Art Classes

I had recently signed Girlie up for art classes.

She was very excited, since she loves to draw and color. And she was very proud of her new art kit.

She practically bounced into her first class. And she was thrilled when she found out that they would be drawing a horse, since her new invisible friend is Fluttershy, a My Little Pony.

"Oh, no," the instructor told her, when she realized what Girlie was doing. "We aren't doing this freehand. We are going to copy this horse, which was painted by an artist named Degas."

Girlie looked at her paper and then looked at the photo she was supposed to copy. And the she looked her art teacher right in the eye and said, "I don't want to."

The art teacher blinked and then looked at me. I shrugged. I was not the go to person at this point.

"Why not?" The art teacher asked.

"Because that horsie doesn't have wings or pink hair," Girlie explained in a tone that clearly conveyed she thought the art teacher was an idiot.

"But... but... that's the picture we are copying," the art teacher said, at a loss.

"Well, that's dumb," Girlie said.

At that point, I stepped in. Even though I agreed with her - that is dumb. If she wants to draw a horse her way, why not let her? I want her to learn techniques in a creative environment, not in a factory setting. But I can't have my daughter telling a teacher that the activity is dumb - it's rude and, as a teacher, I can't let her think that is appropriate.

"Girlie, that's rude," I said firmly. Girlie meekly apologized. "Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do," I continued. "This is the activity the teacher planned, and this is what you are going to do."

"Can I draw Fluttershy when I get home?" Girlie asked me.

"Of course," I said. "You just have to draw the horse the teacher picked out for class today."

So Girlie dutifully copied the horse Degas drew. And then we went home and she drew Fluttershy. Personally, I like Fluttershy better.

A Time to Give Thanks

My dad's philosophy towards Thanksgiving is that everyone comes home.

He doesn't care too much if he sees us at Christmas and he doesn't really give a damn about Easter dinner.

Thanksgiving is THE holiday. You. Do. Not. Miss. It.

It doesn't matter that one of my sisters lives in Florida. It doesn't matter that I - and two of my other sisters - live in Southern CA.

And it certainly doesn't matter that I have three kids under the age of five -- one of whom is an infant and needs to nurse every two hours.

I had to load them up, along with my husband, four bags, a container of food, 20 DVDs, a portable potty, coats, two bags of toys, and a diaper bag, to make the 6 hour trip to San Francisco.

Except that it wasn't six hours. It was ten.

And the last two hours, BabyGirlie decided we needed to hear her dulcet tones -- at the top of her lungs.

And Girlie decided that the trip would go much faster if she whined: "I wanna go ho-ome" for three hours.

And Boyo decided that clicking his tongue was an excellent way to pass four hours of the trip.

And I got a crink in my neck as we were loading the car and I couldn't drive. At all.

Yup, my husband and I bitched and moaned the entire way up the 5: This is a nightmare. My father is unreasonable. This is insane. What the hell were we thinking? Why didn't we put our foot down?

We finally rolled into town. And once they realized we were close, my kids were vibrating with excitement. We are going to see Gam-Gam and Poppa! they kept shouting.

Once my husband could stop driving, he could relax and enjoy himself.

And once we unloaded and I got my hands on a heating pad and a glass of champagne, and I could relax and enjoy myself.

And as I wandered around my parents' house and talked to family members that I hadn't seen a year or more, I realized that the drive from hell was worth it because time with family is fleeting. And when I am gone, I want my kids to have good memories.

My husband and I make the drive so that my kids can have this:

Top Five Rules At My House

~
After reading this post, I couldn't stop laughing.

And, of course, I had to see what my daughter thinks is the number 1 rule at our house.

So, according to Girlie:

"Rule #1: Brother cannot hit me.

Rule #2: Brother cannot punch me.

Rule #3: Brother cannot push me.

Rule #4: Brother has to go to the penalty box all the time.

Rule #5: I can kick Brother."

Soccer Girlie, Take II

Well, soccer season is over.

Officially, that is.

Girlie stopped playing in games six weeks ago - that was when she told me she didn't want to play anymore.

I told her it was nonnegtiable - we don't quit. And that if she didn't want to play, she could sit on the sidelines and cheer for her team.

I thought my threat would encourage her to play. It didn't. For the last six games, she has sat on the sidelines, cheering, eating her snacks, but refusing to play.

The last game was Saturday; the End of the Year Team Dinner last week. I knew there were going to be trophies; what I didn't know was that the coach was going to say something about each kid's excellent playing ability.

I was a little queasy as he got closer to calling Girlie's name. After all, what on earth could he say? But if he didn't say anything, I knew she would be hurt and wouldn't understand.

"Our next player showed up every week," he began with a huge grin, "And told me all about princesses and fairies and her friend, My Little Pony. She always smiled and cheered for her teammates and gave everyone high fives. She really knows what true team spirit is; she was an important part of our team - the team cheerleader!"

I let out a sigh as Girlie bounced up to get her trophy and her candy. She was so proud of herself and delighted to have a trophy! [She also showed her coach her stuffed kitty cat, Buttercup, that she had insisted on bringing.]

His speech made me realize that I was so busy griping about the fact that she wouldn't play that I missed what she was doing - she was taking participating, just in her own way.

And hey, maybe in the future, soccer teams will have cheerleaders.

Way to go, Girlie. Way to go.

Wordless Wednesday

Remember when I mentioned wanting to wait until Thanksgiving was over to celebrate Christmas?

Well....

~~~

I'm mildly ashamed of myself.

Only 40 more days until Christmas...

I saw this on FB and it made me laugh.

I've always been adamant about NOT celebrating Christmas until after Thanksgiving. Don't get me wrong, the Friday after Thanksgiving (after I hit the Black Friday sales), the tree goes up.

Besides, there is so much going on between now and Christmas... my birthday, Thanksgiving, Boyo's birthday, finals... thinking about getting ready to celebrate Christmas stresses me out.

Added to that, I haven't started my Christmas shopping yet. Normally I'm done by August (yes, I'm one of those), but this year there wasn't room in the budget to start shopping until the payday after Thanksgiving.

But then, as I was walking around the neighborhood with my kids the other night, I noticed that two houses were all ready decorated for Christmas.

My first thought was that the president of my HOA is going to be pissed.

My second thought was Come ON! It's much too early for this.

And then I saw my kids' faces.

They literally looked like Christmas had come early (since it had). Their angel faces were alight with joy and wonder and excitement.

"Look at that," Girlie whispered. "Do you see the magic lights, Brother?"

"Uh-HUH!" Boyo said, shaking his head vigorously. "It's CHISSMAS!"

Hell.

I guess I'm going to start celebrating early this year. And if you had seen the look on my kids' faces, you would too.

But I refuse to decorate until after Thanksgiving.

Embrace the Chaos

~

A friend asked me what it was like to go from two kids to three.

This is my new mantra:

EMBRACE THE CHAOS

Life with three kids is exhausting.

And exhilirating.

And hilarious.

And frustrating.

And I wouldn't change it for the world.

So, I have learned to EMBRACE THE CHAOS

I let the little things go.

I make the big things a BIG deal.

Every day, though, I just want to accomplish one thing.

The dishes, the laundry, the dusting... just one.

But.

Every day, I remind myself they won't be this little forever.

And I don't want to be mad at myself for not snuggling with them on the couch when they wanted me to.

For not playing Barbies and cars, tea parties and light sabers.

For not reading Thomas and the Jet Engine and Ladybug Girl 20 thousand times. In a row.

For not teaching them how to kick a soccer ball and climb the monkey bars.

For not taking them for a walk and teaching them how to respect nature.

For not baking cookies and painting masterpieces with them.

Because in ten years, they won't want to hang out with me.

So as I look around my shoebox of a house, my eyes take in the dusty table tops, the cluttered floors, the dishes in the sink, the laundry piled in the hampers...

...And then I see three kids grinning up at me with angel smiles...

...And I hear the baby's giggles and Boyo and Girlie's delighted laughter...

And then I hear the wonderful demand:

"Come play with us Momma!"

So I play. And I ignore the mess.

I Just Don't Get It

~
I've mentioned in the past how life has changed with three kids.

Lately, it's the little things I have to shrug off.

Toothpaste I just bought on BabyGirlie's play center? Okay.

Boyo blinging out BabyGirlie during her nap? She didn't cry, so I don't care.

Girlie rearranging the art on her bedroom wall during quiet time? Whatever.

A Thomas train in my refridgerator? Sure.

A Hot Wheel in Boyo's shoes? Why not?

Barbie shoes lined in my closet by my shoes? Hey, not quite what I meant when I told Girlie to put the doll clothes away, but I'll roll with it.

A sock filled with crayons in the laundry?

I just don't get it.

What don't I get? It's not that Girlie is keeping her crayons in her socks, it's that she then put the sock in her hamper.

At least I found them before I put the sock in the dryer.

Fairies Taste Good

~

I've mentioned how Girlie has an invisible fairy friend.

What I haven't mentioned is that Boyo's ability for imaginative play is growing by leaps and bounds.

Last week, while Girlie and Pinna where having a very serious talk (as she put it), Boyo ran over, grabbed the air in front of Girlie and pretended to gobble it down.

"I eat da faiwie!" he shouted, grinning ear to ear. He looked like the cat who ate the fairy - er, canary.

Girlie burst into tears. She was inconsolable.

It took all of my will power not to laugh.

Wordless Wednesday

The fact that I was laughing at her probably didn't help.