Guest Post by Miss Kate, Age 7.5

A Great Winter Braeck

HI! I am Kate and I am going to tell you about my winter break.

So it all steard in the airport. I was pulling my things so were my mom and dad. my sister was dansing  all about are feet. oh great. On the plane I playd  on the ornge ipone. before we  new it we were in NYC.

In NYC we were staing at or friends Mick and Lorn’s house.

My mom and dad took me and paige to FAO SHWOTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It was soooooo cool. Then we wint to American Girl and had a tea party with the dolls! It was sooooooo cool to!

I loved it in NYC! In NYC we wint on a horse dron carge ride. The horse’s name was Bruno like my grandpa and grandma’s dog!

After 2 days we wint on a bus to Bristol, RI. In Bristol we selberadit Christmas with my grandma and grandpa, thare dog Bruno, my Aunt Ellen and 2 casins and my Aunt Mrey, Uncal Jonh, and casins Rory and Jonh.

My sister thinks Christmas is geting not giving. Not rite.

IT SNODE WEN WE WERE THAR! I made a snow pup!

My Dad left bofor New Year and my mom and sister and me had New Year in Bristol too.

On or last day we wint ice sckading! I loved it! It was my first time. My sister did not go on the ice. It was silly. Ice sckating was her iday! But she is going to try agin.

So that was my winter brack!

The end.

Post Election Wrap-Up

Last night as the networks reported poll results from Ohio, Wisconsin, and Florida, monitored the Senate race, and Vanna-Whited high-tech color-blocked maps, I know what you were thinking. This is all very interesting, but what I really want to know is what’s happening at the McClusky house on Election Day.

Thankfully I’m here to tell you. (Although my infographics aren’t very impressive.)

Our day started early. Painfully early. At 5:30AM, in fact, when Kate—excited by the prospect of coming with us to vote before going to school—ran through the house turning on all the lights. This was followed by Mark bellowing just inches from my ear, “BACK TO BED, Kate! It is 5:30 in the morning!!”

At 6AM—around when we might have dozed off again—Paige banged open our bedroom door like she was walking into a Wild West saloon. “Is it time to do voting yet?”

Oy. Remind me never to hype an early morning activity to the children again.

I crawled into bed with Paige in the slim hope that we’d get a few more minutes of shut-eye. No luck. Instead I heard her four-year-old commentary on the presidential front-runners. “I want Brock Obama to win today, but then after he takes a turn I want Matt Romney to win.”

Yes, Matt.

At breakfast Kate channeled her Election Day excitement into sign-making. (She’s big on signage for our front door, as well as greeting cards for nearly every occasion.)

Some highlights from her rabidly enthusiastic, grammatically-challenged signs:

“Go! Oboma! Go! Go!”

“I [heart] Oboma xoxo”

“Goob luck Obomo! xoxo”

“Oboma Peawr!”

I don’t know about you, but I think these are all very peawrful messages. Looks like somebody might have a future in politics.

At our neighborhood polling center—a Korean Methodist church—two lines were formed. Depending on the street you live on you were shunted into Line A or Line B to vote. The girls waited patiently, waved to various neighbors and friends, and were stoked to each get an “I Voted” sticker.

On the walk home Kate skipped through the leaves and trilled, “I reeeeeally hope Obama wins!” Paige reached for my hand and asked, “Is Obama Line A or Line B?”

I’m so happy she’s grasped the two party system.

At the end of the day we got an email from the preschool. Turns out the political banter continued throughout the day. The teachers shared a snippet of a conversation they overheard on the playground.

Paige: My mommy is Mrs. Claus and Matt Romney is on the bad list. [She's referring to my Halloween costume, the dear.]

Annie: I want Obama.

Connor: I’m Bock Obama.

Miles: And I’m Mitt Romney.

Annie: I’m gonna choose who wins. You have to talk a lot. You are on the TV.  Now I’m gonna choose who wins. Eeeny-meeny-miny-mo. Obama wins. Here’s your trophy!

Miles: No fair! I want a trophy!

Paige: Now I’m gonna pick who wins. Miles! Here’s your trophy!

Annie: My brother wants Mitt Romney to win. But he’s disgusting. Like throw-up.

Ah, good stuff. You’d NEVER guess that these kids were at a progressive preschool in Berkeley, would you?

The teachers’ email went on to report, “Everyone in our class voted on a ballot and decided who they wanted to be our next president. Ballots went into a voting box. At our afternoon meeting, we counted each vote, made a tally and determined a winner. It was a landslide, folks. Obama: 25. Romney: 0.”

Move over Nate Silver. Paigey’s preschool is nipping at your heels.

And who knows, Paige’s personal prediction might also come true. Maybe Matt Romney will be the president in 2016. Whoever the hell he is.

Control Freak Mom

I admit it. I had three different costumes this Halloween. And I’m not including the ones I made for the kids. I personally had three. There was the Mrs. Claus, the Preppie, and the Haunted Housewife.

I mean, it’s not like I spent gadzooks of time on the last two—those were sort of quick throw-togethers when I got sick of the unwieldy, uncomfortable Santa dress. Let’s just say the fur-cuffed fashion from the North Pole is a bit toasty given the Bay Area’s balmy fall temps.

But the fact is that no matter which of the costumes I wore this Halloween, it was the Control Freak Mom that I was really rocking. On the inside at least. And you can’t blame me. It’s not like I like being Control Freak Mom, it’s more that my judgment-challenged children force me into the role.

Though I did do what I’d call an impressive job of shoving Control Freak Mom down down down and outta sight. I guess you could say I managed to control my inner control freak.

Man, I’d be soooo good at therapy.

Anyway, take the pumpkin patch preschool field trip. (God help me.) Of all ten kazillion pumpkins at her disposal my darling Paige lovingly picked a dented, scratched-up little number with no stem. No freakin’ stem AT ALL.

And I’m telling you, someone would be hard pressed to find a crappy looking pumpkin amidst all the perfectly round, fresh-skinned gourds in the place. They’re genetically engineering pristine pumpkins these days. They practically have those carving kit stencil cut-lines already on them.  Paige had to look long and hard to find THE WORST pumpkin in that epic field of pumpkin perfection.

She hugged that thing fiercely like she’d found a Cartier tank watch in a hay bale. And instead of asking her why the hell she wasn’t going to pick a GOOD pumpkin, I just smiled weakly and took her picture.

SEE what a good mother I can be?

With the girls’ costumes I also had to suppress the Perfectionist Creative Director Control Freak in me. Though Kate did well deciding to be an Olympic gold medal runner. As a veteran of the newsy-timely costume myself, I thought her choice was a strong one. (Clearly something I passed along in the genes.) She had the running shoes, the little track skirt, a race number, and of COURSE a medal. But she needed the U.S. flag around her shoulders—right?! THAT makes it the perfect costume.

She was willing to drape the thing there briefly so her Obsessive About Photo Documentation Mother could take some pics. But after our extensive shoot (which DIDN’T make us late for the Halloween parade this year, thankyouverymuch) she tossed the flag aside and said breezily, “Yeah, I’m not taking that.”

WHAT?!? It is ALL ABOUT the flag with that costume.

But you know, I just folded that damn flag up all nice and popped it back in the bag to return to Target. Bless their flexible return policies.

Paigey was a mail carrier. Though it took several semantic attempts for her to settle on that term. When asked what she was going to be she knew Mail Man was all wrong. This is a gal who freaks out when you compliment her cowboy boots. “They are cow GIRL boots,” she’ll correct. So she told folks she was being a “mail girl.” This had gender-bendy San Franciscans thinking, “A male girl? Oh, nice idea, honey.”

She had the pith helmet, the blue shorts with the marching-band-like stripe down the leg, the U.S. Postal Service light blue shirt. I even bought her a pocket chain for her mail box keys and geeky black knee socks that totally rocked. But every time Kate and I suggested she have a stuffed dog biting her in the butt Paige started to cry.

Why you would ever CRY at such a brilliant suggestion is beyond me. It’s like sometimes I don’t even think the children find obsessively perfecting their costumes the highest calling in their lives. And yet, they expect me to be seen trick-or-treating with them.

Life can be so unfair. But you know what? Since I didn’t think a crying mail girl with a stuffed dog on her ass would be very in-character, I dropped the whole matter.

Let them pick crappy pumpkins! Let them have their costumes the way THEY want them to look. Whatever.

I don’t know, maybe if my kids and I were from the same generation they’d understand me better. Of course, I realize that by nature of the fact that I’m their mother this same-generation concept is an impossible dream. I mean, I’m not an idiot.

But at Kate’s school parade this notion really hit me. I was in my Haunted Housewife costume. You know—June Cleaver wig, gingham dress, tray of cookies right out of the oven, fake blood dripping from my mouth and eye sockets.

A girl tugged on my arm and asked me, “Kate’s mom, what are you supposed to be?”

I smiled lovingly at the little dear, leaned down and cooed in my best smooth mama voice, “A haunted housewife, honey.”

“Oh,” she said thinking. “Like, you mean, a haunted-house wife? Like… the wife of a haunted house?”

The poor lamb had never heard the term housewife. Which made me assume that “homemaker” would also be lost on her. She’d probably construe that to be some kind of residential architect.

Which wouldn’t be all that bad really, but of course I’d need to be carrying some AutoCAD drawings for that costume. Duh.

Not Feelin’ It

Halloween is like black licorice. You either love it or hate it.

Me? I loooooooove Halloween. It’s the attention-seeker’s favorite holiday. The one time of year when you can unapologetically dress to elicit attention. You get to be creative. Plus there’s candy. And jack-o-lanterns. And cinnamony, nutmeggy, pumpkiny foods.

And did I mention the attention part?

Junior year in college I lived with a family in France. The mother was in her forties. Super young-looking, fashionable, and pretty. And she was a maniac extrovert. When my friends would come over she’d run around opening wine (as if we needed encouragement), cranking music, and dragging the furniture to the side of the room to get us dancing.

Her teen-aged daughter would be cowering in the corner. She was painfully, hideously shy.

Our parenting days were light years away, but my friends said, “That is SO going to be you and your kid some day, Kristen.” (They called this up to me while I was dancing on the couch.)

Weirdly, neither of my girls has retreated like a threatened snail in the wake of their mother’s extroversion. In fact, Miss Kate, my oldest, holds her own quite well. She’s one of the youngest in her class, but as other parents have commented, “You’d never know it.” I think that’s code for, “She’s all  in your grill with the sass and spunk you’d expect from a much older kid.”

Or maybe they’re just referring to her mad reading skillz.

Anyway, it turns that I’m worried about Little Miss Self Esteem. On the one hand she’s so socially bulletproof. She went from camp to camp one summer without knowing a soul, and without batting an eyelash. She was the only girl in an animation class with 19 boys. And she was totally un-phased.

She’ll happily let anyone babysit for her. (I should take advantage of that and work a deal with some homeless folks.) She’s independent, confident, funny, and a good big sister—90% of the time.

She blew away her preschool teachers by asking if she could lead Circle Time. Apparently no kid’s ever done that, and her teachers ended up handing her the Circle Time reigns a bunch. (“Today,” she’d report, “I led the kids in some yoga poses and we sang a song about snowflakes.”)

These days as a big second-grader she volunteers at Paige’s preschool reading to the children and leading art projects that she comes up with on her own.

My Kate is the future Most Likely to Succeed.

And yet I’m fretting about all the things she isn’t doing. It’s not that I want her to do more. It’s not that she’s disappointing me in any way. It’s that there are things that I know she wants to do that she isn’t doing.

And it’s all because of clothes.

You may’ve seen me write about this here before. Kate hates clothes. She’s not a nudist, just a super-sensitive kid who can’t stand the feel of seams, stiff fabric, sewn-on decals, and zippers.

We’ve gone through phases with this. As a baby it seemed non-existent, but somewhere along the way she forsook pants for dresses. She whittled her wardrobe down to a handful of acceptable well-washed, worn out, super-soft cotton clothes.

She saw an OT a couple years ago and we brushed her and did some other exercises to desensitize her skin. It seemed to work. A bit, I mean. Even just learning other kids have this problem helped us all.

But it’s far from behind her. I’ll nearly forget about it, then she’ll need new shoes and I’ll realize how not-normal this behavior is that we’ve become so accustomed to.

So we started with another OT this fall. A well-respected woman who’s in walking distance of our house. She gave us some new insights and exercises, and already Kate seems to feel some things are easier. She recently wore a long-rejected shirt that Mark had bought her on a business trip. We nearly fainted when she walked into the kitchen with it on.

At school the other day I caught the end of her P.E. class. She was wearing a red vest along with her teammates. I was thrilled. We went shoe shopping a few days later and to my shock she picked out a pair of tall leather boots.

Things like these are victories. Totally unprecedented stuff.

So, what’s the problem? What I’m worried about is all the things she doesn’t want to do because of an outfit or uniform or some kind of gear.

She used to love ballet. Everyone else wore tutus and tights and slippers. Katie was in a baggy cotton dress, barefoot. This was fine with her teacher, but somewhere along the line from toddler to first-grader Kate decided ballet wasn’t her thing.

She adored choir until the performances last spring where I had to coax her into her uniform while drugging her with TV. This year she quit choir after one rehearsal.

She still has training wheels on her bike since she can’t tolerate a helmet.

And she’s expressed interest in horseback riding and theater, but admitted that the required clothes or costumes made those things a no-go.

I also think she’d love Halloween, but—in my mama brain at least—she sees it as a day when she’ll have to wear something other than her four soft-and-cozy skirts or her three approved cotton shirts. Dressing up is anxiety-provoking. What’s fun about that?

A few weeks ago I’d just about decided that we’d put her in therapy. In addition to the OT, I mean. Might as well come at this from every angle, right? My dad and I had a long phone conversation about this and he agreed it was a good idea. Let’s hit this thing with a hammer.

But a chat with her pediatrician later that day had me reconsidering.

“Is she doing okay socially?” he asked.

“Yeah, totally,” I said. No-brainer to that.

You’ll go through two or three years when she’ll say no to things, the doc said. But you have to trust that she’ll pull out of it. Eventually there’ll be something she wants to do badly enough that she’ll be willing to wear whatever she has to for it.

Putting her in therapy, he contended, will just solidify this as a big issue in her mind. It could make it even harder to shake.

I called my dad to discuss this new perspective. And we agreed that it made sense too.

Oy! What to do?

It’s hard to resist that modern-day reflex to throw as many resources and specialists at a problem as possible. Especially when that problem relates to your sweet young child. Isn’t being a good parent about removing whatever roadblocks prevent your kid from being their best selves?

I said that to a friend the other day who replied, “Or maybe it’s about letting them remove those barriers themselves.”

For now at least I’m back-burnering the therapy idea. Mark agrees. Let’s focus on OT now and see what comes of that.

So then, time to hone my maternal patience skills. Time to sit on my hands when I see Kate yearn to do something that she ultimately decides against because some part of it won’t feel good. Time to sit back and appreciate all the dazzling things that Kate IS doing, instead of fretting over what she’s not.

And time to go put the finishing touches on my own Halloween costume.

Happy Halloween, y’all.

A friend emailed me a link to this excellent short video. (Thank you, Melanie!)
My husband and I related to so so much of it. In fact, Mark said it made him cry.
Check it out, yo.

The Emperor’s New Onesie from Hillary Frank on Vimeo.

Ramona’s World

Yesterday Kate and I finished the last of the Ramona books by Beverly Cleary. And today I am despondent.

I mean, it’s not like I couldn’t get out of bed this morning or anything. But I am feeling sad about going cold turkey on my escape into the wonderfully sweet, simple, pre-cell-phone world of the Quimby family.

Sure there were eight books in all, and it’s not like there aren’t a zillion other Beverly Cleary classics that we could move on to. But is it so wrong to want one more? Ms. Cleary IS still alive you know. Kate and I learned this from our obsessive fan-girl Googling of her. She’s 96 years young. Writing another Ramona book seems like the purrrrrfect little project for her twilight years, dontcha think? After I post this I plan to write her a large-print letter entreating her to bang out one–or two, if possible–additional Ramona reads. Even if it is from her oxygen tent.

Anyway, this thing with me and kid lit isn’t new. I’ve wanted to crawl inside the pages of other books I read to the girls too. Like, I can’t lay eyes on an Angelina Ballerina book without yearning to live in one of the cute-as-a-button cottages in the darling British village Angelina calls home. Who knew mice had such a knack for interior decor?

I want to hang out with Lyle the Crocodile‘s human mother, drinking tea in their Tiffany-lamp-filled New York brownstone. Or maybe I want to be in her book club… Okay, both. I mean, at first blush she seems a bit, well… prim, but I can sense a mother who likes to let her hair down from a mile off. My guess is Mrs. Primm can PAR-tay.

And who hasn’t wanted to go sledding or binge on cookies with Frog and Toad? And don’t get me started on the uber-wholesome, aspiring journalist Kit Kittredge. Is that girl a doll or what?

Despite my obvious tendency toward literary daydreaming, the Ramona books gripped me in an especially acute way. First off, they’re incredibly realistic—parents fight, kids squirt the entire tube of toothpaste into the sink, pets die at inopportune times, money is tight. Nearly all these things have happened to me. Or, at least, they should have. Or will. Though in no way do I mean that to be a death wish on Karen, our beloved pet fish. (We luv you, Karen!!! Don’t you go belly up any time soon, ya hear?)

The Ramona series also harkens back to a time that’s immensely appealing in its simplicity. At least for this over-scheduled, gadget-laden, private-school-tuition-payin’ urban mama.  No fussing with car seats.  Hell—no seat belts even! No driving kids to school. Kids walked there, alone–even kindergartners! Even on the first day!

These days if you don’t take a film crew to the smallest school event the other parents consider calling you into CPS for neglect.

In Ramona-ville there’s no hiring a babysitter when you can just drop the kids at the park while you run errands. (Brilliant!) And dinners out—those rare special occasions—don’t present the family with the challenging decision about Indian versus Thai, or the new macrobiotic raw food cafe that everyone’s talking about. Dinners out are at the Whopper Burger. Nearly always it seems. And ordering a pizza is an indulgence—not something the mom does whenever she’s exhausted, has no food in the house, or got a little liquored up with another mother at a playdate then suddenly realized it was dinner time. (Not that any of those things have ever happened to me.)

While I’m at it, has anyone else wondered whether Ramona’s big sis Beezus was, um, un-planned? Not that I CARE, but as I understood it the dad never finished college because Beezus came along. Hence, being relegated to a purgatory-like career working at a grocery store (and if THAT’S not the most valuable lesson in the whole series, I don’t know what is. Finish college kids or be banished to a lifetime of complaining about people who sneak extra items into the express check-out lane. It’s no way to live.).

Also, as far as I could tell, Ramona’s parents were about half my age. I mean, I think when I was their age I was still ordering shots of Jagermeister at bars and trying to get cops to let me wear their hats so I could win bets with my friends. (Oh, don’t judge me, people.) Anyway, at that same age Mr. and Mrs. Quimby were making costumes for their TWO kids for a church Christmas pageant. It’s like they totally missed the whole Sex in the City era of their lives. I don’t think they even HAD that step in the adult maturation process back in those days. It’s sad, really. But also, kind of quaint.

Anyway, I’m just not ready for the story to be over. Is it so wrong for me to want to watch Ramona navigate the complex social waters of running for freshman class president? To want to know the exact series of mishaps that led to her waking up late on the morning of her SATs? To be a fly on the wall when she makes out with a girl in college in for the first time?

Beverly Cleary, are you listening??

A couple years ago one of our excellent neighbors (who was not a father at the time), told me (admiringly, I think) that Kate reminded him of Ramona Quimby. I had to confess that I didn’t get the reference. I may well have read the Ramona books when I was a kid, but one of the upsides of my terrible memory is that books and movies seem totally new the second time around. I’m the one on the couch with my husband watching The Godfather and shushing him if he opens his mouth, “Don’t spill the beans!”

Anyway, I don’t remember if I had to look up who Ramona was or if my neighbor ended up telling me. (SEE how bad my memory is? I was not at all lying about it.) But now, at long last, I understand what he was saying.

Some parents might not see the comparison between their daughter and Ramona Quimby as a compliment. Ramona wasn’t always—how to say it?—focused on the kinds of things most other kids were. But me? I’m flattered. I love it. I embrace the association wholeheartedly.

But if the same neighbor starts referring to Paige as “The Beaver,” that’s where I’m going to draw the line.

Choir Quitter

Kate quit choir. (Try saying that five times fast.)

She’d joined a community youth choir last spring—a pretty well-known group where the older kids get to travel once a year and have cross-cultural experiences with singer nerds from other countries. Aside from voice training, she was learning how to read music and studying something called “music theory,” whatever that is.

Growing up my family prided itself on its deeply-rooted musical ineptitude. Mark, on the other hand, can play several instruments and was also a choir geek back in the day. He hauled out some old cassette tapes when Kate started last year and filled the house at high decibels with crackling recordings of his past performances. Kate would run home from rehearsals to sing him the new songs she’d learned and show off the sheet music in her binder.

It all seemed like such good clean fun.

But aside from all the “it’s good for you like broccoli” reasons for Kate to be in choir, Mark and I just wanted her to have a special thing that she’d get good at and stick with. Whatever that was.

My friend Sydney was a figure skater when we were kids. She went to a rink out on Route 6 for private lessons.  It wasn’t some after-school elective our other friends did. This was her own thing. She even had performances where she got to wear bee-yoo-tiful pastel outfits—and make-up. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who was jealous that Sydney had a weird special talent. Something that was just hers, that she was good at.

So, Kate quitting choir sent Mark and me into a tailspin.

Now, I don’t shy away from parental challenges. I was happy to strong-arm Kate into continuing. I figured that if I did it could well be something she’d thank me for some day. It’s not first-nature to me, but I guess I’m a Wanna-be Tiger Mom. Or at the very least, I like to direct the course of my children’s activities (that’s a euphemism for being a control freak). And having my twerpy seven-year-old resist my well-laid plans rubbed me the wrong way.

But how do you drag a crying second grader out of a car, thrust her into a building, and make her sing? The day of her second rehearsal this fall she decided she was just not going. The conductor this year was strict. She didn’t like the songs. She was tired from her longer school days. And, she proclaimed, she was not going to get out of the car.

She’d promised us she’d go to try it out at least three times this year. We figured she just needed to get back in the groove. But it turned out she only made it there once.

So we had a family meeting. Or Mark and I at least tried to be all Brady Bunch formal about the somber-toned, sitting-on-the-couch discussion we had with her. Oh we were disappointed. Oh she had not held up her end of the deal. But here’s the thing—we were going to let her pick something else. Something she was interested in. Something she could stick with.

That, by the way, was Mark’s idea. My inner “course-director” was not keen on giving her free reign. I wanted to point her towards some classically character-enriching activity so she could, you know, perform for our dinner party guests. At least in my alternate fantasy life.

But I also thought about those kids who have some weird fondness for, like, the tuba. Perhaps there was something she cottoned to and would want to pursue without any urging from us. I do not need to repeat that parking lot meltdown any time soon.

We gave her some time to think, and a couple days later she came to me and simply said, “Horses.” Not “I want to learn how to ride,” just “horses.” Whatever the hell that meant.

I confess. I was ready to dismiss the idea summarily. I know the horse-hugger girl type, but that was never me as a kid. And I guess I can’t easily rally behind something I don’t really get. But I resisted putting the kibosh on it. If Mark’s plan to let Kate pick something was going to work, I needed to kick aside my inner control freak.

So I checked with some mama friends who’d sent their kids to camp at a local horse ranch. And get this: It turns out the place has a class called Fun with Horses. It’s not riding—it’s learning about things like how to teach horses tricks, what they like to eat, how to brush and care for the beasts. The kids even get to braid the horses’ manes, which did sound like some form of crack for Kate.

This is why I love the Bay Area. Your kid wants to take “horses” and it turns out there actually is such a class.

She starts in two weeks. After that we’ll consider whether she wants to move onto riding lessons, although Kate’s clothing sensitivities have her currently unenthusiastic about that. Suffice it to say that the kid who can only tolerate wearing a handful of old, well-worn cotton clothes is not keen on the idea of tight, seam-laden jodhpurs, stiff tall boots, and a helmet.

And unless we win the lottery, that’s frankly okay with me. I’ve had several parents look at me wild-eyed when I mentioned Kate’s interest in horses. “The cost!” they bellowed. “The time commitment! The travel! The begging for a horse of their own!”

Oh, and did they mention the cost?!

Maybe the thing Kate’s about to stick with and get good at isn’t gymnastics, or singing, or even horseback riding. Maybe it’ll be mucking stalls and horse hair-dos. And unless I want to drag her screaming from the car into some class she isn’t keen on, until her fascination with the clarinet naturally emerges I guess I’ll just have to make peace with that.

Have you wrangled with your kid’s extracurricular activities?  (Please tell me I’m not alone.) What’s your take on it all?

Lucky Number Seven

I used to have a flat stomach. I even got cat-called about it once. I was on a beach in Cancun and some dude walked by and shouted something at me in Spanish. My sister told me that plano meant flat, and explained he was referring to my midsection.

I honestly haven’t thought much about that incident—though I realize that mentioning it now, years later, does seem somewhat tragic. These days someone would be more likely to use the word plano to describe my nursed-two-babies boobies.

Anyway, seven years ago I gave up that tidbit of flat-stomach glory when I grew a little human in my body. When it came out we named it Kate. And even though I can’t rock a bikini like I used to, she was totally worth it.

At least most days I think so.

Every once and I while I see the full length of that girl in the bathtub and realize how damn big she’s gotten since that day they plunked her on the hospital scale like she was a quarter-pound of Black Forest ham I was buying at the deli counter at Safeway.

She’s grown in other ways too. Much of this Big Girl maturity has taken place this year. Like, ask her a question about school, and she gets this pursed-lip smile and tucks her hair behind her ears. Then she does that wretched California-girl up-speaking thing, where everything she says sounds like a question.

“My teacher? His name is Rick? And he’s soooo great. He’s got this pug? Named Nadia? And he takes it on field trips with us! Nadia. Is. So. Cute.”

At Kate’s sixth birthday we had a backyard bash with a magician who looked like Magnum P.I. He did tricks with silk scarves and colored balls and a big stunt hairbrush that made the kids giggle. He pretended to botch his routine which slayed the kids.

This year Kate restricted the guest list to her besties—three girls. Using pink netting, rugs, and overstuffed chairs we set up an outdoor nail spa where they mani-pedied each other. They drank sparkling cider from plastic champagne flutes and nibbled chocolate-dipped strawberries.

No scarves were stuffed in tubes and turned into stuffed animals. The word pinata was never uttered.

For her family celebration we went to an old timey ice cream shop for burgers and sundaes. Another twerp had a birthday there that night too. When the wait staff gathered around him, rang a cow bell, then bellowed to the place to sing “Happy Birthday,” my seven-year-old super-extrovert slunk deep in her chair.

“DO NOT,” she said clutching my arm, “let them do that to me.”

It seems that someone is becoming a bit self-conscious. Or just more self-aware.

Of course, she’s still happy to strip down at the beach to put on her swimsuit. (And would happily stay naked if I let her.) She’s still doll-crazy, throws tantrums, happily holds hands with her parents, and has to sleep with certain stuffed animals every night.

But she’s also fascinated by make-up, has a crush on her classmate Nathan (who IS quite cute), and is begging desperately to get her ears pierced.

I’m in no hurry for my little girl to grow up, but like it or not, she IS taking up more space in the bathtub as the years go by. I can’t wait to see where this lucky seventh year will take her.

In keeping with tradition, I interviewed Kate on her birthday. Unlike last year, I even did it pretty close to the actual day.

Here’s that chat:

Me: Do you feel different now that you’re seven?
Kate: No. I don’t feel different.

Me: What is the biggest difference between first and second grade?
Kate: Second grade you get homework. And you have to be picked up later.

Me: What do you like most about school?
Kate: I think I like… P.E.
Me: Why?
Kate: Our coach. He’s very silly and loves to play around like I do.

Me: What do you like to do most when you aren’t in school?
Kate: I like to work in my science lab.
Me: What do you do there?
Kate: I am working on making paint without chemicals in it. [She IS?! This is excellent news. Mark: Retire now. WE'RE RICH!]

Me: If a genie could grant you only one wish, what would it be?
Kate: To have an American Girl mansion.

Me: Where do you think you’ll live when you grown up?
Kate: I think I’ll live in this exact house because I love it so much.

Me: Who do you think you will live with?
Kate: I don’t know. Oh—a dog!

Me: Do you think you will want to have children?
Kate: Yeah. But I don’t want to go to college. Wait, don’t write that down. I just don’t want you to write that down. [Sorry I couldn't help it. She didn't say anything about it being "off the record." I'm running out right now to spend our college savings on shoes.]

Me: Who is your best friend and why do you like them?
Kate: My beset friend’s Lily because she’s really nice.

Me: What do you think are the biggest problems in the world today?
Kate: I don’t know. Maybe homework because it’s my first day today.
Me: Your first day of homework?
Kate: Yeah, it could be super hard.

Me: What do you think you are an expert on?
Kate: Um… I think making little perfumes. Actually I think–ART! Yesterday I made some really—we were using air-dry clay in art and I made a really beautiful face and gave it to the teacher.

Me: What do you want to learn more about?
Kate: I want to learn more about how all the oak trees came here in Oakland and who ate the first avocado. Me and Alden both want to learn who ate the first avocado.

Me: What have you done that you’re really proud of?
Kate: Well, I think helping a third grader read a word.
Me: Do you remember what the word was?
Kate: It was “exasperating.”

Me: What do you want to be when you grow up?
Kate: I want to be [long pause] a guitarist.
Me: Tell me about that.
Kate: I just think it would be fun because my dad was a guitarist when he was younger and at school I asked [my teacher] Paula what she wanted to be when she was younger and she said she wanted to be a teacher like her parents. And her parents really helped her to get along in the world if she copied them.

Me: What is your favorite thing about yourself?
Kate: [smiling, pauses] I don’t know. I’m good at a lot of things but I don’t know…

Me: What songs are special to you?
Kate: Songs that I’ve performed in plays. Like “Sounds a Little Fishy to Me” and “The Great Kapok Tree.”

Me: What books are special to you?
Kate: Ramona.

Me: If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go?
Kate: Mexico. Actually… Australia.
Me: Why?
Kate: It just sounds like an interesting place to visit.

Me: If you could have any super power what would it be?
Kate: Being a friend to animals.

Me: What are you most afraid of?
Kate: Black Widows.

Me: What makes you happiest?
Kate: When I spend time with my friends.

Me: Is there anything else I should be asking you for this interview?
Kate: When I was four you asked me if I thought I would have a boyfriend which was really freaky to me.
Me: Yeah, I took that question out this year.

Slugs and Snails and Puppy Dogs’ Tails

During my first pregnancy I was convinced I was having a boy. I was of “advanced maternal age” so I had tons of testing, prodding, and scanning. Through it all I never wanted the doctors to tell me the gender of the baby.

Because I knew anyway. I mean, I was having a boy.

If I weren’t so convinced on my own, my notion was confirmed by everyone whose paths I crossed. A coworker accosted me in the office bathroom investigating the color of the veins in my arms (green not blue). My drycleaner clucked over the shape of my belly. And my pulse kept no secrets from my massage therapist. They all agreed: boy, boy, boy.

When that baby finally finally emerged—9 days late, 4 1/2 hours of pushing and one C-section later (though who’s counting)—Mark took one look at it and said, “It’s a… girl?” As if he wasn’t quite sure he could believe it himself.

With Baby #2, same routine. I was at that point an even OLDER mother. I was tested ad nauseum (pun intended). And despite how handy folks insisted it would be for us to know whether we should  let go of or launder all of Kate’s girl clothes, we were steadfast in not knowing the kid’s gender ’til birth.

Besides, we KNEW it was a boy. (Ahem.)

Enter Paige Victoria.

Clearly our daughters were setting us up for a lifetime of pulling fast ones. Yes, the unpredictability of women is something I always reveled in personally, like some license to live impulsively and erratically. Until I became the mother of two girls.

A couple weeks ago while in the car—the setting for ALL awkward questions, right?—Kate said, “So Daddy said he wanted to have a boy.”

Oh, MARK. You and your honesty. Some day, when it’s much too late, I will teach that spouse of mine to lie to the children.

I nervously looked in the rear view mirror at Kate and said, “Well, no. Well… yes, Dad did. Well, I wanted— I mean, you know? When you’re having a baby all you really want is a healthy kiddo. We love having two girls. We couldn’t imagine it any other way.”

In fact, I was scared to death of the thought of a having a boy. Me, the youngest of four girls. What does one DO with boys? How does one play with boys? What do boys even wear? (The first thought that comes to mind is Toughskins, but I’m guessing they don’t even make those any more.)

For a while my oldest sister wiped her toddler-son’s boy parts with toilet paper. This, the innocent mistake of a woman who’d never encountered the task before. Then my brother-in-law passed by the bathroom one day and caught her in the act. He sighed, intercepted, closed the door, and showed my nephew the ropes, boy style.

Later, when my sis would grab T.P. by force of habit my nephew would bellow, “NO! Daddy says SHAKE it!”

Who knew “shaking” was part of the male tinkling process? For all I know, you probably don’t even say “tinkle” when you’re a boy.

One of the best parts of our summer in Rhode Island was spending time with my glorious friend Story. She is as lovely, creative, and unique as that most-excellent name of hers implies. Plus she’s an uh-mazing cook—even with this raw food kick she’s on.

While I was making girl babies on the West Coast, Story was populating the East Coast with boys. With two boys, that is. But when you consider the size of Rhode Island, that’s nearly impressive.

Anyway, one day last month when we were at Story’s hipster house, her boys were outside playing with plastic machetes of some sort while my girls were clinging to us in the kitchen like mewling kittens. After lunch Story promised to show Kate her craft studio, an oasis of fabulous vintage fabrics, various paints and papers, and nests of knitting stuff. A bunch of her tote bags and pillows were lying around and I made a fair number of if-you’re-looking-for-someone-to-give-this-to kinda requests.

Kate was in HEAVEN. She was wide-eyed, running her hand down the project table like it was the fender of a cherry red Porsche. I could’ve left her there for months and she wouldn’t have even noticed I was gone.

In a reverential whisper she asked Story, “Could we—could I—do some watercolor paint?”

Next scene is Kate set up in an adirondack chair in their large lovely yard, painting en plein air. Paige is tootling around the vegetable garden spritzing the veggies and flowers with a spray bottle. And Story is on their heels with her camera, capturing every second.

Me? I’m on the hammock with Story’s two boys. Not ON it, necessarily—more like hanging on it. We’re taking turns pushing each other, wicked hard. We’re giving that hammock a work-out, cushions flying, stomachs churning, and shouting, “HARDER!” as we clutched the rope mesh (and each other) for dear life. Every once and a while a plastic light saber gets in on the action causing Story to look up from Kate’s butterfly painting to yell cautions to her youngest.

But we are FINE. Better than fine. In fact, I’m making a mental note to schedule more roughhousing in my life.

Last week was my friend Mary’s son’s b-day. You know, Mary who did the awesome guest post on her summers in Maine. I am SO BAD at buying presents for boys. I have no idea what boys like. All I know is Star Wars and Legos, but any Legos set that seems worth giving is far outside my birthday budget.

Mary’s son was turning seven. Seven, seven, seven, I thought. The fake electric guitar we got him last year will be hard to top.

Then it struck me–what every young boy wants and every mother fears: a SKATEBOARD. As we picked it out at the store I texted Mary. “Don’t be mad at me for what I’m getting Will.”

And thankfully, she wasn’t. Which is good because, for the record, I really only ever wanted to have girls, but every once and I while I still like to invoke my role in the village and pitch in on raising my friends’ sons. Or at the very least, do some roughhousing with them.

Wat I Did on My Summr Vacashin, by Kate

We’re back from our epic, excellent, six-week trip to the East Coast.

We spent time in five states, saw dozens of friends, had one car get hit and another break down, and—despite what my friend Drew thinks—attended only one parade. But it was a doozy.

My father and his wife should get blood transfusions to revive themselves after the tantrums, food fights, sibling spats, and other appalling behavior we exhibited while under their roof. And I wish their cleaners luck removing all the sand we dragged in.

The girls ate three things all summer: hot dogs, carrots, and ice cream. A couple times they had corn. Me? I lugged my juicer everywhere and obsessively counted my steps with my FitBit.

We visited the town library A LOT, and leathered up our skin from many long days at the beach.

So much more happened, but I’ve got a cold and I’m cranky and I’m on Day 30—yes, THIRTY—of solo parenting. So I did what any self-respecting, lazy-ass mother would do: I had my kid do it. Which is to say, I asked my six-year-old, Kate, to come up with a post on our summer vacation.

She LOVED the idea. She’s told every person who’s called our house, every friend we’ve seen, our fish and our mailman that she’s going to be featured here. So this decision was also a good PR move.

Kate wrote this herself (on paper first) and picked out all the photos. Keep in mind she’s at a groovy progressive school where phonetic spelling reigns supreme. As do exclamation points, apparently.

I got a shot of her entering some last-minute edits. She’s already asked me how old you have to be to have your own blog. So look out world.

Wat I Did on My Summr Vacashin, by Kate 

I love sumrre! It rocks!

I wint to Bristol! My sister Paige ate a lot of donuts.

I saw the 4th ov Joliye prad! There wre horsis ther. It wus loooooooong! The bands wer asam!

I have a unckl hoo is a dog. He is so cut! His name is Bruno.

In Cape Code it was fun. We wint on a bote cold Bristol Girl! It wus fun!!!!! We saw seals. Thay wre cyot!

We wint to to Broklin. I got a doll. A Amarukin Girl Doll. My frend gav it to me!

We wint on a long driv to Vrginya! Ther we wint to a weding. The brid wus byotefll!

My grandma gave me a french brade.

I lost 2 teeth. I got a silvr dolr!

We wnt to Cunnetecot. Thear we wnt toobing.

My hayr trnd green from a pool! It looks bettar now.

We had a grate sumre!

The Name Game

On the brink of my eighth year of marriage I’ve discovered the key component of successful matrimony: that both parties find stupid, ongoing jokes hi-larious.

This is what it is like in my marriage. There are things that are so horrendously obtuse–absurd things that we’ve joked about for years—that we still laugh wine out of our noses about. Yes, it’s the spewing of wine from our nasal cavities–a sort of pinot noir neti pot cleansing—that keeps our love alive.

That, and we both hate mushrooms.

Anyway, one of the things we find freakin’ side-splitting has to do with names. And pretending we regret what we named our girls whenever we hear another, well… ‘noteworthy’ name.

Of course, the names don’t even need to be first names. Anything ridiculous will do.

Take last night. Had we been watching the Olympics together (versus me watching on my parents’ TV in Rhode Island and Mark watching LIVE in London), when the female swimmer Ranomi Kromodijojo’s name appeared on the screen, in a matter of seconds either Mark or I would say, “Remember when we almost named Kate Kromodijojo?”

I know, I know. It’s only funny to us.

Opportunities for this name game ABOUND. And thank God, really, because our marriage is strengthened mightily every time we repeat this joke.

Just this weekend, with Mark nowhere in sight, I was visiting friends in Connecticut who offered to take me and the girls to an amusement park called—get this—Lake Quassapaug. QUASSA-paug? How freakin’ beautiful is THAT? I couldn’t resist. I turned to my friend’s niece Sarah and say, “Your parents almost named you Quassapaug you know.”

I got an excellent tween-aged whatchu-talkin’-bout-Willis look. Then she walked away.

Anyway, the past several weeks in Rhode Island have provided rich fodder for this game, specifically in the arena of Native American town names. Like, on the drive to my dad’s from Logan Airport we pass a town called Assonet. There’s just so much to love about that. It never fails to pique my stuck-in-second-grade sense of humor.

In fact, I believe on more than one occasion I’ve busted out in my best 80′s Newcleus voice, “Ass ON it. Ass ON it. Ass on-non-on-non-on ON it.”

Think of those poor soul’s at Assonet High. College admissions officers must accept them based on pity alone. Who cares about his SAT scores! Get that child OUT of that tragically-named town!

Yawgoo Valley, Wickaboxet, Mashapaug, Pettaquamscutt Rock, the Woonasquatucket River. If I had a piece of wampum for every excellent Indian name I’ve encountered this vacation I’d be a rich rich woman.

I can’t imagine saying these words in every day parlance. My friend’s son played little league against a team from Wanskuck. What do the kids from that team chant to psyche themselves up before a game? “Wanskuck! We don’t suck!”

A couple weeks ago I got fired up on the idea of renaming Paige Wampanoag (pronounced WOMP-uh-nog) after a small, un-impressive highway—the Wampanoag Trail—we sometimes take to Providence. After several weeks of blissful Rhode Island livin’, it seemed a fitting homage. Or rather, a wicked good idea. (We’d also considered Sachuest for Paige, to honor our favorite Newport beach, since it’s other name, Second Beach, wasn’t as pretty with McClusky.)

As for big sister Kate, I was thinking of rebranding her with a more food-related moniker: Little Neck. You like?! Quahog (pronounced KO-hog)—the giant hard-shelled clam the state’s renowned for—is another contender, though we could always employ it as a middle name.

Anyway, I’m en route to New York to the annual BlogHer conference. I had grand plans to redesign this blog before the event—like making the push to get in shape before your wedding day. I even considered renaming the thing. But as you can see, I never quite got around to it. And honestly, the way my brain’s been working this summer, it’s probably best I didn’t.