Growing Up, Moving On, Hanging Tight: Kindergarten...High School

One morning, in the first week of kindergarten, the burgeoning parent group held a coffee and doughnut get together on the playground after drop off. Having survived a few days of leaving my children with relative strangers I was eager to connect with parents more seasoned and well versed in school matters. I knew no one and so lingered awkwardly near the coffee table while others chatted about teachers and after school programs and reading levels.

"Do you have a child here?", asked a woman on the receiving side of the table.

"Two actually, we have twins in kindergarten."

She was the parent of a first grader and was curious as to how we found her neighborhood school, a small grade school that had been on the brink of closing only the year before.

In Chicago you can attend your neighborhood school or, if you prefer, you can apply to schools outside your attendance area and hope. When our girls were starting kindergarten our neighborhood school was simply not an option; there had been a shooting in front of the school at 3:00 in the afternoon. Safety trumped all my other concerns, we filled out the forms and entered the girls into the vast school by school lottery. Their names were not drawn anywhere, there was no choice to be made. We entered the round two lottery: one four year old was put into first grade at a nearby school, the other found a seat in second grade at a school several miles away. They tested for the gifted and classical school program; one was put in a school in the south loop, the other on the northern suburban border, a distance of over an hour in a car. Jack walked into the CPS offices to appeal our situation. They apologized for the clerical error that put the girls into first and second grade but suggested that perhaps being in two different schools might be a good thing.

"You don't have twins then, correct?'

The veteran parent listened to my long story, offering sympathetic nods and an "oh no!" where required.

"You know, as horrible as that sounds, I've heard finding a high school is even harder."

We were day four into kindergarten, having survived the long and arduous process that ended in a wonderful school, a place that has now been our home for the past nine years. High school? Was this woman serious? High school was years into the future, further even than kindergarten had been from pregnancy. I dismissed her comment somewhat offhandedly, I had far more pressing things to concern myself with, high school was not even worth considering.

That was yesterday, maybe last month.

This past Friday Mary got her high school placement, Kate having secured her spot when she moved to a middle school in 7th grade. We were in Rome when we got the email, physically as far away as I felt from high school nine years ago. Against almost all odds the girls will be back in the same school this September, having been separated for the past two years. Somewhat surprisingly they are both happy about this; separation was hard but they have enjoyed these years apart, each finding their own place.

The search for a high school was, thankfully, far less problematic than we had been warned. Perhaps because this was the girls' search, their choice, helped greatly by their nine years of hard work.

Walking into school Friday I had a moment of finality, the very familiar feeling that something has come to an end. What has been an open ended question for months now has an answer, they have a place to be in September. They are both registered, they have school t-shirts, they are looking at after school clubs and sports. Finding a kindergarten was a relief, after months of unknown, as is finding a high school. But for something that has loomed so long on the horizon, having an answer to a question posed nine years ago seems an abrupt stop to a very long conversation.

Now I stand on the other side of the table, handing out the doughnuts. Finding a school is difficult, finding one that is hard to leave, even trickier. How lucky we have been to have called this place home for nine wonderful years.

Heart Breaking Plans: Run or Hide?

This post shooting conversation was different.

Perhaps because they are now thirteen, or maybe because they are both looking at high school in the very near future, or possibly because they are more political now than ever before, but this conversation was different.

They have a plan. My children have a tangible plan for what they will do if this kind of horror ever finds its way to their schools. No longer can we talk about the good, or look for the helpers; they aren't buying that line any more because they know that this is real and this happens and it could happen in the very places that they feel safe nine months of every year.

Mary has a hiding place, a spot she has identified in her school as a place she feels will shelter her from a shooter should someone get in her building. Kate has no such place but worries because two of her classes are held in rooms with one glass wall, "it would be like a fish tank Mom, a shooting gallery", so she'll run. They've spent time discussing this, and last week they discussed it with me.

No parent should need to discuss with their children where they will go when someone with an assault rifle gets into their school, and no child should ever have to make this plan.

But there we were, discussing the pros and cons of hiding versus running, the security measures in place at both schools, which teachers they feel will protect them, and the importance of speaking up if something feels wrong. There we were, last Thursday, having a very real conversation about what exactly my children would do if someone came into their school intending to kill them and their friends with an assault rifle.

Maybe this conversation was different because my children are no longer asking "why?".

They are planning and in that, accepting this as normal. It's not, it can't be. I'm angry, you should be too.

Writing, Cleaning, Procrastinating, Not Writing At All

Rather than writing a story on a Chicago celebration, which I am supposed to have finished next Monday,  I am organizing my drive, which has never before been touched. Technically it's not happening now either, but I am discovering a bunch of things I wrote when the girls were much younger, scraps of notes on the floor of my disorganized google drive. I'm having a wonderful time!

Time Out April, 2009

There are several things in our home that are automatic time out offenses: hitting, screaming, spitting and often throwing. Today at lunch, for no real reason, Mary spit out an edamame. Time out.

After two minutes she was allowed to return to the table.

“Why were you in time out?”

“I would rather not discuss it”

Back to time out. Two minutes later she returned.

“Now, why were you in time out?”

“Let’s just say I’m sorry and move on.”

Time out is clearly a very effective method of punishment.

Book Time May, 2008

One hour of relative quiet each day, one hour to myself while the girls coexist in quasi peace in their bedroom amongst an enormous pile of books. Naps may have faded to the occasional but praise the Lord and pass the sanity, we still have book time, in theory. Today they compiled their allotment, 10 or so books apiece and marched in order to their assigned space, promised calm, and opened to the first page.

Foolishly I decided to sacrifice my hour to repairing our Internet connection, akin to me thinking the best use of this precious time would be to rotate the tires and check the brake fluid. I called India. A wonderfully patient and kind woman with a very strong accent answered, it took five minutes for me to explain that the problem was the Internet connection, I started with “my computer doesn’t work”.

“MOM, Kate is climbing on the bookshelf!”. The kind woman kept talking, “excuse me, one moment, just, excuse me”. I sent the child back to book time. Next we had, “MOM, Eleanor just threw up”, the woman continued. And then a scream, a piercing scream, which I assumed must have meant that Kate fell off the bookshelf and directly into the vomit. The woman kept talking. This tragedy allowed me five minutes of time in which I was directly confused and quite overwhelmed, and no closer at all to finding the problem with my computer.

“Mom, I have to go potty”, fine, yes that is fine, acceptable, preferable really to other options, off you go. A few more minutes, “MOM, come quick, MOM, the toilet is spilling”. While I may not know much about computers, or India, or auto maintenance, I do know that when one puts an entire roll of scrunched up tissue into a toilet it quite likely will cause a problem.

The woman was still talking. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, thank you for your help but my children have flooded my bathroom and I’m going to have to hang up”.

The flood waters have receded and I will be posting from the coffee shop tomorrow, again.

Meet the Flintstones August, 2009

To combat our open run on illness, I recently introduced Flintstone vitamins to Mary and Kate’s daily diet. At breakfast each day we discuss Fred, Wilma, Barney and Betty, creating a great curiosity in the girls as to the daily life of the Flintstone family. Recently I discovered an old episode on a far off cable channel and the three of us sat down to watch Fred and Barney at the lodge while Wilma and Betty were at home with Pebbles and BamBam. They loved it, as did I.

Today I overheard this recap:

Mary: Kate, did you see the telephone? It was round, no buttons, you turned it to call someone. Funny!

Kate: Well Mary, they lived a very long time ago. Things were different.

Really? The car propelled by feet got by you but that archaic phone, similar to the one I used as a child, that was the ancient indicator.

It's been a wonderful afternoon. I always feel so accomplished when I write.

Tweet Me Alexander Hamilton!

ally lang @northsidefour

@beernottea what would you dump in the harbor today? #teaparty What would cousin @fairtrialjohnny have to say about all of this? #RNC2016

One of the best things about pulling a new book off the bookshelves in our home is finding what odd scrap of paper I might have stuck in the pages for use as a future book mark. Our books are full of old plane tickets, sweet notes left for one or the other, assorted receipts from city subways , entrance tickets to museums and galleries and zoos, children's drawings, and this gem discovered yesterday.


Last summer the girls, after reading Johnny Tremain, created a list of twitter names for the Sons of Liberty, and other notable Revolutionary War icons. Not knowing just what to do with such a treasure, I stuck it in a book, The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry, to be found this summer.

How I'd love to tweet John Adams right now; surely that old blowhard has something to say about this madcap election. Can you name these founding fathers? And mothers?


@silvermakinrebel
@paddyh
@nospectacles
@fairtrialjohnny
@iamnotapresident
@getthepoxout
@beernottea
@preznoking

In order:

Paul Revere
Patrick Henry
John Hancock
John Adams*
Alexander Hamilton
Abigail Adams
Samuel Adams
George Washington

Wishful thinking, as if Adams or Hamilton could keep their comments to 140 characters.

*Mary and Kate give me credit for @fairtrialjohnny, entirely possible as I have always respected Adams' sound belief in a fair trial for all, but I don't remember crafting this clever name.

Bon Appetit Mes Enfants

We raised our glasses to travel.

The planning began last week. The girls created a menu and made lists. They consulted cookbooks to help organize their thoughts and then prepared, with no help from me and little from their father, a French meal complete with printed menus, a wine list and creatively delicious food. The significance of this, one day after the Paris attacks, is not lost.  That they started this process long before the attacks happened is perhaps most relevant to me: a meal created not to honor France and the tragedy of Friday but one that reflects the girls' appreciation and understanding of other cultures.

Three years ago we spent two weeks in France, visiting dear friends, traveling to the Normandy coast and baking in the August heat of Paris. The girls were seven and thrown into life in France with a limited net. First they learned to order milk in a restaurant, "lait s'il vous plait". They asked directions and found their way on the Metro. We handed them menus in French and suggested they find a word they understood and go from there.

They ordered their own food, in French (ish), and discovered new things to love (mussels) and things they expected to love and did not (croque monsieur). We did not seek out American restaurants and in fact left one when handed the American menu for children: hot dogs, chicken fingers and macaroni and cheese. We did not travel across the ocean to be immersed in American culture.

Traveling opens their minds to places and people beyond what they find in the neighborhood or down the street. Living briefly in another country forces them to the outside and teaches them to adjust to the changes inherent in international travel: new language, culture, currency, customs. And traveling makes places that might be far away seem much closer, especially when one beautiful place is attacked in the most cruel and horrible way.

We will continue to travel, continue to show our children that there is a world outside of Chicago, a world that is almost always good. It is a world that they should see and experience and enjoy; one that will send them back with memories and photographs and not just an appreciation for what they find but also what it means to be home. No terrorists can take that freedom away.

The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page. St. Augustine

It's Going To Be A Great Year

And now they are eleven; happy birthday!

Hi Ho Hi Ho, Off To Middle School They Go

One week from tomorrow they start middle school. It sounds dramatic but in our small school in our giant school district, the move to middle school is not terribly noteworthy. They will be in the same building, the one that's been home since kindergarten. They'll have some of the same teachers, and some new ones, as is the case every year. They'll eat lunch in the same place, go to the same library and gym, and if they would like, they may still play on the same playground. And even though it's not a huge change, they will be part of the middle school, which means something, certainly to them. Right now they see very tangible differences:  no Halloween costumes on October 31st, at least not at school (big plans are in the works for after hours, presidential hopefuls are being discussed); lockers (logistics of which are causing some confusion); after school walks to Starbucks; new students in a classroom of nine that has not changed much since kindergarten. They see what they can hold on to, I see what I cannot.

Middle school is the start, as was kindergarten, of something new. The first day of kindergarten was rough, I expect nothing less from this year.

It's another leap away from childhood, another easily identifiable marker in the move from my life to theirs. And that, despite my first day of school weepy self, is a good thing. They are doing what they are supposed to be doing: they roll their eyes at all the appropriate ten year old times, they abhor my musical selections and they cringe when I even threaten to dance. But they love me, and they still find some measure of pleasure in spending the day with me, even if it's biking around town in search of an elusive Spanish pepper (no luck on that).

Milestones have a way of creeping up and forcing you to take stock. The beginning of middle school warrants at least a few looks back: Have they fallen down enough to know how to put on a band-aid all by themselves?  Are they still sufficiently awed by fireworks? Do we have a good supply of photographs with ice cream smeared all over their faces? Does a summer day without schedule still make them happy? Can they decide and order for themselves in a restaurant? Do they make good choices?

Kindergarten, grade school, middle school, high school, college: we are ticking off the list at an alarmingly rapid rate, but I'm happy to see, when it's all spelled out, that they are just at the start of the middle, on the ladder of educational markers.  My children are now the big kids, the ones who seemed so tall and scary to me five years ago. They'll walk confidently in on the first day, not dressed up or even wearing something new (I've been warned). They're ready, and so am I. But that first day, it's always a killer, as new things, even ones quite familiar,  so often are.

As I review and edit my children are in the back yard building a pirate ship out of Adirondack chairs and a tree swing, I'm feeling pretty good about the childhood check list.

NorthSideFour Plus Russell

Three years is a long time to wait, even longer when you're ten years old and three years accounts for just under one third of your life. But wait three years they did, and their patience and diligence has paid off in one big furry reward named Russell.

This summer they worked in earnest, presenting their case early with a well written persuasive essay outlining the benefits of dog ownership, and making clear their plan to meet and exceed all expectations regarding care. They searched online for a suitable pet, initially setting their sights on a young beagle named Tiny Dancer who was available at a nearby shelter. Their informative paper written about Tiny Dancer included this line, "I'm sure we all agree that we will want to change Tiny Dancer's name immediately", but alas, Tiny Dancer was adopted quite quickly by a family perhaps better suited to Elton John admiration. The girls were disappointed but undeterred, the search continued.

It was Jack who needed convincing and yet it was Jack who found Russell, a five year old Beagle/Jack Russell mix who was surrendered to a nearby shelter when his family moved to Ireland. He was confused at the shelter and wanted little to do with us, by evening he was sound asleep in my lap. He slept until almost 10:00 the next day, earning a place, if not yet in Jack's heart, at least in his good graces. He is happiest with Mary and Kate, finally eating, and working hard on his chase the tennis ball skills. He is the perfect dog for us (although I am campaigning for a name change: Rousseau, Roosevelt, Franklin). Good work girls, patience and diligence do have rewards, you did a fine job, and so did your Dad.

Welcome home Russell.

Three years ago our beloved beagle Eleanor Roosevelt died, the girls and I have been campaigning for a dog ever since. 

Ten Going on Interesting

These people are now ten.

Not today, this entree into double digits happened months ago, but we are now hurling towards 18 faster than I thought possible. Many days I mourn, this loss of small childhood, the loss of unrealistic possibility and wonder. And because I work in a school, when I see my towering 10 year old children standing next to tiny kindergartners I realize just how far they are from where they used to be, what seems like only months ago.

And then my perspective shifts and there are times, like this past weekend, when I am able to see this not as something to walk away from, but something I'm waiting to embrace, this new found quasi adulthood.  Saturday night, as I made dinner, Kate worked along side me, making chocolate chip cookies. My help required just to reach the hand mixer in the cabinet, something only necessary for the next month or so, as she is now barely 4 inches shorter than me. Mary sat in the living room working on a blog post, writing so well about her love of real food.

Sunday morning Kate sat at the kitchen counter, searching for examples of media bias online. Which led us to Anne Coulter and a lengthy discussion of politics, wherein I showed no bias whatsoever. Mary, working on homework in the family room, yelled in intermittently, her opinions on subjects ranging from Israel to the current mayoral race in Chicago. We may be balancing on a tender tipping point, the spot situated directly between looking for answers to anything and knowing the answer to everything, but I'm happy here for as long as we teeter. And if we make the most of this time, perhaps finding our way back will be easier.

Vivaldi on Pandora, pancakes on the stove and two children happy to spend this time with me; for this hour or so, my life in the snow globe of Western Michigan was just as I had hoped to see it one day, the future that I thought was so far away, creeping unexpectedly into my Sunday morning and fitting us all quite nicely.

Dance As If No One Is Watching

In the first year, her cumulative stage time couldn't have been more than five minutes, including the curtain call. We were very proud, happy that she had a chance to do something she so obviously enjoyed, and a little awed that she was so completely pleased and engaged in something that allowed her five minutes of stage glory. Mary was eight; participating in the school play in any way was amazing.

Last spring she jumped at the chance to audition once again. We encouraged her; she loved everything about being involved in the play, including time spent with a heavily weighted middle school cast.  But things changed; Mary, previously thrilled with her role as Extra Dwarf Number Three (in a updated version of Snow White), was cast as Mayor Lucy, a major role that demanded time, commitment, energy and a level of chutzpah that I knew she had but was overwhelmed to see on stage. She was amazing.

It's audition time again. Call backs happened this week, and this time not one, but two of our girls made the list. They spent the weekend practicing. Between bouts of pink eye they danced and sang their way from Friday to Sunday. Everyone in our building can now sing the first few lines of "Consider Yourself".  A chasse, which initially landed one on the ground, was perfected to a level of almost coordination. Twins, the formerly dueling duo, spent the entire weekend offering constructive criticism and genuinely supporting each other.

My Facebook wall is flooded with articles, posted by my parent friends, helping me to navigate the often tricky role of parent supporter/cheerleader/realist/coach. Like so many things, in the hyper sensitive world of perfection parenting, there are only so many things on the approved list of what to say to your children in the face of disappointment. Or the alternative, what to say to your children when your encouragement is required, but not so much that you are pushing them beyond the scope of mental and emotional stability, which will most certainly happen if you deviate at all from the above mentioned approved talking points. We all needed some practice this weekend.

But what I heard was two girls enjoying their time together, two children dancing and singing and cooperating. Two girls who were having fun. And that is what is on my approved list, "are you having fun?". The reality is that they are going to be turned down, they are going to be disappointed and they are going to have to learn to deal with those emotions. As much as I'd like to pretend that may never happen, my daughters are walking into a world where they will hear no more often than they will hear yes. My job, in addition to encouraging them, is to help soften the blow. And the truth is that I am in awe of these two children who are able to push past their comfort zone to do something that could most certainly end in defeat. To pass on the opportunity would clearly be much easier.

Thankfully I do really love to watch them dance. And do math, and sing, and sleep, and read, and bicker incessantly. That they can do all that, and handle rejection and acceptance with grace, is enough to make me proud.

But really, you should see them dance.

This post was inspired by The Matheny Manifesto by St. Louis Cardinals manager Mike Matheny. In in Matheny shares his tough love philosophy for childrens' team sports which translates  to everyday life. Join From Left to Write on February 12th as we discuss The Matheny Manifesto . As a member of From Left to Write I was supplied a copy of this book for review purposes.

Take Me Out to the Royals Game

My love of baseball was cultivated in a time when baseball was the star of the game. I am so old that my first games were at Municipal Stadium in Kansas City which was torn down so long ago that a community garden now grows on the site. It was here I chose Lou Piniella as my favorite player and learned what the numbers 1 through 9 signified. It was here that I developed a passion for a summer day at the ballpark, warm and sticky, with 9 innings and a blank scorecard in front of me, in anxious anticipation for the 7th inning stretch. It was here I sat, between my father and grandfather, topped with a Royal Blue ball cap, Cracker Jack in hand, ideally happy for many a summer day.


Once again I am ideally happy. Once again the game of baseball is the star.


In the twenty nine years since the Royals last played in the post season I have grown too comfortable with the idea that the glory days of Kansas City baseball might have passed and that the Royals of my youth, George and Hal and Willie, might just be the only names to remember. My annual visit to Kaufman Stadium became more of an opportunity to share my childhood with my girls than one with any expectations for great baseball. Far too many stories began with "remember when Freddy Patek...?". (No one did.)

I've never been so deliriously happy to be completely wrong.

Playing the kind of baseball that is incredibly fun to watch, putting together runs like puzzle pieces, and behaving like genuinely good guys who are just as excited to be winning as their fans are, the Royals are headed to the World Series. This team that together only hit 95 home runs in the regular season has now swept two teams and won 8 straight post season games, putting together runs pitch by pitch. The team that has not one super salaried star but plays together like they've been doing it since 1985 (even though most of them were not yet born in 1985) is showing everyone what scrappy baseball looks like and why it works. The Royals are making baseball a team sport once again and we are enjoying every stolen base.
 

When the Royals moved from Municipal Stadium to Kaufman, we moved with them, summer days now spent in section 306, third base side.It was here that I announced to my Dad I was too old for the baseball cap he had dropped on my head, here that my grandfather saw his last game, and here that I watched, with my dad, Grandfather and sister, the Royals win Game 7 of the 1985 World Series. My view has changed; Royal blue cap on head I'll watch every game of the upcoming series with three new seatmates, not in section 306 but 500 miles away, remembering how great it is to be a Royals fan and loving every minute of this amazing year.

Jimmy Carter in the Pantry, Now on the Stage

When you opened the pantry you saw this, green Carter stickers covering every single jar, or so it seemed to my ten year old eyes. For those few months leading up to the 1976 presidential election my family owned more peanut based products than Lillian Carter.

My father was a Republican, a rooting tooting flag waving Texas educated Republican. The candidacy of Jimmy Carter was the greatest gift ever bestowed upon my politically minded and quick witted father; he had dinner party material for years thanks to the peanut farmer from Georgia. He also had peanuts, tons and tons of peanuts.

The son of one of Dad's best friends, a Texan, was a Jimmy Carter loyalist. The boxes began to appear not long after Dad returned from a Houston trip: peanut butter, peanut brittle, spicy Texas peanut barbecue sauce, roasted peanuts, salted peanuts, raw peanuts. There was peanut oil, peanut flavored cereals and peanut butter cookies. And every single one of them was wrapped in a bright green Jimmy Carter bumper sticker.

Disgusted, Dad wanted to toss the peanuts. Not so said Sharie, don't be wasteful, we'll eat it all. And so she set about, cooking skills generally limited to the browning of hamburger, to add a pop of peanut to every thing she created. For months we suffered through a myriad of dinners: goulash, spaghetti, stroganoff, all rooted in hamburger and with a dash of peanut butter. What was once a baseball game treat, roasted peanuts now appeared in every school lunch. My teeth suffered the joy of peanut brittle months before Christmas.  Early impressions of President Carter, because we were still eating peanuts long after inauguration day, were a bit peanut shaped.

Dad mellowed in his resistance, Sharie continued to thaw hamburger and I learned about inflation, energy, hostages and the Panama Canal.  By the time he left office, after four long years and a general creaming by Ronald Reagan, we were out of peanuts. History tells us it was not the most successful presidency, bested by the likes of scandalous Warren Harding and impeached Andrew Johnson. His work as a former President has been far more effective and respected, almost all of which my peanut loving father has missed.

President and Mrs. Carter are speaking Monday in Grand Rapids. We will be there with the girls who will know much more about the former president than I did at their age, but with far less peanut flavor.

Summer by Definition

"How was your summer?"
"Lazy."

It's the best answer to the question most frequently asked in the first week of school.  Busy, exciting, exhausting, accomplished...none of these work quite as well as lazy.

We had company almost every weekend, doing what I had hoped we would do when we decided to decamp to Michigan for summer: relax, cook, laugh and enjoy the friends who feel like family and the family who feel like everything.

We picked blueberries, played at the beach, made s'mores, rode bicycles to the farm market and, in short, did everything we possibly could to cast ourselves in one of those glorious Pure Michigan television commercials.  There were none of the big moments that grow over time to make memories, just day after day of beautiful weather and lazy girls who rarely got out of bed before 11:00. 


Kate climbed a tree without screaming in terror the entire time, Mary plowed through four volumes of Harry Potter, I did not write a book, and Jack did not not take off a limb with his new hatchet. It seems we all accomplished just what we needed.

Summer afternoon... the two most beautiful words in the English language.  Henry James

Fifth Grade, Better Now Than Then

On the first day of fifth grade, in my new upper grade classroom (about which I was most excited), I eagerly waited to hear my name as Gwendolyn Winans called out names from her class roster.

"Lang, Allyson? Allyson?", impatiently asked, as she peered over her glasses, scanning the room.

From my desk I waived my hand wildly, having always been a child who liked to have her name called, being just self important enough to think I had something interesting to say.

"Allyson? Oh there you are. Hmm. I hear you're a trouble maker", and she moved on, to the next on her list.

Apparently my reputation as having something to say arrived in the classroom before I did. I was always a talker but rarely a trouble maker, and I was soundly defeated on my first day of school. Fifth grade was not the best year of my young education.

My daughters walked into the first day of fifth grade today, to a new classroom and a new teacher and a new set of classmates. I am confident that their first day will be more successful than mine was, although one of them is quite a talker.

Have a wonderful day girls, and stay away from teachers who peg you as trouble before you have a chance to speak.

September First

      There once was a dream,
      Then two, for a team,
Two little misses with bright eyes of blue,
       And fair as June roses,
       With cute turned up noses,
Sweet rounded lips of a ripe cherry hue;
       No love cold be greater,
       Shown by the Creator,
Than to give double, the portions to you.

Mrs. Hortense MacDougall

Poem written by my great grandmother Hortense Smythe MacDougall in the early 1900s, long before my double portions were born on September first, 2004. Happy birthday wonderful girls.

Kate and Mary Read: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

In the summer of reading, I have now enlisted my children to not only help with laundry, gardening and cooking but also writing. We all read the classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and over dinner, overwhelmed with their responses to my questioning in putting together thoughts on the book, I decided that they would write the essays for From Left to Write. Nine year old writing skills now far exceed nine year old cooking skills, but we're working on that.

Mary

As a five year old I always thought that getting everything would be nice, and that of course my mom and dad could, so then why wouldn't they? I saw kids my age at Target begging and screaming for a doll and they would get it. And when I tried this I got a time-out at home (and no doll). Now I am nine and by understanding the world a little better, I know that wanting (not to mention having) everything, would be a mistake of mine, for I would be bored, but most importantly I would not be a very good friend or person. In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Veruca Salt is like this. In one part of the story she tells her parents that she wants an Oompa-Loompa and that she needs one, yet these Oompa-Loompas belong to Mr. Wonka (mother editor note, discuss owning versus working for with daughter writer). And after she screams and yells and whines they tell her maybe. So in conclusion I think that kids should get things only when they are nice about it and if it is something they need. Kids should never want everything.

Kate
After reading Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory I found myself pondering a fact that I had not even thought about for a very long time: the fact that there is a gargantuan amount of children in the world that have living conditions much worse than mine. Many of these children would call something as simple as  flat screen TV a luxury and complain (actually they might not complain because they were used to it) of heat in the summer and being cold in the winter because they don't have air conditioning and heat. In my free time you'll probably find me relaxing on our back deck or deciding what to play with while rummaging through our big container of outdoor toys and sports equipment. I dont' realize how great it is that I have so many privileges very often, that is until Charlie Bucket pops into my mind again.

The other four lucky winners at Mr. Wonka's factory are described as greedy and spoiled children.  What do you think would happen if they switched places with Charlie Bucket? They probably never thought of kids like him. All four were too busy eating, chewing gum, watching television and and spoiling themselves to ever think of this. From now on I am going to try to think about this everyday.

 
My thoughts, beyond what a delightful and imaginative story this is, as enchanting now as it was when I read it so many years ago, lean to appreciation for fine lessons learned. I distinctly remember being horrified at the behavior of four of the five Golden Ticket winners when I was young; I'm happy to learn that my girls share my horror.


This post was inspired by the classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. To celebrate, Penguin Young Readers Group, in partnership with Dylan's Candy Bar, the world famous candy emporium, and First Book, a nonprofit social enterprise that provides books for children from low-income families, is launching a year long international celebration.

Head over to From Left to Write to learn how you and your child can have a chance to win the Golden Ticket Sweepstakes where the grand prize is a magical trip to New York City, plus much more! For every entry submitted Penguin Young Readers Group will make a donation to First Book. Then join From Left to Write on July 24th as we discuss Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. As a book club member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

This post was inspired by the classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. To celebrate, Penguin Young Readers Group, in partnership with Dylan’s Candy Bar, the world-famous candy emporium, and First Book, a nonprofit social enterprise that provides books for children from low-income families, is launching a year-long international celebration.

Head over to From Left to Write to learn how you and your child can have a chance to win the Golden Ticket Sweepstakes where the grand prize is a magical trip to New York City plus much more! For every entry submitted, Penguin Young Readers Group will make a donation to First Book. Then, join From Left to Write on July 24 as we discuss Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. As a book club member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

- See more at: http://cupcakekellys.com/2014/07/22/charlie-chocolate-factory-ive-got-golden-ticket/#sthash.dbi3dT8o.dpuf

Kate and Mary Read

It will be the summer of reading. Last summer it was bicycles, riding for hours on end for the first time without the aid of additional wheels (quiet, they are city children, it took a bit longer), and the summer before that, the summer of France, on their first trip to one of my favorite countries. But this year, in what could have been the summer of soccer (although, now wrapped, their enchantment with the World Cup was too fleeting to define an entire summer), it is the summer of reading. It's nothing new, they have always been fond of books and stories but this year their lazy selves are lolling in bed some days until 11:00, waking and reading for hours before dragging themselves downstairs in search of food. They are building forts and finding nooks to house their afternoon habit; dirt and sand covered children crawling into the corners of our home, books in hand, to pick up where they left off that morning.

We have no complaints.

When they were born my cousin gave me a book, a big thick book, called "How to Raise Readers" or something like that. I thought this was genius and planned on reading it cover to cover as soon as I found time. I suspect it is still in the exact place on the shelf where I put it almost ten years ago, having never found the time to read about reading, choosing rather to actually just read. This lackadaisical approach seems to have worked.

We read together every night, the three of us. Last night we finished the first in The Penderwicks series, a book we all loved so much so that the next two books have just been ordered from my favorite used book seller. The girls, on their own, just finished Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, as did I, and we will all write reviews next week for From Left to Write, celebrating the 50th anniversary of this really terrific book. And now they will have their own space, NorthSideFour: Kate and Mary Read, because all this reading begets writing, and I'm most curious as to what they have to say. Nose buried in books, I haven't talked to them in days.

Like Sand Through the Hour Glass

The First Day of Kindergarten

"This will fly by", said my friend when Mary and Kate started kindergarten. "Hold on to your seat", they said, as the first day became the first month and then, before I knew it, kindergarten was over.

We just wrapped the final day of fourth grade. The school year, with it's rigid schedule, bounds us so tightly in our collective race to the finish line that, in our effort to get through to the next vacation day, we do miss the day to day joy of dragging our children out of bed at 6:00 A.M.

We start out with the best intentions. September lunches are packed the night before and include sushi, fried rice and black bean wraps. By May my children are eating snack pack applesauce, still frozen edamame and at least twice per week, the cheese lunch box from Starbucks. The clothes that fit, and matched, at the beginning of the year stretch to cover growing bodies in June. At the end of this annual race I'm happy to get them out the door in clothes that are clean: horizontal stripes on top, vertical stripes on the bottom but at least they are Downy fresh.

"How many days until summer?", not because we don't like school but because we are exhausted and deeply moved by the idea of sleeping until something exotic like say, 7:00 A.M.

Kindergarten just became the summer before fifth grade and the mountain of discarded days, those piled up in the race to finish math homework I scarcely understand before eating a hastily created dinner, showering and getting to bed at a time that will at least allow enough sleep so as to facilitate the impending early morning wake up, those days have been carelessly tossed aside in an effort to get through to the next. And the problem with this kind of daily sprint is that you do tend to miss out on the whole of days moving forward, taking us from one grade to the next. You see I don't actually know when the math homework moved from identifying the shape, which I did understand without question, to computing the area of complex three dimensional figures, which I absolutely do not. I wish I did.

The Last Day of Fourth Grade

My concern, because it is not that I like my soon to be fifth grade children any less than I liked my soon to be kindergarten children, is that these days continue to grow behind us as we race to a time when the girls move from my daily life to their daily life. And these days so casually cast aside in an effort to get, clean and well fed, to the next make up the time warp that is hurling us at lightning speed to a time without childhood. Which I believe is some sort of math problem but I can't be certain.

It's time to dig in and enjoy the slow day to day of summer, where being well fed means eating a few ripe strawberries after your second ear of corn on the cob and where math problems are created while lying in the grass looking at starts in the sky. These we remember, and savor, even as they move us from one day to the next.

Helping Hands

Last December, as I tried to explain one more senseless tragedy to my children, I turned to the good Mr. Rogers and encouraged my girls to look for the helpers. They were there, those that run to help in an otherwise terrible situation. They are always there, if you look.

Wallowing in the self pity that comes with a Thanksgiving spent, not full of glorious friends and food, but as a precursor to a weekend full of struggle, I easily forgot that there are helpers in every situation, the kindness is not reserved for catastrophic events. And while moving my mother from a home she has known for over 20 years to a small senior living apartment might not be a worldwide tragedy, for us it was stressful, for her painfully unpleasant. The actual work compounded by her frustration, and, for those of us moving her, the exhaustion, mental and physical, of dealing with logistics, anger and limited time.

There they were, the helpers: the uncles who swooped in and took Mary and Kate away from the madness, who gave them sanity and bowling when the level of crazy elevated to one step beyond tolerable; and the girls, who made every effort to welcome Grandmommy to her new home, bringing nine year old happiness to a bleak situation, along with a tiny Christmas tree for her new apartment. But there was more, plans hatched in another room while the adults debated the proper placement of living room furniture, notes written by Kate, ten altogether, and distributed by Mary into the mailboxes of new neighbors, all without my knowing, but all to the delight of my worn soul.

There they were, helping Mom, helping me; I am very thankful, and blessed that they are mine.What a wonderful Thanksgiving.

"Say Cheese!"

It's picture day at school today which means that I asked my children to each bathe last night.

"We BOTH need to shower? Come on!"

Sadly what passes as clean for one does not translate to the other, no matter how close you are. Yes my dears, it's not much but I thought being clean might be a good start.

"Mom, they are not taking a picture of all of me, just my head. No one will know if my feet are dirty".

The joy of having raised logical and exceedingly bright children, their ability to poke holes in every sort of solid argument I put forth.

"Nor are they scratch and sniff photos, you will not be sharing any of your odors with your classmates for eternity, just yesterday and tomorrow, but today, you shower. Clean hair, clean faces, a good start to every day".

The water was turned on, the racing of children, completely naked, down the hall commenced, and, once soaked, the serenading (last night a mix of Train and Julie Andrews), began. Shower night was officially underway.

It's possible that the best thing that can be said about my fourth grade picture was that I was clean.  My well scrubbed and freckled face appeared on top of a blue plaid blouse, one with a small ruffle near the top, one my mother loved. My mousy brown hair, cut just above my shoulders, was brushed before school and hung, as it always did, straight and shaggy around my head. This was as good as it was going to get, and then Someone Else's Mother appeared. She waved her plastic comb at my head, the same one she had used to tame the tresses of every child photographed before me.

"Oh dear, what have we here? Shall we try and flip it up? Or maybe comb it back this way, to feather it away from your little face?.

Lady, I'm nine. In a few short years everything you are saying is going to be intensely important to me but right now, I'm nine and my hair is straight and brown and clean. I'm pretty sure the eggs that stuck to my chin after breakfast were removed when my father scrubbed me with the belt of his trench coat and that my shirt, while pretty ugly, is crisp enough to be presentable. And that is how this is going to look for years to come, clean and crisp, but not feathered.

She smiled, I ducked, but the plastic comb with the disease laden teeth made their way to my head. 

"Allyson, what happened to your hair?', weeks later, as my mother opened the envelope of pictures. There it was, the work of Someone Else's Mother, a large clump of hair sticking straight out from my left ear, somewhat feathered, completely ridiculous.

It used to be that the girls chose matching outfits for picture day, hoping to appear on Facebook twenty years from now, via a scanned yearbook photo, as twins. Last night Mary began pulling out dresses, offering choices for both that were coordinated if not matching.

"No, no, not that one, doesn't fit, hate that one, yuck, no, spilled toothpaste on it, really Mary?", said Kate.

"Can't I just wear jeans?", and the answer was yes, of course, as long as you wear something nice on top. Her Kansas City Royals t-shirt was deemed not nice, or not nice enough. She fussed her way through her entire wardrobe, finally deciding on a lovely navy dress with a simple collar, a perfect choice for picture day.

Of course all that fussing matters not at all when you find that a pre-bed shower means that you went to sleep with not entirely dry hair, resulting in what can best be described as Flock of Seagulls on one side, matted mess on the other.

"MOM!", wild laughter from the bathroom, as they both crowded in front of the mirror to get a glimpse of Kate's hair.

We squirted it with the water bottle, brushed it back and slid on a headband. No amount of feathering could repair this damage, it was the beautiful smile and clean face that was saving this school photo.

Several weeks from now, when the big envelopes come home, we'll see the results of wardrobe mania, flying hair, and yes, a bath. Several years from now we'll deal with concerns over hair styles, pimples, and clothing beyond what fits and is not covered in toothpaste. And I am certain I will long for the days when being clean was the biggest hurdle and comfort and coordination were the biggest goals.



Bedhead, a truly funny book about waking up with hair that finds it's own way, and of course, school pictures. By Margie Palatini, available here.