May 1996

Twelve years seems like both a lifetime and an eyeblink.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Teacher's Pet

Sean's had a terrific kindergarten experience so far. In large part I attribute this to his teacher, who is everything I'd hoped for: she's enthusiastic, caring, creative, empathetic, kind ...

Sean just adores her.

If I hadn't surmised that already, a few recent comments would have clued me in.

It started with Sean's telling me a few weeks ago he wanted to send his teacher a Christmas card. For next Christmas. And that in the card he would write, "Merry Christmas. Can you come to our house on Christmas morning?"

"Mom, you know why I want to send Mrs. A a Christmas card?" he said after telling me about his plans. "Because I love her."

It's odd, in a way, to hear him profess his love for someone other than Jeff and me. I'm not jealous in any way, but I see this sweet, innocent declaration as foreshadowing of emotional attachments -- romantic or otherwise -- that await him.

And then on Friday, after I told him about our plans to go to a baseball game on Sunday, he reflected a few moments. "That gives me an idea!" he said.

He pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil and composed the following note*:



(C and J are the names of his teacher's children.)

When I explained that we wouldn't be seeing his teacher before the game on Sunday, he was crushed. "Why don't we e-mail it her?" I suggested.

"Oh, yeah! Great idea!"

We had a little chat about how Mrs. A would be so happy he invited her but that teachers like to spend weekends with their families. I hated to squash his dream, but I also wanted to break it to him that she wouldn't be going to the game with us.

Every hour thereafter, Sean would ask if his teacher had responded yet. "Not yet," I'd tell him, knowing exactly that feeling of heightened anxiety while one is awaiting a reply to an important phone call or e-mail. Fortunately, Sean's T-ball team played his teacher's son's team on Saturday. As it turns out, she couldn't even open the attachment to the e-mail!

Sean didn't quite have the nerve to ask her in person, but I explained what his note said. Her huge smile in response meant the world to Sean -- he wasn't the least bit unhappy that she couldn't accept the invitation.

If only I would always be able to protect that big heart of his.

*Sean's made huge strides in reading this year, but spelling... well, that's what first grade is for, right?

Spelling Does Count

Attention World!

My name is Suzanne.

Let me spell it. S U Z A N N E

Let's try pronouncing it, shall we?

sOO-zan'

Here's what my name is not:

Susan

Which is spelled S U S A N

And is pronounced

sOO'zun

TWO DIFFERENT NAMES WITH DIFFERENT SPELLINGS AND PRONUNCIATIONS.

Not the same name. So when I give you my name, and even spell it for you, what should I hear and/or see?

Suzanne.

Not Susan.

Thank you.

Earth Day 2008

To celebrate Earth Day, the kids and I went for a walk in the woods. Which we had to drive to, but whatever. It's the gesture that counts, right?

I loved watching them explore and play around a huge fallen tree. It made me a little wistful -- it's exactly the type of activity I craved as a child but didn't get to experience.

Last week I drove the kids past the house that I lived in until I was about 8. It's only about 20 minutes from where we live now, but it's a noticeably rougher area. Sean and Allie were fascinated by the sight of the long line of row houses. They marveled over the weed-choked alleyway that serves as the backyard, by the postage stamp-sized front yard.

I have fond memories of that house, of the chummy neighborhood where I could walk to the corner store for my mom, where I could visit my grandparents by trotting across the street.

What I sought, though, was something completely inaccessible -- green space, woods, wildlife. In the absence of abundant nature, I created a slice of it for myself. Behind my house and down the alley a bit was an adjacent alleyway bordered by thick shrubs. I found a secret entrance through the shrubs -- I called it The Little Hole. It was my private haven, a place I could retreat to play alone, to pretend that I was hidden deep in a forest.

I showed Sean and Allie where The Little Hole used to be. The thicket of shrubs has been cleared away. It's a completely open space now, just another section of the alley.

I can still feel the frisson of excitement I'd get by parting the leaves and entering my special space. I'm glad that I have that memory. And I'm even more glad that Sean and Allie have access to the real thing.

Amply Illustrating Three of Our Four Slogans

This morning, I awoke to hear Sean and Allie already in earnest conversation.

Allie: Sean, you can't call me Allison anymore.

Sean: Why?

Allie: Because my name is now Ariel.

Sean: Okay. Hi, Ariel.

Still rubbing my eyes, I follow Allie to her room.

Allie: Mommy, where are my green pants?

Me: In your closet. Why?

Allie: Because I'm Ariel now, and I have to look like her.

I help her into her green pants.

Allie, holding up a piece of purple tissue paper: Now help me put this on. It's Ariel's top!

In case you are unfamiliar, here's the look she was going for:


Me: I'm not sure that's going to work, sweetie. Plus it's still kind of chilly for a top like that.

Allie: ARIEL HAS TO WEAR THIS PURPLE TOP!

Me: Okay, it's not worth arguing about. But only for a few minutes.

Allie: Get some tape!

Me: Ummm, manners?

Allie: Please!

We struggle to fashion a tube top from lavender tissue paper. Within 2 minutes, it's ripped.

Allie: (Wailing)

Me: I can fix it! I'll use more tape.

Allie: No, GLUE! Glue it together!

Me: Tape would be better for this tissue paper, I think.

I tape the top again. It falls down within 1 minute.

Allie: (EXTREMELY LOUD WAILING)

Me, thinking fast: Why don't you pretend to be Ariel as a human? She wore a dress, right? You can wear a dress, too.

Allie: (Sniffing). Okay. What color?

I look at our Little Mermaid book. When Ariel is in the rowboat with Eric, she's wearing a blue dress. Thank GOD Allie has a blue dress.

We remove the tube top and green pants, put on the blue dress.

Me, tying the bow in the back of the dress: And it even has a pretty bow, just like Ariel.

Sean: No, Ariel's dress doesn't have a bow.

Me: Yes, it does.

Sean: No, it doesn't.

Me (giving evil look of death, speaking with clenched jaw): I think it does, okay, Sean?

Allie looks as if she is not sure who to believe but is prepared to pitch a fit if necessary. It's a precarious situation.

Allie: I like the bow!

Thank goodness.

Crisis averted at 7:15 a.m.

Sloganeering

I'm thinking that the Mimilou household needs a slogan, something we can all rally behind, something that succinctly captures just who we are as a family.

Some possibilties:

Why be agreeable when you can argue?

What? I can't hear you over all the shouting!

Whining is for winners!

It's going to cost HOW much to fix?

_____


What would your family slogan be?

Secrets

The first thing Sean told me today when I picked him up from school was "I don't want to go my baseball game today."

(He's had one T-ball game so far and had a grand time.)

No subsequent interrogation technique elicited a reason. Did anything happen at school? No. Did someone say something to you? No. Did you do something you don't want to tell me about? Yes. I mean no. Do you want to whisper in my ear? No. Do you want to write it down instead of tell me? Yes. (Pause while he sits at the table.) I don't really have anything to write about. What's wrong? NOTHING!

Realizing that my obsessive need desire to know EVERYTHING just might be having the opposite effect, I backed off.

He seems okay, if a bit ornery, this afternoon. He still doesn't want to go to his game and still offers no reason. It's driving me crazy.

Sigh. I am ill equipped to handle secret-holding. I know it will only get worse as the kids get older. You start with a reluctance to swing a bat at T-ball and the next thing you know they're married to someone you've never met.

What, you think I'm blowing this out of proportion a little?