday to Monkey1, five years old tomorrow.

Panning

Yesterday we panned for roots.

The idea was to clear the under-the-front-window mess of growth and to plant flowers that will bloom at different heights and different times of the summer. This was not my idea. However, a few months ago I did trim the bushes nearly to the roots, and they have lots of lovely flowers all over them this week.

To achieve ground clearing, first a sifter screen was built. Then the ground attacked with a spade, and in some places a pickax. Then the dirt was piled on the screen and shaken through it. The roots were discarded and the fine dirt left in piles, ready for planting.

The Monkeys LOVED the piles of dirt. Monkey1 hid plastic Easter eggs in them. And jumped in them. And rested her cheek on them like a pillow. I caught Monkey2 trying to cart some off in a pink plastic shovel.

I did find things besides roots and rocks. Mostly glass. One piece had a Pepsi-Cola logo on it, but the script was different, very flowing and scrolly, similar to what Coca-Cola uses these days. A little research later revealed this was a pre-1973 logo. I wonder if this will be as interesting two hundred years from now as digging up a post-Revolutionary War kitchen garden these days.

Trash is trash, unless it's really old.

Pretending to be a Grown-Up

My husband and I went to a grown-up party last night.

That I even say "grown-up party" makes me feel like I'm pretending -- as if I'm playing at being a grown-up. I hardly go anywhere without my Monkeys, but with my husband and without them? That's pretty rare.

The occasion was a good-bye party for one of my husband's college friends, whose job was relocating him to Paris, France. He had sold everything, everything -- cars, house, furniture, electronics -- packed a few wardrobe boxes, and had been living at his mother's house for the last month before heading across the ocean. Not only was the party grown-ups only, it was grown-ups who knew me as "so-and-so's wife" and not as "Monkey1 and Monkey2's Mom".

My husband told me that the house was on a golf course. I immediately imagined the golf course communities of Long Island: gated, manicured, and enormous houses that nearly touched each other. But no, this was a house on a golf course; fourteen holes and thirteen houses. Well, grands maisons. It was an excellent place for a grown-up party. We sat out on the basement patio, overlooking a lovely hilly section of the golf course that stretched off to distance hills, eating and drinking and talking about television shows and airport travel and iPads. As the evening chill crept around us, some people moved off to try some golf, while others moved inside to enjoy the pool table, giant screen tv with video games, and sit at the bar and talk. Someone wanted to do shots, and the man of the party not finding any shot glasses, and his mother not looking, he substituted with some votive holders.

Moving to France.

I know my husband regards this with some wistfulness. Not long after Monkey1 had been born, he had had to look for a job. He had had an invitation to interview for a science position in England, and he had applied for jobs with the U.S. State Department. He had hoped to travel and live abroad. That might have been a big pill for me to swallow, and I'm thankful for living Stateside, if not near my family, at least in the same time zone. However, now not only does he have a cousin in France, one of his closest friends will be there, and wants everyone to come visit, including children.

Fortunately my husband and I both renewed our passports recently. We just need ones for the Monkeys.

Shopping

We made it through the grocery store with only one mishap; Monkey2 lifted a box of four organic pears and dropped them. She does not like pears, but she does like putting things in the shopping cart. Lining up for the check-out, Monkey1 shouted, "MOMMY, MOMMY, LOOK!"

I looked.

There amid the boxes of strawberries was Billy the Bulldog, a stuffed animal that hides around the store. Find him, and you get a little prize. Monkey1 had been on the lookout for him since she heard that Monkey2 found him one day and got a lollypop.

The prize was a packet of "Fruity Flakes," a soft fruit leather type snack. Monkey2, who did not find Billy but was given a little sister benefit, inhaled hers. Monkey1 ate a few and gave them to me, saying with distaste that they were like gum.

Although the prize was disappointing, the value of crowing points, "I found Billy the Bulldog!" was undiminished, all the way home.

I tucked away the groceries, and then we were off to the warehouse store for our monthly stock-up. I made a deal with the Monkeys; if they could stay with me and follow directions, at the end we would go over to the clothing section and they could each pick out a nightgown. They were in need of more sleepwear, and the idea of picking it out was very appealing to them.

As we stepped in the door, a store employee was handing out tickets for a drawing in the jewelry department. We strolled over there, handed in our tickets, and stood through a little sales pitch and verbal survey. Monkey1 excitedly raised her hand "yes" in answer to every question.

"I want to win!" she kept telling me in whispers.

"We'll have to see," I told her. "The man will pull a ticket from the bag and read the numbers."

And in time, the man shook the little bag of tickets, pulled one out, and called three numbers.

Not even close.

"What?" yelled someone.

The man repeated himself, "The last three numbers" (the tickets had seven digits) "are ..."

Silence.

"Oh," I said, "That's me."

"You're supposed to say, 'Woo-hoo!' " someone staged whispered.

"Woo-hoo?"

Everyone groaned, and the small crowd dispersed.

The prize was a necklace, a gold chain with a heart-shaped crystal pendant, very glittery and sparkly, and it came with a small faux-velvet bag. Monkey1, standing in the shopping cart's basket, was hopping up and down.

"Do you want to wear it?" I asked her.

She nodded violently, smiling splits.

The pitchman watched and then said, "Look, I never do this... but you've got two cute girls there..." and he handed me another identical necklace for Monkey2.

After many thank-you's, we started our shopping.

Monkey1 was beaming with excitement. "I said I wanted to win!"

Zoo

"So what did you like about the zoo today?" I asked the Monkeys at supper.

Monkey2 launched into a several minute long dissertation on the boy lion she saw, the girl tiger she saw, the flamingos she didn't see, the turtle, only stone, she saw, and the elephant that made a NOISE.

Monkey1 said simply, "Friends."

And that shows their personalities in a nutshell. Monkey2 loves the zoo for the animals. If left to her own devices, she would enjoy watching just a few animals for lengths of time. Monkey1 liked today's zoo trip -- her idea at 8 a.m. in response to Mommy saying she had not planned anything for the day -- because we unexpectedly ran into a family we knew and our six kids ran around together.

I usually do not enjoy family trips to the zoo because Monkey1 is always trying to make friends and then tag along after other families. While other children are friendly with her when they are climbing the same statue or exploring the gopher tunnels, when they leave that point with their family, their focus is their family. They are not interested in talking or playing with her anymore. She however wants to tag along with her new playmate. So the entire trip I end up alternating between Monkey2 crying because she wants to stay and watch an animal, but we must chase after Monkey1, or Monkey1 howling because she has to stay put so we can observe some animals. Now that I think of it, I'm surprised I even agreed to go to the zoo. But I'm glad I did because everyone had fun.

Tie Buddies

I saw them in a book order from preschool, but didn't place my order in time, so I had to hunt around on the internet for the little gizmos. "Tie Buddies" are little squares of plastic that shoe laces thread through, providing the loop reference as children learn to tie their shoes. When I tried it, I couldn't believe how simple it was. I want a pair for my shoes! Monkey1 was excited too, and shoe tying is going a lot better now, and she has only had them a few hours.

Eight

Yesterday was our eighth wedding anniversary.

In eight years, we've moved five times, lived in three states, both had a spell of unemployment, both of us significantly changed our career focus, and we were graced with two lovely daughters.

Here's how the day went down:

Made egg and cheese for the Monkeys for breakfast. Monkey2 peeled my hard boiled egg, removing all the Easter-colored shell and most of the egg. Monkey1 wanted to know if it was her birthday yet. Negotiated with my husband over the leftovers in the fridge for lunch, and packaged up some turkey in Tupperware.

Made banana bread. Cranked up the A/C to compensate for turning on the oven. The forecast called for temperatures up to 90 degrees.

Went to the Mothers' Rosary Group. Monkey2's ingestion of Easter chocolate (which I had mercilessly reduced by three-quarters as soon as I saw what came from Oma's house) got the best of her, and I spent the entire time mopping the living room, kitchen, and bathroom floor. One of Monkey1's classmates was extremely impressed that I carry extra kid underpants in my purse.

Lunch of Easter ham and cheese sandwiches.

Quiet time. I took some Claritin. I don't like to think that I have allergies because I basically grew up on a farm, but the flowering trees here are not what I grew up around. My sinuses hurt so much that my teeth ached.

Apple juice popsicles for snack. Monkey2 ate one, put on her apron to catch the drips, and ate another. Monkey1 barely finished one.

I had everything for making my husband's favorite: Lemon Chicken Scaloppini -- chicken, pine nuts, bread crumbs, romano/parmesan cheese, butter, eggs -- except the lemon. I ordered Zpizza, which arrived five minutes before Dad walked in the door. Perfect timing for dinner! We demolished three smalls.

Mopped our floor when Monkey2 tripped while carrying her little potty to the big potty.

Monkey1 begged to start planting, so we went out to dig. The front yard is getting attention this year, with a proper border installed to separate flower bed from lawn. My husband dug a trench and put in a strip of plastic border material, and we all shoved the dirt back in around it.

Scrubbed the Monkeys' hands, faces, feet, and teeth, read them one book, and put them to bed.

Cleaned up, and then we continued to work with Turbo Tax until calling it a night.

Then Monkey2 got up and wandered back and forth between her bed and our bed for several hours.

Twelve years ago I could not imagine ever being married. Eight years ago I walked down the aisle on my Grandfather's arm. He's not around any more, but he handed me off to the right man. Amen!

How Mom Does Sick

Of course I took my temperature when I got up, and while I noticed it was higher than usual, I didn't really register its difference; I just shrugged it off as another spell of middle of the night sleeplessness.

Saturday: swimming lessons.

"Monkey2, who do you want to swim with?"

"Mommy!"

"Monkey1, where are your goggles?"

Monkey1, now comfortably taking her swimming lesson without Mom or Dad in the pool, "a Mermaid in a class of Frogs" as she clarified to the instructor, jumps in the pool and cuts through the water like a knife. At the end of class, the instructor told my husband and I that she needs to move up to Salamanders. "We've got another Michael Phelps," she laughed, "I just can't keep up with her."

Meanwhile in Seahorses, Monkey2 will not get her face wet for anything, but she really enjoys the independence of the flotation barbells.

After picking out some flowering plants at the nursery, the Monkeys planted them with Dad in our backyard while I set up the Easter egg decorating. I had a kit of colored tablets and stickers. We dissolved the tablets in warm water and vinegar, adding the hard boiled eggs and rolling them around in the cups. Then we stuffed plastic eggs with Peeps (yellow marshmallow chicks) and stuck stickers all over the plastic eggs. These would be for the egg hunt. We took the hard boiled eggs out of the color cups and admired them.

Then I flopped on the sofa and the Monkeys commenced fighting over a toy, then fighting over me, so I dumped them off and went to bed. I slept for two hours. When I woke up I took my temperature. 100.0 Ugh. Then I remembered my morning temperature, the beginnings of a fever.

During my unconscious state, Dad had fed the Monkeys lunch, and now Monkey1 was looking for something to do, and suggesting places to go, and Monkey2 was having a temper tantrum. She turned three, and suddenly she has full blown, all out screaming, hitting, kicking, and biting rages, and she can bust 30 minutes. Dad got her to take a nap, while I got out a fashion origami book to entertain Monkey1. Monkey2 woke up too soon and had another tantrum. I went back to bed. Later Dad consulted me for ideas for supper. "Spaghetti," I groaned.

And at the end of the day, while Dad orchestrated teeth brushing, pajama finding, and book reading, I cut up some fabric for grass for the Monkeys' Easter baskets, put in a couple plastic eggs and a book each, and set out their Easter dresses and new shoes.

Swimming lessons, egg decorating, origami, Easter baskets, dresses, and shoes. I didn't load the dishwasher, but I did vacuum the living room and under the dining table. Yup, that's how Mom does being sick.