Tater Tales

About Those New Year's Resolutions

A few weeks ago I made a list of things I'd like to accomplish or improve upon in the next 12 months.  Some areas are going well and others I haven't given a second thought to.

1 -- Learn how to put an accent mark over an e.  I haven't done this one yet, but someone wrote a comment about how to do it.  I'll check it out before too long.  If I'm successful, watch out.  I'll work in words like saute and entree everywhere possible.

2 --  Learn how to cook pork chops without them tasting like a rubber shoe sole.  I've tried, but I think they still taste awful.  Of course, I've never really liked pork chops, so that could be one reason I think they aren't very tasty.  David and Bo eat them without complaint, so maybe they taste like some other part of the shoe that is a little more savory.

3 --  Learn to fold a fitted sheet.  Please.  You didn't think I'd get on that one this fast.  The sheets are still going straight from the dryer back on the bed.

4 --  Lose weight.  This one is one I'm actually working on and have lost a few pounds.  Not enough to write home about but enough to stick with it.

5 --  Get better about grading papers.  I'd say I've improved a little on this one even though the bag of papers I took home over the weekend didn't get graded until Monday night.

6 --  Write down funny things the boys say.  I still have every intention of doing this, but I haven't made a new list.  Tater tot says things like, "I have a pretty good remembery," and Small Fry puts a "t" on every word that ends with "n," so we here words like "againt" and "int."

7 --  Spending more time with Zeus.  Every time I can spare a few minutes I sit down and love on him.  I know without a doubt that his days with us are numbered.  That's all I can write without going all to pieces.

8  --  Cut down on the diet coke.  I still drink this nectar of the gods during the day.  My second graders know how much I love it.  In fact, I was teaching a lesson on writing a passage that included three big details, each one having a smaller detail to go with it.  The topic was "If I had $100," and they had to think of three things they would do with it.  One of those little cuties wrote that he would buy his teacher all the diet cokes he could.  His small detail was "She would probably faint if she didn't have any."  Oh, they know me well.  BUT, once I'm home, it's strictly water.  I try to get three or four big glasses in before I go to bed.  Of course that means I'm up about ten times a night.

9 --  Slow down on the white chocolate peppermint mochas from Starbucks.  I've cut these completely out.  In fact, I've been making my own coffee each morning and drinking it on the way to school.  That being said, I feel a strong craving for the 'Bucks, but I'll  go back to my regular coffee with a little milk.  I am always impressed when the person in front of me orders a skinny-venti-caramel-latte-no-fat-no-whip-no-this-that-and-the-other or something like that.  It fascinates me to hear people like that order their drinks.  And then I walk up and say that I'd like a grande coffee in a venti cup so I'll have plenty of room for milk.  Those people must wonder why I even come in.  Nonetheless, my goal is to drop Small Fry off at school with enough time to slip in for coffee, but we've been running rather late since we started back after Christmas.  So sorry.  I'm not sure why I decided to spend so much time on my coffee-doings.

10 --   Find a way to get my right eyelashes to curl.  Thanks to a faithful reader, Marty, I know about a product she swears by and I've ordered one for myself.  I can't wait for it to get here.  Get ready, eyelashes, you're about to meet your match!

Okay then.  There you have the riveting updates of my plans for the year.  I have high hopes for some.  Others, not so much, but as Kit from Pretty Woman told another "co-worker" toward the end of the move, "Goals.  Do you have any goals?  'Cause you gotta have goals."

Carry on, friends.

How John Denver, a Substitute Teacher, and a Stranger Made Me Think of my Father

In a couple of months we'll mark the fourth anniversary of my father's death.  Sometimes it seems like he's been gone for much longer, and other times it feels like he's still here -- as though I could pick up the phone and hear his voice say, "Hey, puddin'."  I'd give almost anything to hear those words again.

I think about him, or something reminds me of him, at the strangest times.

Last week I stopped for a diet coke on the way to school.  SHOCKING!  There's always some sort of music playing outside this little mini-market, and when I came out John Denver's "Country Road" was playing.  Daddy enjoyed John Denver's music, and I think he though him a pretty interesting fellow right up there until John got a little quirky toward the end of his life.  Anyway, I remember riding with Daddy in his big old brown un-airconditioned truck and listening to the sah-weet sounds of John's singing from the 8-track player he'd rigged up.  So when I heard the song playing, from what I'm sure was not a sweet 8-track tape player, I couldn't help but smile as my thoughts went immediately to Daddy.

Daddy had (I just typed "has" twice) several funny little sayings.  One of them was, "Some people are just spring-loaded to blurt."  I've always thought that was a hoot.  Several months ago we had a substitute teacher in for one of our teachers and she joined us for lunch.  One of the girls was telling about something that was going on in her life, and this sub interrupted her and started telling all kinds of horrible stories and making the most inappropriate comments about the subject.  I don't think she was trying to be rude or thoughtless.  I think she just liked to talk and has no inner filters.  As I sat there, stunned, desperately thinking of a way to change the subject, I heard my father's voice.  "Yep, spring-loaded to blurt...spring-loaded to blurt."

There was an event last Friday at our school where dads were invited to bring their children to school and have breakfast with them.  Teachers enter through the cafeteria, and when I got there I was amazed to see the room packed with fathers and children.  It was wonderful.  As I was walking toward the teachers' lounge to sign in I noticed a man sitting and talking to another dad.  The reason this man stood out was because he was wearing a Tennessee Air National Guard flight suit.  Before I knew what I was doing I was standing next to this man, interrupting his conversation, and talking to him for a couple of minutes.  

Daddy was a navigator in the Memphis unit for I don't know how many years.  He loved that part of his life and made some of the best friends he'd ever had, and they were some of the nicest men I've ever known.  Every now and then, Daddy would let me go with him to the Guard base on a Tuesday night when they were practicing "drops."  (Daddy flew on C-!30 cargo planes, and each Tuesday they practiced dropping things out of the back of the airplanes aimed at certain targets.)  While he was flying, I would ride with someone to the drop zone and watch.  

Anyway, seeing this man Friday in a flight suit, one that I was so familiar with, brought back a flood of memories.  When I was little, I loved to zip and unzip all the little pockets that were part of the suit.  Every now and then Daddy would put a little surprise, usually a piece of candy or gum, in one of them.  I remember the way he smelled after having been in one of the airplanes for several hours.  It wasn't the greatest smell, but it's a very distinct one.  

I remember his stories of his Guard days, most of which included funny things that he and his cronies had done.  Like when they were on an overseas trip and Daddy and some men decided to go on a little sightseeing trip the morning before they were supposed to leave.  As luck would have it they were late getting back to the base, and they were still in their civilian clothes.  Whomever was in charge of making sure planes left on time at this particular base was a stickler and became increasingly upset with the crew, and I think he'd given one of the young pilots, Mack, a tongue lashing or two.  Not knowing what else to do, Mack -- who'd been an aircraft mechanic before going to flight school -- did something minor to the plane so that he could stall this fellow a little longer.  When Daddy and the others finally got to the plane, still dressed in their regular clothes -- a big NO-NO -- Mack undid whatever he'd done and they hightailed that big lounge lizard of a plane out of there, right after they gave Mack oxygen, because Daddy said he was as nervous and worked up as he'd ever seen anyone get.

Since Daddy was the navigator, he could plan their routes as they practiced different maneuvers, and every now and then, when they were practicing flying at 300 feet, the lowest that was legally allowed, Daddy would plan for them to make a swing over our hometown.  Several times he flew over our house.  He was able to tell my mother about when to expect them and we'd go out into the street or the field behind our house and wave dishtowels or something.  We thought that was great fun.  But his favorite thing to do was to fly over the country club late in the afternoon.  The thing about the C-130s was that you didn't hear the darn things until they were almost on top of you, so it was a bit startling to hear one roaring right over you at 300 feet.  It always scared the wits out of the golfers, and I think Mama was asked more than once, "Mary Ann, can't you do something about Darrell and that blasted airplane?"  (Heck no.  She thought it was as funny as Daddy did.)

I've said before that I have no bad memories of my father and that he was one man who did the daddy thing right.  He was always fair both in his praise and in his discipline.  I may not have liked the discipline/consequences part, but even then I knew it was fair and well deserved.  He had a wonderful wit and sense of humor, and he gave people the benefit of doubt rather than rushing to judgment.  He loved my mother.  He loved my brother and me.  And we all knew it.  We could take his love and faithfulness to the bank.

I love it when something or someone out of the blue reminds me of my father.  It always makes me smile.  And though it also makes me a little sad that he's not still here, it makes me grateful for the time we had with him.  I think that's how he'd want me to react rather than have, as he would say, "a complete and total come-apart."

 

Panda Poop and a Lack of Diet Coke Make for a Very Strange Morning

The four classes that make up the Junior Kindergarten at Tater Tot's school went to the zoo Friday morning for a quick field trip to the bear exhibits. The timeframe worked out so that I could go and only take a half day, so I met everyone at the zoo and our adventures began.

We had a very nice tour guide named Karen who escorted us to see the grizzly bears, the black bears, the polar bears, and the Giant Pandas, where she showed the boys a giant block of shellacked panda poop.  I'm not sure what the purpose of sharing that was except for the fact the five-year-old boys love anything associated with potty humor.  I'll bet if you asked the 10 boys in our group a month from now what they remembered most about the trip to the zoo, the panda poop will be the answer, hands down.  

The Panda exhibit was the last stop on the tour, and I had to scoot out a little early in order to make it from midtown Memphis ALL the way to the eastern edge of the county where I teach by 12:15, so I left Tater Tot in the care of the mom he rode with and made my way to my car.

Ignoring the route David told me to take, I did my own thing and probably saved about 10 minutes, meaning 1) men cannot always be trusted when telling you the quickest way to do something, and 2) I had time to stop at my favorite Circle K for a gigantic diet coke to get me through the 3 1/2 grueling hours of a Friday afternoon, which would include taking the kids to lunch, teaching about 20 minutes of math before going to some sort of assembly, a restroom break, about 30 minutes of social studies and recess.  Oh yes, I had a mighty challenging afternoon planned.

So, 39 hours into this post, I went into the Circle K and headed straight for the fountain drinks, pulled out the COLOSSAL size cup, filled it with just the right amount of ice, and held it under the nozzle where the diet coke HAS ALWAYS BEEN.  Before hitting the button I happened to glance up and to my absolute horror did NOT see diet coke.  I was about to fill my cup with some sort of fruit punch.

What am I?  A six-year-old?

As you can imagine, it took me a few seconds to steady myself.  I looked across the drink choices about eight times, each time thinking I'd forgotten what DIET COKE looks like, but I finally accepted the fact that the diet coke nozzle was not there.

And then a single tear dropped to the floor...

I took the next best thing and filled up with diet Dr. Pepper, which will do in a pinch.  But I've got to tell you that it threw me off my game for a while.

But, really, what should I have expected, seeing that my day started with a brick of preserved panda poop?

 

The Blessing

Last semester, Tater Tot's class learned about Johnny Appleseed.  They did all kinds of fun little appleseed activities and had an absolutely wonderful time.

My favorite thing that came out of the whole unit was a blessing they learned to sing.  Tater Tot loves to say the blessing each night, and though he has about three in his repertoire, I nearly melt every time he chooses to sing this one.  Since I hate to video him as he's singing it, since I think it might send a message that multitasking during the blessing is okay, I'll just share the words.  (The words in parentheses are how Tater Tot pronounces them.)

The Lord (Warwd) is good to me

And so I thank the Lord (Warwd)

For giving me

The things I need

Like the sun and the rain and the apple seeds.

The Lord (Warwd) is good to me, Amen.

I hope your weekend is blessed.

Pictures That Make Me Happy

I realize that yesterday's post was kind of a downer.  So today I'm posting some pictures that make me happy and don't cause one bit of stress.  In fact, they're stress relievers.  I could look at them all day long.

This one is kind of fuzzy, but it's Small Fry's bubble bath with Thomas the Train bubble bath stuff.  He spent the better part of his time in there trying to give himself a beard and saying "Ho!Ho!Ho!" or "All aboard!"

I'm on a children in tub kick, so here's one of Tater Tot practicing spelling.  He sounded out fox and then we tried to think of words that rhyme and he figured out box.  It's a start.

David and Small Fry enjoy a little lap time.

This was back in the summer when David's parents met us for supper.

Our niece, Caroline, came, too.

The sweet lady is our next door neighbor.  She and her husband, Joe, have lived here since this part of Memphis was considered way out in the country.  Dot is crazy about Tater Tot and Small Fry and often came to sit and swing with them.  Every time Tater Tot would see her coming up the steps he would rush to the door and go out to meet her.  They could swing and talk for a long time.  Then Small Fry got in on the action and all three would have a grand time.  In the last few months, though, Dot's health has started to decline and she's not able to walk over and get up the steps to the front porch.  I think their swinging days are over, but the boys go over and visit "Grand Dot," as all children call her, fairly often.

Sometimes these boys sit together without trying to knock each other off the couch.  I like to look at pictures like this when they're chasing each other around the house trying their best to knock the other's block off.

That would be David and an upside down Small Fry, who begged to do it again about 368 times.

Finally, one that I love.  I took this over the holidays when the boys crawled up in the bed for a nap.  The sun was right in Small Fry's eyes, which woke him up, but just barely.  He eventually turned over a little and fell back asleep, and he and his brother took a long winter's nap.

I hope your day is happy.

 

 

Telling Me Not to Stress Out Doesn't Really Help That Much

You know how it is when you have a mosquito bite and people tell you not to scratch it?  And how that just makes the itching worse?  Or when you have a scab that's finally grown over a wound and you're told not to pick at it?  That ensures that you won't be able to think of ANYTHING other than doing it.

For me, being told not to stress out about something triples the amount of stress I'm already feeling.

I've mentioned one or eleven times that teachers are going through a new evaluation process.  One observation was announced and teachers could pick the subject (math or language arts) that they wanted the evaluator to see.  After endless amounts of paperwork on both parts, we were given scores in about 387 areas, with scores ranging from a 1 to 5, 5 being "exceptional" and 1 being "oh my word how do you still have a job?"  I had my announced observation in late October by someone I'd never laid eyes on.  I thought it was terrible, but this was the evaluator's first year doing it, so I think she was very lenient and generous.  The scores suited me fine.  I am not exceptional, no surprise there, but apparently she doesn't think I need to be on the next bus to Lubbock.

But...

Now that most of the announced ones are over, it's time for the unannounced observations, or as I like to call them, "the drive-bys."  We have no idea when someone will show up, though we think most of the time one of our administrators will pop in to observe us.  We have no idea what subject they'll be coming to see.  We know what they're looking for because we have the rubrics by which we're scored.  And word on the street is that they're low-balling the scores so we have plenty of "room to grow and improve," since this whole process is being tagged as a "growth model."  

Every time one of them talks to us about these evaluations, we're told, "DON'T stress out about this, y'all!  It's NO big deal.  None of us are worried; if we were concerned about any area of anyone's teaching, you'd already know.  We're not stressed about it AT ALL."  

That's when I feel my blood pressure rise and I get a little dizzy.

It's not that I mind someone coming in my room while I'm teaching.  I like my administrators.  In observations past they've been very positive, giving constructive criticism.  But the model we're using now pretty much sets the comments up for what's wrong and what they didn't see, therefore they're forced to conclude that those criteria never happen, resulting in a lower score.  To score a 3 or higher you practically have to put on a dog-and-pony show for every lesson in every subject every day.  And I'll be honest with you.  There are only so many days a week the I can be a show pony.  The rest of the time I"m just a regular old horse pulling the wagon the best I can.  Most of the time the ride is smooth, but there are days when the cart comes completely unhitched and a wheel breaks.

And then there's life at home.  I stay stressed out because the laundry piles up faster than I can get it done.  By the time I get a path cleared through the toys that are strewn everywhere, the boys have dragged it all out again.  About half of the house gets vacuumed.  I realize the solution to that problem is a better organizational system for the boys' things, but we're at maximum capacity around here, and I can't find a time to cull their toys and take them to Goodwill because I'm never here by myself.  

There are nights when dishes don't get washed (and I hate to leave a dirty kitchen) because it's bath night and bedtime, and I've already mentioned the problems we're having with Small Fry and his nightly game of "you two are suckers if you think I'm staying in my room."  By the time we've convinced both boys to go to sleep, I can barely stagger to bed myself.  Last week my alarm went off one morning and as I was about to turn it off BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WAS SATURDAY it finally occurred to me that it was only Wednesday.

Then there is Zeus.  David thinks he's putting on some weight and getting stronger, but the reality is that he can barely walk on his own without falling into something.  I know that he can't see well, and I wonder if he's almost blind.  David says he believes Zeus isn't in any pain, but I don't know.  I just don't know.  After everything he's been to me and done for me, I worry that I'm not doing the same for him.  I don't know how to make him comfortable.  He's four months shy of 17, and he's been a better dog than I, or anyone for that matter, have deserved.  I worry about him all the time, and anyone who knows that losing a beloved pet is probably going to happen sooner than later knows that it brings grief, and grief is stressful.

Now, I don't want it to sound like my life is terrible, because it's not.  It's filled with blessings upon blessings.  And there is almost always a lighter side to everything.

I have a family whom I love more than life itself.  They are my reason for getting out of bed each morning.  David is a better husband than I deserve.  Our two boys are healthy and happy.  My mother is my best friend and is in great health, and we live close enough to see her often.  My brother, a wonderful man, has moved closer to home, so we'll get to see him more than three times a year.

I enjoy teaching.  It's hard work, but when you're teaching something and you know those little people "get it," it makes you feel like you've done something right.  And there are a lot of people who would like to have my job and teach in the district I'm in.  Plus, there is stress with any job.  It's just a given.

I'm thankful that I have a home, though it might not be perfect and spotless, and I'm thankful we have plenty of clothes, even though it takes forever to do the laundry.

I'm grateful for having a dog who has been completely devoted to me for nearly 17 years.  They say that most dogs will pick one person in the house to be "theirs," and from them moment we brought Zeus home, I was his.  How could I look at this selfless animal and be anything but grateful?  David often says, "You've always told Zeus that he has to live forever, and dang if he's not trying to do it for you."

Everyone has stress.  And sometimes it's so compounded that it feels like you're going to buckle from its weight.  All I know to do is put one foot in front of the other and wait for some of the stress to work itself out of the way.

Even so, I still don't like to be told not to get stressed out when, clearly, there are legitimate reasons to feel stress.

What about you?  Am I the only one sailing in the stressed-out/pity-party boat?

 

In Which I Must Have Lost My Mind

Sunday afternoon around 5-ish, I decided it was high time I did the grocery shopping for the week, because procrastinating any longer would mean that Tater Tot's lunch the next day would include strawberry jelly on a hot dog bun, a handful of (stale) tortilla chips, and a questionable banana.  And that's if he were lucky.

My side kick, Small Fry, and I decided we'd try to save a little money on the ol' grocery bill.  Since I'm on this kick of trying to "reduce," as my grandmother used to say, my shopping list included lots of fruit and fresh vegetables.  It also included several packages of chicken and a couple of pounds of ground beef.

Are you hooked yet?  Because I know this is the stuff stellar blogs are made of.

Anyway, I took a deep breath (and considered popping a Xanax or six) and pointed our car in the direction of the nearest Wal-Mart.  You know what's particularly difficult about going to this Wal-Mart is that right next to it is a SuperTarget, which is where my car naturally wants to steer itself.  After wrangling the steering wheel and turning into the Wal-Mart parking lot, we found a parking place so close to the door that I started to have hope that this wasn't going to turn out as badly as I had braced myself for.

I will go ahead and tell you that the parking place was the highlight of the trip.

We spent nearly 20 minutes in the produce section, mainly trying to find bags to fill with various and sundry fruits and vegetables.  At one point, after hearing me mutter something about bags, Small Fry hollered, "Bags! Bags!  Where are you, bags?"  We finally found one of the rolls and I pulled off enough of them to knit them into a scarf.

The deli counter was a few yards away with one customer, so we headed that way thinking This won't take long.  Nearly 15 minutes later, we finally ordered our pound of turkey.  I decided to look on the positive side and told myself that at least we didn't rot while standing there.

The rest of the time was pretty normal for a Wal-Mart trip.  Trying to navigate thin aisles.  Finding the place where an item should be only to find that they're out.  Feeling overdressed due to the surprising number of shoppers wearing pajama pants.

I was on the hunt for a package of marshmallows because Tater Tot's class was having a "snowball" fight Thursday.  (It turns out that nineteen little boys got to hurl marshmallows at each other and have a wonderful time doing it.  It even snowed here Thursday, so they had the big fight in the snow.  Being instructed to throw food?  It was a little boy's heaven.)

Any-ol-hoo.  Not only couldn't I find the puffy white balls of sugar, I couldn't find anyone who worked there who could tell me where they were.  "Try the candy aisle," one said.  No luck.  "Try the peanut butter aisle," another said.  Nada.  "Try the aisle with the cake mixes," the last one said.  We were approximately 38 miles from that aisle, but we turned ourselves around and found Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker but nary a marshmallow showed its fluffy self.

Finally I gave up and started toward the check-out lanes.  I wish someone would explain why Wal-Mart has about 20 checkout lanes, yet the powers-that-be refuse to open more than three at a time.  By the time we got to the cashier, I swore Small Fry had grown an inch.

After hearing what I owed, I started to doubt that the savings, if any, were worth my sanity.  I mean let's face it.  I'm already losing my mind at an alarming rate.

I was talking to my mother and venting about my experience, and she said, "Well, this makes Kroger look a whole lot better to you, doesn't it?"

It sure does.  I might not ever be a died-in-the-wool Kroger fan, but I doubt shopping there will make me lose my mind.

I have two children, a husband, a job, and three dogs to make that happen.  

Egg Thieves

I was at Target a couple of weeks ago and needed to pick up a dozen-and-a-half eggs.  It took about 10 minutes before I found a crate without a cracked egg or two.

And every now and then I'd come across one that looked like this.

I'm still perplexed.

He's a Picky Daredevil

A lot of what I wrote last week focused on Tater Tot.  There was a lot to tell and I left out about half.  He's a busy guy.  What can I say?

One thing that keeps him especially busy these days is his little brother, who is four months shy of three years old and in constant motion.  I rarely get a good picture of him because he won't stay still long enough for the camera to focus.  However, he slowed down long enough to enjoy a brownie on Christmas Eve.

He's no fool.  He knows when to slow down and enjoy the finer things in life.  

(Look at those horrible tennis shoes he's wearing.  What mother would dress her child up in a cute Christmas outfit and then put grubby shoes on him?  Oh, it's the mother who could only find one of her child's dress shoes.  Can you believe her?)

For anyone who's curious about our whirling dervish, here are a few things that stand out.

(1)  He is fearless.  FEARLESS I tell you.  He'll climb anything that's taller than he is and proceed to jump off of it, laughing the entire time.  (Having a fearless child is new to us because Tater Tot did not jump off of things and he climbed only to get onto the sofa or chair.  David and I thought we were brilliant parents because when we told him to "be careful," he was.  It was only later that we realized he has a fear of heights and had no interest playing daredevil.)  

(2)  In this spirit of fearlessness, Small Fry learned how to climb out of his crib several weeks ago.  At first he did it once or twice in the night and I would put him back in his crib and he'd go back to sleep.  Then one night I put him in his crib, covered him up, we said our goodnights, and I closed the door.  About 30 seconds later we heard a THUD! followed by the sound of Small Fry running.  And laughing.  He appeared in the den and said, "No night-night!"  I put him back in his bed, closed the door, and the whole scene played itself out again.  And again.  And again.  David suggested I stay in his room for a few minutes until he calmed down and fell asleep, so I sat down in the glider after putting Small Fry in bed.  About ten seconds later, wouldn't you know it.  THUD!  Laughter.  Door opening.  Running.  Crying.  Okay, the crying was on my part.  After about the 293rd time, Small Fry fell asleep.  I thought he'd learned his lesson -- that this is not a game Mama and Daddy are going to play, blah, blah, blah.  The next night rolled around and he did the same thing as the night before. I'd love to say we've worked it out, but we haven't.  And it is WEARING us out.

Maybe he's ready for a big-boy bed, even though there's plenty of room in his crib for him to roll around in.  But I don't think moving him to a regular bed will solve the problem of him leaping up and running out of his room.  Feel free to offer advice.  Or wine.  (For me, not Small Fry.  Just thought I should clarify.)

(3)  We've had Small Fry evaluated for speech twice, and each time he hasn't qualified for speech services.  We were worried because he babbled all the time, but you could hardly understand what he was trying to say.  But in the last two or three months, he's improved dramatically.  I can understand most of what he says, and he's speaking in longer sentences.  I really think it was a combination of the fact that some boys' language develops more slowly and the fact that he's a second child.  Tater Tot has been talking and interpreting for him since he was born.

It is kind of funny to me that he puts a "t" on the end of words that end in "n," like "Come ont," and "I have onet cracker."

(4)  Whereas his brother was easy to fix meals for, Small Fry is the opposite.  He is picky.  And getting him to even try something is met with a shake of the head and a pitiful, "No."  He'll eat the usual toddler things like chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, and hot dogs.  He'll eat bananas, mandarin oranges, applesauce, pears and grapes.  And he likes PB&J sandwiches and the occasional grilled cheese.  And that's IT.  If you put something green, like a vegetable, in front of him, he almost cries.  

(By the time Tater Tot was his age, he was eating grilled chicken, broccoli, turkey, ham, tomatoes, and all kinds of good stuff.  Again, we thought we were brilliant parents in getting him to try the same foods we were eating and he actually ate it.  We were such idiots.)

I've considered asking our pediatrician if he thinks I should supplement with something like Pediasure , even though his diet isn't affecting his growth and development.

Ha!  That reminds me of the time the girl teaching next to me had a child in her room with severe ADHD and wouldn't eat hardly anything.  His mother decided to supplement his diet with one of those drinks, but she gave him Boost every morning.  It was like giving him speed.  She finally realized her mistake and switched to Pediasure, much to my teacher friend's relief.

(5)  This is the final thing I'll share.  Small Fry, for all his jumping and food issues, has the sweetest little manners.  David does things for him over and over just so he can hear Small Fry say "Tank you."  Or he'll thank him for something to hear "y'welcome."  

So when we thank him for not jumping off the kitchen table, he answers with a very polite "Y'welcome."

I think I may have to invest in an industrial size roll of bubble wrap and a Costco-size jar of peanut butter.

You do what you have to do, right?

 

A New Chapter

I originally started this post in July and am just now getting around to finishing it. 

When Tater Tot was a few months old I enrolled him in Dolly Parton's Imagination Library.  And from that point on he received a new book every month through the mail.  

The first book each child receives is The Little Engine That Could.  Since he's been old enough to recognize stories by their book covers, this has been one of Tater Tot's favorites.  

Since that first book arrived, nearly 60 books have been added to his little library.  Some were well-known and others were books I'd never heard of but have come to adore.

One Sunday night in July, as the boys and I turned into our driveway after a long hot walk, Tater Tot suggested we check the mail, hoping there would be a book waiting for him.

Well, this time his wish came true.  And it was the only book I'd ever dreaded to see arrive.  I took it out and handed Welcome to Kindergarten to him.  He was thrilled to have a new book and ran down the driveway toward David, who was sitting on the front porch.  As I strolled Small Fry to the house, the lump in my throat grew bigger and bigger.  

This book was the final book in the series.

It's wasn't that he would never get any more books.  My word.  Our house is bursting with books, and since I'm a teacher, there were nine years worth of children's books waiting for him when he was born.  We've been known to buy books like we buy Diet Cokes.  We've run out of places to keep his (and Small Fry's) books.

No.  It's not about the books.

It's that five-and-a-half years have gone by so quickly; in the blink of an eye, it seems.  This child, the one I prayed for for so long, the child I never thought we would have, this child who was a newborn just yesterday, is now a little boy who is in junior kindergarten.

How can time have moved this quickly?  It's strange, you know.  All those years, nine to be exact, that we spent waiting for this miracle to happen seemed to last an eternity.  They crept by with an agonizing slowness.  And now we can't convince time to slow down even a little.

When it was time for Tater Tot to go to bed that night, he grabbed his new book, ran down the hall and took a flying leap onto his bed all the while telling me to hurry up and READ!  We snuggled up and read this sweet little book about a bunny named Henry and his first morning getting ready for kindergarten.  As silly as it sounds, I had to fight back tears, and that's saying something.  Because before we had children I would've rolled my eyes back into the far depths of my head if anyone had said this to me, followed by an under-the-breath muttering of oh, get over it.

Three weeks later David and I walked our son into his new school for his first day of junior kindergarten.  He saw some of the boys who were in the camps he went to this summer.  He knew his teachers.  He found his little desk and cubby.  We took pictures.  We explored his classroom, then helped him get started on the morning work that was on his desk.

And then we walked away and left him to start this new chapter in his life.

I cried as much on the way home as I did the first time I held him in my arms, when the first chapter of our lives together began.

In the months he's been in school, he's learned so much.  He's grown academically, socially, and emotionally.  He's had good days and not-so-good days.  His teachers have been consistently patient and positive.  And he loves going to school each day.  He walks into his classroom happy and ready for whatever his teachers have planned.

We're grateful for this new part of his and our lives.  It's what we prayed would happen one day.

It's just that we never imagined time would go by so quickly.

The chapters will keep on coming.  We'll simply try to keep up and savor each page.