Problems You Will Never Have, Unless You Are A Parent

"Mommy, my baby is stuck in my Kazoo." said no one ever.
(until Isabella jammed her eraser-sized baby doll into her kazoo.)

End of Summer Bedtime Rainbows

I pulled Isabella out of bed to come see the gorgeous sky that suddenly appeared at 8:00pm.

Birthdays

Mark's birthday was September 5th. I made him eclairs. They looked better than they tasted.

September 7 was Amelie's birthday party. This was the event of the season for Isabella. She was incapable of doing anything until the 1:00 start time of the party. She did decide to wrap Amelie's gift--tissue paper stuffed inside of an REI bag (the gift was not from REI--I'm not sure why we even have an REI bag). This is the only kind of gift wrapping I am capable of, so I guess she's following in my footsteps. Intervention, please.

Amelie's family thinks of everything when planning a party, like having a kiddie pool filled with plastic balls. Matthew was in heaven.

This year the party was fairy-themed. Fairy stickers and tatoos, a bouncy castle-house, and vegan cupcakes with fairy rings...

 

It was 95 degrees outside and even hotter in the bouncy castle. The little fairy princesses nearly wilted, but everyone kept it together. Mostly together.

First Day of Kindergarten and Other News

8 years of marriage. Happy Anniversary to us. Why two teachers decided to marry in mid-August is beyond me. Then again, we got married when we were teachers in NYC where the school year didn't start until after Labor Day. So it's all California's fault. 

The second week of August marked our Back to School Week for 3/4 of our family. I asked Isabella what she wanted for her Back to School (or in her case, First day of School Ever) Dinner. She chose pancakes.

Wednesday, August 14th, was Isabella's first day of Kindergarten. She was so excited. She was singing. She couldn't believe that she gets to go to school on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, AND Friday. She loved school, even before she got there. Three of her very good friends from preschool are in her class. That makes me happy.

Drop off was not overwhelmingly emotional. There were no tears or flashbacks to the days when she was just in diapers. It helps that she feels so ready for this. I just think about the bubble she lives in. It's a good bubble, and I don't want the meanies of the world to pop that bubble. I hope she makes good friends. I hope she loves to learn. I hope she listens. I hope she'll be a leader, and a follower, when appropriate. I hope she'll be safe, and kind, and brave, and fair, and gracious, and most of all happy.  I hope, I hope, I hope.

In related news, I started my first day of Kindergarten, too. I was lucky enough to once again secure a 20% teaching position in the district. I will be teaching Kindergarten one day a week at a new school with a new teaching partner.

Matthew did not like August 14th. For that was the day his whole family walked out the door to go to school. (Mom said he was super happy when Isabella returned home.)

Chores

 Her job (other than playing the kazoo and bugging her little brother) is to empty the dishwasher.

When I walked into the kitchen to check on her progress, she told me she was making "mushroom bowls".

If I gave creativity points for chores, I'd give her some.

Bodega Bay Part II

This time we invited Nana and Papa to come with us to Bodega Bay. And this time we outfitted ourselves a little better for the ocean.

Mark and Isabella stumbled upon this state-of-the-art sand castle. The wise man that built this house, built it upon a log (which is second best to a rock--unless, of course, there is a fire.)

Fortified with a giant-legless crab, and all.

The Foolish Man and his daughter built their house upon the sand (didn't the song teach them anything?!), which was washed away by the ocean eraser by the time I returned with the camera.

This day, Matthew was all about Papa.

But there's lots of lovin' for Nana too, who has successfully taught Matthew the meaning of "gentle". (At least he's gentle with Nana. He still scratches my face off.)

Mom told me about a sermon she heard from the pastor at their church that made her think of Matthew. The pastor told the story of a letter George Burns found, after his wife Gracie Allen, passed away. In the letter Gracie Allen wrote, "George, never put a period, where God has placed a comma." Well, I could have cried enough tears to make another ocean right then and there. When I was pregnant with Matthew my fear was that his having Down syndrome would be a period in his life and in my life. I was wrong. Matthew has Down syndrome (comma) but it certainly does not define his little soul. He is the hug you see in this picture; he is sunshine and sweetness, determination and adventure. In short, he is the snicker to my doodle.

And this one...she's the peanut to my butter. Mark? He's got to be the flip to my flop. (I wish I'd made these up.)

Nothing like a sand covered peach to end the day.

Don't Paint Your Chickens Before They Hatch. A True Story in Rhyme.

There are two little girls, each five years old. Isabella is imaginative, Ally is bold.

"We want to paint!" together they cry
"Ok", says Isabella's mother, "let's set you up outside."

"Now, the rules are simple," says Isa's mother, "the paint is for the paper, not your clothes or each other."

They nod at the orders they are not to ignore, then it's off to paint the sun, a house, and red monsters galore!

The mother then says, "Girls, the baby needs a nap. I must take him in, but I'll be back in a snap. Remember no silliness, paint your hearts out!  You will make masterpieces-- that I don't doubt!

But as the mother rocks the baby to sleep, Isabella is at the door, ready to weep.
"She painted my shirt, " she says in distress. A nap interrupted. A problem to address.

"Did you paint her shirt?"
"Yes, " Ally says with contrition.
"Well, it's a good thing it's washable, let's clean it up in the kitchen."

The mother turns to leave, a woman on a mission, as second confession slips out--
"And we painted the chicken!"

"You painted the chicken?!" this time, the mother distressed.
"Is it true Isabella? What Ally confessed?"
"Yes! We painted some feathers, and even its beak!" The giggles slip out. The mother can't speak.

"You can't...you didn't... who's idea was it?"
"Isabella's!" Ally declares, the accusation legit.

A mother befuddled; a parenting scenario, (surely) unwritten. What does one do when their kid paints the chicken?