I've got the power

I’m in the middle of a power struggle.  With a four year old.  Which actually happens more than you might think.  Unless you’ve had a four year old—then you know about the need for need for choosing your battles.  

Is this one worth fighting?  I need some input from an impartial observer who doesn’t react emotionally to being challenged by a four year old four (or forty) times a day.

Last week I bought a Disney Princess wet wipe container for our bathroom with the special lid that pops up and allows one wipe at a time to be removed that, in theory, eliminates the need for all the wet wipes to dry out each time a person under 28 opens the container and leaves it open.

Fortunately, Eliza (one of the worst offenders of the dry wipes problem) loves my taste in wet wipe containers and is enthralled by the little flip top.

Unfortunately, Eliza decided that the container would make a perfect treasure box for herself.  “It doesn’t even smell like wet wipes inside!” she announced after she emptied it of wipes and loaded it with "treasures."

Fortunately, I know by now that wet wipes can be rehydrated after they are left out of their container.

Unfortunately, I have to assume the role of detective just to find the MIA wet wipes that are suffering from what’s becoming quite the drought.  At first Eliza merely deposited the wipes near the scene of the crime, on the bathroom counter.  Since the initial scolding that ensued, she’s been known to leave them on her bedroom floor, and once she even disposed of the evidence in the trash can.  Which, unfortunately, requires sanitization as well as hydration. 

It's not news to me that Eliza is a hoarder.  A while back I made a batch of homemade pretzels that I left to cool while Mark and I were watching a movie.  (The girls had eaten theirs earlier.)  Eliza, who had already been tucked into bed, snuck out and collected most of the pretzels (in a towel I save for mopping the floor) and hid them under her pillow.  It was only by accident that I discovered them, when I came in to see why she was still awake, and found her arched unnaturally (and unrepentantly) over her pillow.

Is it worth the fight to reclaim the Princess box for its rightful duty, and out of the principle of “Mom's The Boss”?  Or should I suck it up and fork out another $2.50 to replace the Princess box with a thoroughly unexciting non-princessy-or-other-kid-icon wet wipe box?  Now that I know better, I’d pay an extra buck for a blank container.

Fringe benefits

You might think that there are not a lot of good things about having two surgeries on both feet in two months.

Sausage-shaped toes, for one. 

But surgeries come with fringe benefits, I’ve learned.

Like lots of [working] visits from family

And someone else gets to teach your 6-year-old to ride without training wheels

And even the kids get in the spirit of service

And you get to [have to] give yourself permission to ignore the weeds in the garden and just enjoy the harvest, which is collected daily by willing kids who are almost as excited about daily bean growth as you are

And you get help on your zoo trip [which you HAD to take because you already bought 12 packages of butter to get free admission at the zoo and it expires after August]

And there’s lots of time to sit back and delight in the delightful things, instead of missing them while you multi-task

Sage becomes Mrs. Sage

Today was Sage’s first day in her school’s dual immersion program.  As soon as she got home I grilled her about the details of all-day first grade and the Spanish half of the day and how she found her carpool without me having told her where to go (whoops).  Trying to get information out of her was like pulling teeth…aided by the fact that I’m not above bribing with candy to satisfy my own curiosity.

The only information Sage volunteered enthusiastically was which girl had the same lunchbox as her, and which of her friends had also brought a ham sandwich to eat. (There were three, by the way. One had no mayonnaise, though.)

Sage did tell me proudly about how she “translated” for her class when her Spanish teacher asked Sage what “favorito” meant.  That’s my girl—rockin’ the cognates. 

In spite of Sage’s reluctance to give me a play-by-play of the previous seven hours, I know the day must have been a success because she and Eliza shut themselves in their bedroom and organized “School” for a bunch of stuffed and furry (but oh, so attentive) pupils.

By eavesdropping on the bedroom session of “School” I found out that Eliza was the appointed “Teacher of Washing Hands” and Sage (I mean “Mrs. Sage”) was the teacher for all other subjects.

Oh, and for the record, Sage didn’t appreciate it when I put Lily’s dress on my head (think hairnet) and pretended to be the lunch lady calling them to come for snack time. (I'm glad she didn't think to make me a card that I could turn from green to yellow for my little stunt.)  That Mrs. Sage sure runs a tight ship.

My green-thumbed confession

When I was in junior high my sister gave me a shirt that said, "Help! I'm on the phone and I can't shut up!"  Now I need an updated version: "Help, I'm obsessed with my garden and I can't stay out!"  I can't get enough of the garden.  Oh, sure, I’ve got zucchini up to my eyeballs, and my arms always smell like tomato vines, and if I never saw another weed again in this life it would be too soon.  But I keep going back out—several times a day, and always on the pretense that “I’ll be back in just a second!”

Sometimes it’s to admire the pumpkins (but, oops, there’s a few weeds…I’ll just grab those), or to pick the raspberry bush’s daily yield of three magnificent berries (oh, wait, I forgot to water the basil plants, and I better pick a leaf for my fingertip perfume), or to check on the zucchini plant so I know how soon the next round of neighbors will be getting zucchini bread (is that a slug?--Smash it!  Is that a ladybug?—Go get the girls!  Is that a 6-foot long green monster?  No, it’s just yesterday’s zucchini putting “Little Shop of Horrors” to shame.)  Then, what do you know, a “quick check” turns into two hours.

Sometimes I proudly take pictures of my garden goods, and I realize I’m not so unlike Cupon Clippers.  Here’s a picture of today’s haul. 

I've recognized a form of my addiction in each of my kids.

Sage loves our beans (22 harvested today), corn, and, naturally, the sage plant in our herb garden (which only she is allowed to harvest).  After helping to plant the corn kernels, Sage made a chart and tracked how many kernels sprouted into little green stalks each day.  She considers herself the authority on which ears of corn are ready to be picked (though earwigs have provided ample, and fearsome, competition). Of all the harvested food, Sage and Eliza are totally in love with fresh corn on the cob--especially when they get to roll the hot cobs over the whole stick of butter.  We have to limit them at two fulls cobs a night, and not because we don't have enough in our garden.

Eliza is our flower girl.  When the tulips were in bloom, I found her outside praying over them individually.  She monitors all the new blooms, and exacts a tax for her services—regular picking, which she uses to fill all the vases we own.  Sometimes she brings the vase with her when she moves from one room to another.

You’d never guess from her pale skin, but next to me, Lily has spent the most time out in the yard this summer.  When her older sisters had long since deserted the backyard for otter pops or a show like Backyardigans (how ironic), Lily could be found picking peas (during pea season she asked to go out for peas five times a day), exclaiming happily over a pill bug or anthill, or picking green grape tomatoes.   And more than anything, she loves to confiscate the hose for her own purposes, including to create mud puddles (usually at the bases of our peach trees) to splash in.

Mark likes to go in the garden whenever he wants to not come in for two hours, since I always insist on giving him THE LATEST tour, which is always drastically different from the last tour that I gave him forty-eight hours ago.  I'm sure he goes to bed at night thinking, "To everything there is a season..." 

19 pairs

Today while I was making dinner Eliza wandered in and casually remarked, “Mom, I have a fat bum.”

"Preschool anorexia" and other horrific thoughts popped into my head, and I quickly turned to look at her, concern lining my face, as I countered, "No you don’t! Who told you that?”

With a little giggle she confessed, “It’s my undies,” and she pulled the waistband of her shorts down just an inch to reveal 19 pairs of panties stacked on top of each other.

The funny thing was that 19 undies weren't even enough to make her look fat. But it did look like she might lose circulation soon.

Eliza enjoying some frosting

The Tooth Fairy is Going Broke

Five year olds beware--the tooth fairy may soon be broke from all the loose teeth Sage has discovered in her mouth this past month. 

When the dentist told us Sage had a loose tooth it set her in a frenzy.  Her first loose tooth got hours of "mirror time" before it literally popped out of her mouth while Sage was eating a taco. 

 

After tooth #1 (aka The Big Star) made its exit, Sage proudly carried it around in a Ziploc bag, which she managed to lose at least once every five or ten minutes.  This resulted in instant panic, and tearful requests for family prayers on behalf of the tooth’s recovery.  With a firm belief in the power of prayer-over-lost-teeth (since it worked three out of three times in the space of thirty minutes), I had to reign in the spirituality after half an hour and relegate the tooth to its celebrated position under the pillow, and out of Sage’s butterfingers grip.

The Tooth Fairy was happy to make a visit that night, as much to remove the tooth as to leave the anticipated prize.  This tooth dollar nearly burnt a hole in Sage’s little purse before she bought herself a genuine Made-in-China jar of fingernail polish from Walmart.

With three more loose(ish) teeth awaiting, Sage recognized her financial interest in her baby teeth, and she began to request tacos for dinner on a regular basis, in addition to demanding rights to sit in the exact chair in which she lost her first tooth.  For good luck.  On her path to becoming a millionaire.  One dollar at a time. 

Tooth number two was a little more stubborn about getting displaced, and we began to explore the vast array of suggestions YouTube has for removing a tooth.  These include, but are certainly not limited to, extraction by rocket, dog, Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and remote control car.  Once I recognized that the common denominator in these successes was just a swift jerk, I opted for a more subtle choice—tweezers, which worked like a charm.  So well, in fact, that the next day Sage asked me “peel out these two teeth” with my tweezers.  She claimed it was so she could look like her friend from school, but I think it was so the greenbacks in her purse could have a few more friends.  

Sage's birthday and tooth money get acquainted

Following the loss of her second tooth (which, incidentally, took place on a taco night), Sage went to the sink to wash her hands and tooth off, and the poor little bloody tooth slid out of sight down the sink.  When Sage realized it was gone, panic set in.  Thankfully the live-in tooth fairy remembered where she had saved Tooth #1, and in a moment of careful word choosing, Tooth #1 was presented as Tooth #2, and all was well. 

Who would have thought it would be so much work to be a Tooth Fairy? 

What the Kids Do While I Garden

Now I know.

In case you couldn't tell at first glance, that is Eliza cleaning out the mini M+Ms from the freezer. I literally took this picture seconds after walking in from the garden and capturing an unsuspecting and completely unrepentant snitch. (I have no idea how long she had been at it.)

A close up of the red-handed sweet tooth

Ignorance was blissful while it lasted.

No apologies from the garden

I have a strict personal policy to never apologize on my blog for “not writing for so long”--which is how almost every single one of my journal entries started for about 5 straight years when I was younger.

That being said, even if I don’t apologize explicitly, I can a least point the finger at what is to blame. 1/3 of an acre of yardwork and gardening, that’s what. I’m convinced that my fingernails and finger creases won’t be presentable for the next three months. Which means that this blog, if it gets any action this summer, will likely be along the lines of “Adventures in Gardening Day After Day” or “What the Kids Do While I Garden…Actually I Don’t Even Know” or “How Many Places Can Lily Find Dirty Water to Splash in While I Garden?”

It all started with me being born of goodly parents who always had a garden. They were (and still are) like the Johnny Appleseeds of tomatoes and corn and peach trees. My childhood memories are peppered with recollections of dropping dried corn kernels into freshly turned dirt, lifting up bush plants to search for green beans for dinner, peeling back husks and silk to peek in at corn cobs, and long hours spent watering fruit trees with a faded old hose. Of course there were also earwigs, weeds to pull as punishments for fighting, and the interminable canning days each fall. But for all the annoying times, I am forever bound to gardening by my addiction to fresh peaches and ice cream, garden tomatoes to garnish mac’n’cheese, and corn on the cob as a perfect side dish to any summer dinner.

In all honesty, my husband does not love gardening. Which might have been a good issue to probe more carefully before we bought our yard (and house) last year. But I am totally content to do all the gardening. It brings me an inexplicable sense of contentment and fulfillment (and often gets me out of washing the dishes or putting the kids to bed). Barbara Kingsolver wrote this in her book "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" (which I am loving right now):

"Every gardener I know is a junkie for the experience of being out there in the mud and fresh green growth. Why? An astute therapist might diagnose us as a codependent and sign us up for Tomato-Anon meetings. We love our gardens so much it hurts. For their sake we'll bend over till our backs ache...We lead our favorite hoe like a dance partner down one long row and up the next, in a dance marathon that leaves us exhausted....What is it about gardening that is so addicting? That longing is probably mixed up with our DNA. Agriculture is the oldest, most continuous livelihood in which humans have engaged....Growing food was the first activity that gave us enough prosperity to stay in one place, form complex social groups, tell our stories, and build our cities...." (177-178).