The Old Christmas Spirit

I was lying down with the girls tonight when I heard a knock on the door. I got up, peeked out the front window, and saw my neighbor's daughter, so I opened the door . . . only to discover that said daughter was proffering . . . a roll of toilet paper. Somewhat stunned, I took it, thanked her, waved to her mother in the car (who hollered out "Merry Christmas!"), and closed the door. There was a little note attached: "Money is scarce and times are hard, so we're giving you this instead of a card." There was more, but I can't bring myself to write it down. I was just given a festive Christmas roll of toilet paper.

Now I know that civilization is on the very verge of collapse.

In other Christmas news, Marmot Dad has been engaging in his favorite holiday pastime, Elf-Like Behavior (ELB). On his latest round, he came home to tell me some of what he had picked up here and there, whereupon I told him what he should have picked up, and where. So he has renamed his ELB "Elf-Like Blunders."

(Note: in all fairness, Marmot Dad's Elf-Like Behavior is generally of the highest quality--he has a knack for stocking stuffers, particularly for little girls, that borders on the amazing.)

Overheard

E goes to ballet classes once a week. This is a nice little ballet studio, run by the woman I took ballet from at the university twenty-some years ago (and she is also E's teacher). I like it because it is low-key, and there is none of the hoochie-koochie dancing that is so popular for young girls in these parts.

There are things, however, that I am not fond of. And I'm not talking just about trying to control the other three kids while E is dancing, although that is a sore trial in my life. I'm talking about Other Mothers.

One mother in particular feels the need to share wildly inappropriate information with me about how her children were planned or not planned and what medications she was taking when they were conceived and on and on and on. I try to smile and nod and mostly plan my next vacation to the Bahamas while she talks to me.

Last week, though, I heard some great stuff from another mother. Her three-year-old daughter was misbehaving, and the mother was trying to get her to stop. This is what she said: "Do you want to lose ten Good-Girl Points? Because if you don't stop, you'll lose ten Good-Girl Points. I'll just take away ten Good-Girl Points."

I ABSOLUTELY LOVE this concept. Except I want to award Bad-Girl Points. To my sister. And when she gets enough, she will have to give me a present. Brilliant.

In other news, the Marmot Babe is the messiest eater we've ever had. EVER. I find food all over the place, on him, his booster seat, the table, the floor, the walls, you name it. On me. Now here's the irony. When he comes in in the morning for breakfast, he looks at his booster seat, which sometimes his overburdened mama has not thoroughly cleaned out the night before. He starts muttering "towel, towel, towel" to himself while he waddles off, looking for all the world like a beaver on its hind legs, to pull a towel out of the drawer, bring it to his seat, and start cleaning it off (in the process getting food all over the floor again, but no matter). Yeah, now he suddenly turns into a neat freak.

In Which I Cease Being a Homeschooler

M is going back to kindergarten! Not at her regular school, though. We came upon an opening at the university lab school where E went. We hope they can keep up with her. She starts Monday, which is about the time my life ends and I have to start hustling across town every day (at least it's a small town).

In the meanwhile, she has been prolific in her literary pursuits. This might be my favorite story yet. May I present

The Dragon With No Wings!

The Dragon With No Wings! A Once Upon a Time Book.

Once upon a time a princess had a dragon for a pet. It had no wings. Have you ever seen a dragon with no wings and no ears? The dragon had spots on him like leopards have spots on them. The dragon's friend had wings but he did not!

The dragon tried to fly but he could not fly.

(picture of dragon falling through clouds--note dotted line indicating falling)

The dragon tried and tried and tried to fly. Again and again and again. But he never could fly. "Oh," he said, "I will never never fly," he said.

(picture of dejected dragon with sad flames)

One day he woke up. He tried to fly again. He could, he could, he could!!! He was so happy he showed all of his friends. "I am so happy I can fly that I came to show you!" said the dragon.

"Oh oh oh I am so happy I can fly now. Oh I can fly fly fly now. Fly fly fly fly fly," he said. "La la la la I can fly now. Fly fly fly. I can fly. I can fly now. Oh oh oh. Hooray hooray hooray!!"

I can fly. Fly fly fly. Now I can fly.

"Yes yes yes I can fly now. Hooray, now I can fly. Hooray hooray hooray. I can fly now. Now now now I can FLY!!!!! Hooray hooray hooray I can fly now!!!" he said.

The End.

Melville, Steinbeck, Hemingway--they got nothin' on this kid. Next, the great American novel by M.

But wait--she does poetry too (she had me and Marmot Dad write some words--I did mine while holding a flailing toddler, which might qualify this as performance art).

There is a place called England where people do their fiction.

Frankly, this is on a par with or superior to most of what passes for poetry in The New Yorker.

In Which I Become a Homeschooler

Yes, I am a homeschooler. I've always been open to the idea, but I never actually thought it would happen. But our little M hated kindergarten after just a few days (actually after just a few minutes, but that's another story . . .). I'm not sure why, exactly. She's given me several (spurious) reasons. For example, "I don't like playing on the little playground." "I wanted to put my fingers in my nose sometimes when it itched, but it was against the rules." "There were some people I didn't like in class." "I missed you, Mommy." (That one I believe.)

For my part, I was not impressed by what she was doing in class, so I told her she could stay home another year and do kindergarten at home. Which she readily did.

This is how homeschooling M works. She gets up in the morning and says, "I think I'll do XY and Z today," and then she proceeds to do so. Sometimes I give her a suggestion, like, "Why don't you make a Writers' Workshop book like E did in kindergarten," and then she spends the rest of the day doing it, with verve, panache, and all those other French attitudes.

Now, just take a look at today's (self-imposed) task, and understand with me why the public school couldn't keep up with her RPMs:

Oh, to be Three Again

Tooie turned three last week. His GrandMarmot sent him two dollars via the USPS. There was much rejoicing all around. He carried his two dollars around with him everywhere for a couple of days, set them down along with his birthday card next to him on the sidewalk, and patted them every now and then. He refused to let me put them in his pocket because he wanted to be holding them whenever possible.

Today we finally went out to spend his money, after a nasty round of the stomach flu for everyone. Before we left he was very worried because he didn't have any "round money" for an ice cream cone. So M traded him a dollar in change for one of the paper dollars, which she likes better, anyway. And off we went. We had a few stops to make before we finally made it to the thrift store. He found a little Fisher-Price airplane (not quite like the one I got him for his birthday, but good enough, and only 1/10th of the price I paid, even though mine was second-hand, too) for $1.50 and paid for it proudly. (He and M played dueling airplanes all afternoon.)

Then I had mentioned going to the grocery store for a $.50 ice cream cone afterwards, but, heaven help me, I had been running errands for three solid hours with three little kids, and I just couldn't do it. So, as he cried, I promised him that Daddy would take him on a special trip tonight to get his ice cream cone. Heh heh heh. Sorry, Papa. What I didn't know was that Daddy would have to stay at work until 6:30, after having arrived there around 6:30 a.m. But I couldn't postpone the poor child's joy any longer.

So after dinner we popped him into his pajamas and sent him on his way to get his ice cream. Marmot Dad reports that as Tooie was slowly falling asleep in the grocery store, and as his ice cream cone, paid for with his very own (round) money, kept dipping towards the floor, he announced, "Daddy, this . . . this . . . this . . . this was . . . this was . . . this was . . . a good day."

Thank you, GrandMarmot!

The Terrible Twos

Today was Tooie's last day as a two-year-old boy. He's been doing a happy birthday dance every now and then, and then around about 1:30 this afternoon I guess he had to cut loose and act like a real two-year-old. While I was trying to do dishes and hold a baby, he was quietly standing on a stool in the bathroom playing with his sister's lipstick. With, depending on your perspective, horrible or glorious results.

Well, if he's going to be an imp, I'm at least glad he's an adorable imp. And maybe tomorrow, when he's three, the hijinks will be over.

A Haircut for a Marmot Babe

The Marmot Babe was long overdue for a haircut. See the curly locks. See how everyone referred to him as "she." See how sad his long hair made him. But his mamma loved his sweet silky hair. It made him seem like a baby still, even though he is inching up on 18 months old.

His sisters loved his curly hair, too. See their schematic drawings of him. First one by E:

Front View

Rear View

Then by M:

Rear View

Front View

And so the deed was done, with sobbing from E and a grim determination by mamma.

Front View

Rear View