February 2008

Due to March Break, Good Friday and Easter Monday, all three kids will only be in school for TWELVE DAYS in the entire month of March.

Pray for Mojo.

Today was Beach Day at Maymo’s school – something I was alerted to last night via a slip of paper tossed into his planner by the teacher.

This morning, in the usual chaos of trying to get everyone ready, it slipped my mind.

And so Maymo went to school in his normal clothing.

His teacher called me into the classroom today at pickup time to inquire as to whether or not I read Maymo’s planner every day. I reminded her that I sign it – every single day – to acknowledge that yes, in fact, I did know he played at the water table or whatever he did that’s worth scribbling in there.

Then, to add insult to injury, she asked me whether I’m “aware” of the home reading program. This would be the home reading program that requires me to ALSO sign a paper saying that Maymo and I read the crap book they sent in his backpack earlier in the week.

I have not missed more than one day of signing these things, by the way, and always check Maymo’s backpack the moment we arrive at home.

Now. I realize that Maymo’s teacher was probably not trying to make me feel bad about anything. She knows that Coffee and I are new to the school and the system. She also seems to be a nice enough woman in the general sense of things.

But hell, lady, there are days when I’m in awe that ANY of the kids make it to school – simply because we’ve only been doing this for 2 months and we’re trying to get five people READY in the morning and I’m SIGNING the damned books every time and doing the homework and if you want me to dress the kid up in THEMED OUTFITS you should probably give me more than a few hours’ notice.

OKAY?!

Middle One: Why did Maymo want his hair cut so short? Is William BALD?

Me: Not quite bald, no, but he does have very short hair.

Middle One: So the hair on his head is the same length as your mustache, Mom?

Me: Ummm…

..And then I remembered that we had a conversation a few days ago about how everyone’s body is covered – completely – in tiny little hairs. Some are visible and some are not and, during that conversation, it came up that yes, girls DO have mustaches but most of the time that hair is really short and light and you can’t see it.

I’m just going to go with that explanation and not rush out to buy ‘stache wax.

I am not sure, exactly, what Middle One had to do in order to win this award at school. He couldn’t seem to explain it beyond, “I’m the happy camper! I have to bring it back on Tuesday for the next kid, though.”

Either way, “Happy Camper” really sums up Middle One in general.

For a while now, Maymo’s hair has been getting longer and longer and longer. I’ve taken to calling him “that hippy kid” because, well, yeah. He insisted that he did NOT want to cut it shorter. He did NOT want it any way other than the way it was.. and, well, okay.

Two days ago he started talking about wanting his hair “like William”.

William is a kid in his school that Maymo doesn’t get along with in the slightest.

As best I can tell, they do not share the same perspective on things like “sharing” and “not hurting” and, so, Maymo has regularly hopped into the car at the end of class to announce, “I am NOT inviting William to my birthday because he is not nice!” or “I am inviting everyone at school to my birthday EXCEPT WILLIAM BECAUSE HE IS NOT NICE!”

Fine with me, kiddo.

When he began asking for hair “like William”, I leaned over and said, “But.. you don’t LIKE William!”

To which he dryly remarked, “I know, MOM, but I like HIS HAIR!”

So today I reluctantly broke out the clippers and the assorted attachments and took a leeeeetle bit of hair off of Maymo’s head.

He insisted he wanted MORE. LIKE WILLIAM.

William is pretty much bald. I could not bring myself to do that to Maymo so I kind of skirted around the issue and said that the way we were doing it would make him look BETTER than William.

I kept taking small bits off, adjusting the clippers to be shorter.. and shorter… while Maymo shouted, “SHORTER! SHOOOOORTER!”

Truthfully? Maymo now looks like he has The Mange. Or like he’s doing a bad impression of Chuck Liddell.

I am so glad he’s only 4 years old.

And he STILL looks cuter than that punk-ass William. SO THERE.

Eventually I’ll get around to posting this on the adoption list I’m part of, but in the meantime I’m wondering if any of you have suggestions for:

1. A book(s) with strategies to help “control freak” children. Please note that I am a (mostly) reformed control freak myself so I use the term with love – but also that I recognize the perils of being a control freak in a completely uncontrollable world. Ideally, this will be a book for parents, not kids (as our control freak does not see any problem with being a control freak and, of course, is totally not concerned about his future ulcers, insomnia or panic attacks..)

2. A book(s) with strategies to help kids deal with anger. This is not a big, scary, urgent thing going on here – but more a simmering anger in a kid that needs to learn some new coping skills. This book can be either FOR kids or for parents (I’m willing to do the work here!) and there is no specific subject that triggers the anger.

I’m going to bed now.

I know that we were grilled about the state of our sex life before we were permitted to adopt kids (no, really) but…

It REALLY makes me nervous to have naughty emails to/from my husband sitting right next to polite emails to our social worker.

Like I might accidentally hit “reply” to Coffee and have the entire thing skip up a line and our social worker, instead of an update on The Boys, will get an eye-full of words that are distinctly UN-Mommy-like and UN-Daddy-like.

Technology: Helping The Paranoid Keep It Real.

The kids – and me! – walk to school most days. It’s about 1.2km each way and we’ve now done that walk about 50 times since the boys moved in here.

Recently, Oldest One asked when I’d let them walk to school alone. Some of the older kids in the school walk by themselves – or in small groups – so it’s not an unreasonable question for him to ask.

As well, the school required a signed form (from Coffee and I) that allows the boys to walk home alone in the event of an emergency school closure. The school wouldn’t call home to alert us, so the boys would need to know how to make it back by themselves.

Yesterday I told the boys that I’d meet them one block away from school when the bell rang. Oldest One had decided that it would make sense for me to gradually meet them further and further from the school in order to help them learn the way home.

So, yesterday, they had to cross the street (with the crossing patrol guard) and then walk to the end of the block. I was within sight of the school.

They agreed – and said they’d stick together “just in case”.

Instead of cross the street and walking down the block, however, they crossed the street and kept walking straight. In a direction we had never, ever walked before.

And they got lost.

Meanwhile, I was standing at the meeting place with Little One, kicking snow and wondering what the hell was taking the older two so long to walk the one block.

Soon, the stream of kids exiting the school trickled down to almost nothing. And the panic hit me.

I ran (with Little One staggering behind me) and saw that the school was almost deserted. And there was no sign of the kids.

I retraced my steps to the end of the block. No sign of them.

Then I freaked right the hell out and, gripping Little One’s hand as tightly as possible, I started running toward home so I could get the car and start looking for the older boys.

Little One’s legs are short. There is no way I could get him to move fast enough on foot to find the boys.

But oh, he bitched the entire way about how he didn’t CARE if his brothers were lost and he didn’t CARE if they never came home and he didn’t LIKE that we were running and about how his legs HURT and he was mad.

I didn’t hear much of it because I was busy trying to figure out where the hell the older kids were and how they managed to miss the meeting space ONE BLOCK FROM SCHOOL.

When we came tearing down the hill near home, I saw them. Two boys, sobbing hysterically, waiting on the front porch of the house.

They were terrified. Totally, completely, and utterly terrified.

And I wasn’t in much better shape.

Little One was just perplexed.

We came inside and I hugged the boys much tighter than required as they cried and cried and cried.

And when they calmed down a bit, they ate cookies and drank pop and told me how they got from school to home (in a totally insane path that didn’t go anywhere NEAR the meeting spot).

I spent the rest of the evening feeling complete and utter guilt. How could I have let them get lost?

Good god. I am SO not cut out for the stress of this parenting thing.

And apparently I’m going to be the “clingy” parent now – the whole, “You don’t get to go ANYWHERE without me until you’re 45 years old” thing seems strangely appealing.