Weirdest Identity Theft Ever...

You like the library, right?  Who doesn't?  Even though I own and have piles of books throughout the house, leaning like towers in Pisa, waiting to be read and love, or read and regretted, I cannot help myself.  The siren call of aisle upon aisle of free books is one I just can't resist.  So I guess its no surprise that a little over a year since getting my most recent library card, I recently noticed that it had somehow worn through the little plastic hole that keeps it attached to my key fob and fallen off, somewhere in the world, never to be seen again.   I took it as a sign that the universe wanted me to start working my way through a pile or two of my used book store purchases and forget about the library for awhile.

That is, until I opened my email one day a couple weeks ago to find a "notice of items due" email from the library.  What, now?  I hadn't been to the library in weeks, and as I clicked on the list of aforementioned items, I knew for sure that I hadn't been the one to check them out of the library.  The Lincoln Lawyer?  Um. No.  The Green Lantern?  Nope.  The Fantastic Four?  As if.  All week I thought, I have to get down to the library and sort this out.  Somehow their computer had made an error.  Then a friend of mine thought maybe we'd swapped library cards by mistake and they were her books.  Until I shared the titles with her.  Yeah, no.  Not hers.

So.  Some rando had found a library card on the side walk, or at a check out line or wherever, and decided to go shopping for some free books.  Weird.  But I noticed later the same day that I received an "items checked in" email from the library, so I chalked it up to someone mistakenly using my card and perhaps not even realizing it?  Or a glitch in the computer system?  I don't know, but I put it out of my mind as one of your garden variety oddities and moved on.

Until yesterday when I tried taking a few books out of the library.  Still working my way through my pile of books at home, but I took Ethan to meet friends and take out some books for him, and they had multiple copies of Gone Girl and Christopher Moore's new one, Sacre Bleu.  So clearly, the universe had sent me back to the library at a most opportune moment.   So I left my kid in the kid's room, reading a Barbie book to some little curly blond haired girl who was following him around like an adoring puppy and headed to the help desk.

When I went up to explain that I needed a new card and that my card had been used by someone else, I was greeted by "You have a balance of $59 on your account."  But.....but....rando library card bandit (heretofore referred to as RLCB) had returned all the items due, hadn't he/she? I got the email and everything.  The email I didn't read very carefully, apparently.   It seems that RLCB had returned a few of the checked-out-on-my-card items, but not all of them.  In particular, he/she had failed to give back The Fantastic Four and The Lincoln Lawyer, both of which happened not to be books, but DVDs.   Seriously.  Using a stolen library card to steal DVDs from the library.  This is a thing?!?

Now, I know that in the grand scheme of identity theft, this barely even counts.  Especially since the kindly older lady behind the counter all but clutched her pearls in horror when I explained what had happened. " Goodness, that's very disturbing," she empathized as she clicked through a few screens on the computer and then informed me that she'd removed the charges and closed out my account on that card and was that she was issuing me a brand new account number and card.  So Ethan and I were able to check out our Stars Wars, The Seekers, Gone Girl and Sacre Bleu without any fuss, with my new card.  No months of trying to clear my name, no financial ramifications or bad credit to deal with as a result.  Just a lingering feeling of ickiness.

It gives me the heebie geebies that RLCB thought to pick up a piece of bar-coded plastic and head to the library in search of things to steal.  From the library.  It takes a special kind of loser, my friends.  A very special kind of loser.

But anyway.  Now I just have to finish the book I'm currently reading (Case Histories by Kate Atkinson--great characters, a little slow on plot in my opinion, but that's kind of how I like it anyway) and then I'll be spending my weekend with Gone Girl.

Oh, Ethan.  Reading to the little blonde Shirley Temple.  Pure Cute.

Some Things...

First.  No big deal or anything, but what the ever-loving hell am I going to do with the rest of my life, people?  The kid turned 7 on Sunday; that means its been almost 7.5 years since I did....well, anything. At least anything professional-ish and career-like.  I have, to my credit, managed to keep an entire human being alive all that time, but you'd be surprised how little that counts for on a resume.

And its not even that my resume has a giant gaping hole in it (whatever, Sandburg,  I was "leaning in" to eating bon-bons and watching my stories--as if), it's that I really just don't know what I want to be when I grow up.  A few years ago when I lived in LA, a friend of mine who had married and had children "later in life" and taken a break from a high-powered corporate Hollywood position was sitting calmly at tea while our kids played, when suddenly she had what I can only assume was some sort of psychotic break and started rambling incessantly about how she was getting so old and no one was ever going to hire her again and that I couldn't possibly understand because I was younger and had been a teacher and you can always be a teacher and her career was so much better and more difficult and exclusive and she didn't have time for "this" anymore ("this" being friendship with anyone who couldn't help her get back into the industry) and poof! We never saw her again.

At the time, we thought she was kind of crazy (and really? dumping us so abruptly and vocally was, not only hurtful, but kind of crazy pants), but it turns out she just wasn't cut out for stay-at-home-motherhood and there's nothing wrong with that.  I've had 7 years of stay-at-home-motherhood and there are huge swaths of days when I think "man, I am so not cut out for this."  These days I find myself thinking about that friend and hoping that she's happy.  Its such a delicate balance and striking that balance is different for everyone, so what works for her is great for her.  More than anything, though, I'm a little jealous that she had a career to slide back into (and she really did slide right back in--her job search was short and she landed a sweet position and the last I heard, she was loving it.)

"Go back into teaching!" people say.  Sigh.  No, thanks.  First, there's the whole certification thing.  Mine lapsed years ago, and given the requirements in CA, I'd basically need a whole new degree to qualify for certification again.  I don't know if I love teaching anymore enough to devote that kind of time, energy and money into that particular degree.  Second, I can't bring myself to teach at another private school (the sense of entitlement--both kids and parents, the unhealthy competition between colleagues, the crap pay, the ulcers....) and I have no desire to teach in the public system (NCLB--enough said).  Its just not who I am anymore.

So then.  It brings me to the two ideas rattling around in the empty space inside my skull where my brain used to be.  A.) Actually try being a writer.  B.) Become a therapist/social worker.  I've been writing, in one form or another, since I was in 7th grade (I still have the journals chock full o' angst to prove it) and the only thing I ever really wanted to be was a writer.  I've tried to introduce myself to people as "a writer," but I always feel 100% phony and absurd, and end up back pedaling with "well, I've never published anything. I used to be a teacher, but I really like writing; not professionally or anything, just I've got a couple novels I'm working on and there's a blog...." and then I might as well have introduced myself with "Hi, I'm Sarah; I'm a blithering idiot."  And the therapy thing?  Well, lord knows I've been in therapy long/often enough to know how it can transform lives.  I have areas of interest and all that, but again, just like with the writing stuff, I feel kind of silly blathering on about it.  I can feel my brain cells screaming in agony as I type all of this because I don't know if I am cut out for any of it any more. I can whip up a Lego tie-fighter. I can bake rainbow cupcakes.  I can use a laminator and the photocopier at my kid's school (perhaps the only remotely marketable skill I currently possess).  Sigh.

Well, I had thought to write a lot more about my bright future career in SOMETHING FABULOUS! But now I've gone and depressed myself.  Perhaps I'll go write in my journal and call my therapist....

Cinco de....Febrero?

In what would prove to be a shade of things to come, Ethan made his entrance into this world 7 years ago, over a month before his actual due date.  Apparently unable to wait for a wider and more adoring audience, he vacated the womb in the most complicated way he could come up with (starting labor with your cervix sewn shut? really special.), and began the next phase of taking over our lives without any thought for our sanity or our, we now realize, absurd expectations of getting any sleep whatsoever for the next year...or two (seriously, babies can be so inconsiderate).  I now believe he made his hasty entrance into the world not only because he needed more attention than he was getting while locked away in my one-trick pony uterus, but because Cinco de Mayo is a pretty kick-ass day to celebrate a birthday.   Really, you've got your 4th of July birthdays, which really rock, but unless he was going to be almost a month overdue, he had no shot at that.  Fortunately he stayed put during St Patrick's day, although I did spend that one in the hospital at "hotel high risk," so it would have been a possibility.  So really, in that time span, his best bet for a built-in party theme for the rest of his life was really limited to May 5th. Clearly, his hands were tied.

In years past, we've gone the Sesame Street, Disney, Beatles (?!), Star Wars route, but this year we were plum out of theme ideas (read: I didn't have the energy or desire to go through 6 hours of Pinterest searching for Martha-esque party ideas related to Jedi training or Magical Mystery Tours). So this year, we decided to keep it simple with an obvious Cinco de Mayo/fiesta theme and your basic old school BBQ.  I bought some cheap decorations from Party City and hung them from the trees in the picnic area, a couple packages of sacks for sack races and a traditional(?) burro pinata, filled with sugar and food coloring.  I whipped up cupcakes the colors of the Mexican flag (again with the food coloring) and cut watermelon into stars and flowers with cookie cutters (my one nod at Pinterest for this party).  We got hot dogs, sausages, chicken and corn on the cob for the grill.  I threw together a way too onion-y black bean and corn salad.  Bam! Instant party!

Family and friends fun!!! Yay!!!

And then we woke up on Sunday morning to fog.  And cold.  And because our party was going to be higher up in the mountains, it was going to be foggier and colder than our regular old fog and cold.  The entire week leading up to Sunday had been scorching.  Hottest week of the year so far.  We'd welcomed summer, as we usually do, right around the end of April, beginning of May.  Afternoons at the pool, cranking up the air conditioner, realizing that "I want a black car with a black leather interior!" was really a mid-January decision--all hallmarks of the coming sweltering months of a California summer.

Or maybe not.

I sent a note to our friends, letting them know that it was chilly up at the party site and that they might want to bring extra layers for the kiddos.

I wasn't kidding.  The mercury barely hit 50 all day up in the mountains and rather than fanning themselves in the heat of the afternoon and holding ice cold beers to their cheeks to cool down, most adults spent their afternoon huddled around the bbq pit or under blankets.

at least the blankets were colorful, though, right?  Festive!

The kids managed to have fun--

See?  They look like they're enjoying themselves?  Right?  Maybe?

Corn on the cob makes everyone happy...

My kid refused to put on long pants, even as his friends bundled into their scarves and sweaters.  But at least he put on someone else's jacket.

Ethan eyes the cupcakes while adults huddle by the fire.

After a quick blowing out of the giant "7" candle, and perhaps making a wish for warmth, we abandoned the cupcakes for roasting marshmallows.  Because, you know, fire and warmth and whatnot.

Sadly I have no sack race pictures because I was too busy laughing my ass off at the sack racing children and adults.  There was much flailing and ankle-twisting action.  It was fabulous.

A good time was had by all (most?), but I do hope that I can't see my own breath at next year's party.

I just can't even...

March to May?!  ::hanging head in shame::  In my defense, I...oh, nevermind.

Well crap, guys. You know how marketers love to make commercials that use kids saying embarrassing things they've overheard their parents saying, and saying them at the most inopportune times, for maximum humiliation and mortification of the parents?  And you know how we laugh and laugh at those commercials and do our best Homer Simpson impression (he really is our Everyman, isn't he?) by looking at each other and saying, "its funny because its true!"

Yeah.  Its funny.  On TV.  In real life? Not so much.

It would seem that teaching my child the fine and subtle art of sarcasm at the age of five might have been just a smidgen ill-advised and premature.  An error in good judgment, if you will.  Also?  Allowing my child to see the inner beast of my true nature while I'm behind the wheel of a car?  Not smart. Also?  Driving with my windows down during stop and go traffic? Bad idea.

See, when I was a little girl, I was always very squirmy about driving in a car with my dad. My dad is a wonderful person in a million different ways--he's funny and kind and generous and loyal and a great dancer, and I adore him to the moon and back.  But.  Let's just say he doesn't suffer fools when he's driving.  And he's got a pretty loose definition of "fools" when he's behind the wheel.  Like, "anyone who's not him" loose.  An otherwise soft-spoken and non-confrontational man, he never passes up an opportunity to point out to the driver of the car in front of him the myriad of ways that person is an imbecile, dim-wit, and/or idiot who can't drive the speed limit, doesn't know how to pass appropriately or is otherwise decimating everyone else's otherwise lovely and pleasant driving experience.  In his defense, my dad is a fantastic driver, always has been.  I know of not one moving vehicle violation or accident, minor or major, that he's ever been involved in (knock wood).  But as a child, and a child who was (is) at heart a warm & fuzzy let's-all-just-get-along type, it always gave me serious agita to sit in the backseat and listen to my father snarl and curse under his breath.  This was the 70's and 80's--before the term road rage was invented.  But even then I told myself that I wouldn't get all ragey behind the wheel.

And yet.

I will say, I really do try to remember that everyone's got their own thing going on, and that me getting to where I'm going isn't everyone else's main priority.  The guy who blows past me when our lanes are merging might be on his way to the hospital for some emergency.  The person driving 10 miles below the speed limit might be driving their car for the first time after being involved in a car accident of some kind.  The person who's left-turn signal has been on for the past 10 miles might be in a rental and doens't realize that the car hasn't automatically turned it off.  There are million reasons that people might be momentarily lousy drivers.  And I try to keep that in mind and be gentle with them.  But really.  Some people are just dumbass shouldn't-have-passed-drivers-ed drivers, amirite?

Ethan seems to have not gotten my "stay quiet when the grown-ups are muttering under their breath and cursing people in the car in front of them" gene.  I don't know, maybe it skips a generation.  Rather than sitting quietly and chewing his fingernails to the quick while I encounter the aforementioned shouldn't-be-driving types, Ethan slides into the role of my comrade in arms--echoing my sentiments, sarcastic comments and all.  More than once (daily) he can be heard from the back seat sharply sucking his front teeth and exclaiming "excellent driving, buddy!!" before I even say anything; its like he anticipates my frustration and vocalizes it for me.  I'm not proud.  But I kind of am a little tiny bit.  But not really. (yes, I kind of am).

When he does it (again, daily), I take deep breaths and remind myself to be kinder and gentler to other drivers on the road--he is unwittingly my conscious. His mirroring of my sarcasm, while excellently delivered and perfectly timed (thus the pride), is a reminder that he is always watching, always absorbing, always picking up my habits and making them his own.  When he makes a scathing comment about another driver, I take a deep breath and apologize to him for being such an impatient driver and ask him to try to have more patience, too.

But today.  Oy.  It was the perfect storm of circumstances that could only mean that I was bound to be humiliated and mortified, in a reaping what I've sown, getting what I deserved kind of way.

We were running late.  Something about socks and shoes (both mysteriously missing from their carelessly strewn in the entry way location from the day before--note to self: expect chaos on mornings after you've tidied up as the men in the house are unaccustomed to finding things where they actually belong), and a hot lunch versus packed lunch "discussion" that set us behind by a few minutes.  No big deal.  Plenty of time to get to school.

Or one would think.  But one would be wrong.  Because one forgot to take into account the crossing-guard.  The crossing guard who hates all people in cars and wants them to be late. Who doesn't love a crossing guard?! A human gateway to elementary school, in safety-orange.  A human lighthouse, if you will, with a stop-sign on a stick. I have distinct memories of hugging my first grade crossing guard every afternoon, mid-crossing, and feeling so glad she was there to usher me safely across the big scary road (nerd).  So I've got nothing but respect for the lady in the orange vest.

But omg, someone needs to give this lady a flow-chart or something. Anything to help her manage the constant stream of pedestrians and drivers bearing down on her at any given time.   Totally getting that her number one priority is the safety of the children making the long perilous sojourn through the cross walk, one would think that there could be some way of balancing that objective with the concept that parents driving their kids to school also want their kids to get to school before lunch time, and the drop off line takes roughly a quarter of an eon to get through as it is.

Ms Crossing Guard has a habit of running out into the road and stopping traffic at the slightest hint that a pedestrian is somewhere on the block and approaching the hallowed cross walk.  Each and every pedestrian gets his or her own safe passage, which means Ms Crossing Guard is often walking back to her station on the side walk and then abruptly turns around and blows her whistle again, stomping back into the center of the road again, leaving all the cars exactly where they were before she went out into the road the first time.  I have seen the driver of the car at the other stop sign eyeing me in what I can only assume was some attempt to message me like a coach signaling his runner to go ahead and steal 2nd at the first available opportunity.  We drivers have to stick together.

Never has a pedestrian been asked to "wait right there" for a moment while the two lanes of traffic take turns moving ahead past the cross-walk.   Never has she waited for 2-3 kids to pile up at the side walk before letting them cross as a group, thus allowing 2-3 cars to make it through to the drop off line.  Today I counted FIVE full out-and-back-and-out-and back turns through the cross walk before she let one car go through, and then went back out into the cross walk to wait for one kid who wasn't even at the cross walk yet...

I might have been drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.  Its possible I sighed heavily.  I might have said "any time!" impatiently, under my breath.

Cue humiliation and mortification in 3, 2, 1....

As Ms Crossing Guard came back to the side walk and it was my turn to inch through the cross-walk, Ethan piped up with "Oh, I guess we're not invisible after all, Mommy!" With his window open, right as we coasted by the lady.

::hanging head in shame::

I have no way of knowing if she heard. Or if she did hear, if she had any idea that Ethan was referring to our lengthy wait behind the stop sign as the first bell rang while she stood in the middle of the road waiting on kids half a block away.  But I still felt my face flush hot with embarrassment and guilt at my own inability to hold my tongue in these situation.  We spent the 4 minutes in the drop off line (wow, I guess its really not a quarter of an eon after all...deep breaths, perspective and all that jazz), talking about how the crossing guard's job is to keep the walking kids safe and a minute or two here or there in our day is no big deal, its just more time we get to be together before we say goodbye for the day, and that mommy will practice being more patient if Ethan will, too.  We talked a bit about how sarcasm can be hurtful rather than funny and that we both have to be careful with how we use it, even if it does make us giggle because getting a giggle isn't worth it if we hurt someone else's feelings.

Starting the day with a big fat momFAIL.  I win.  Tomorrow I think maybe we'll park a block away and walk to school, through the crossing guard's territory.  Maybe we'll pick some flowers for her. And get to school on time while those suckers in cars wait. and wait. and wait.

Catching Up

Well, that was like, what?  A week or two of fairly consistent blog posts?  If that doesn't call for taking a month off, I don't know what does.

So much going on.  House things.  Kid things.  Travel things. Trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up things.  Keeping track of the wild animal count in our neighborhood things (two nights ago, a bob cat and some other unidentified wild thing had a noisy encounter on our garage roof.  Yeah, that's right).   So many things to distract me from blogging.  I even started writing a new story, but after finishing pages upon pages of character outlines, I realized I was really just recreating the Bravermans from Parenthood. Really. So I decided to trash that (and stop watching so much damn TV).  I'm working on something else now, and I always find it hard to write fiction and keep up my blog at the same time.  My brain, it is not so good.  So its possible that I'll write this post and then disappear until June.  C'est La Vie.

You know when you buy a house and you want to paint the walls?  So you go out and buy a bunch of little sample paint colors, take them home, slap patches of them up onto the walls and decide you don't like any of them?  But  now you've got patches of random paint colors all over your house?

Yeah.  That.

These colors for the dining room are supposed to be grey.  And yet, they are blue.  I do not want a blue dining room.

The master bedroom.  Deep purple?  Lilac purple? or BRIGHT green/yellow.  Husband and I are clearly color blind because none of these were supposed to look like what they look like.

Ethan's room.  He has requested the bright blue on the right.  I am going to have to keep a pair of sun glasses in his room at all times because OHMYGOD, the glaring brightness of the blue!!!!

A friend has given me the contact information for a painter who uses all non-toxic paints and can match any regular commercial color, so I am going to be calling him, handing him my check book and telling him, "make my house pretty.  I'll be back later."  Because paint color decisions might be what finally pushes me over the edge, and I'll end up living in a box out behind the garage muttering "damn you, Behr "silver hill" #750F-5!! why couldn't you just be grey like you were supposed to be??!!!" And nobody wants to see that happen.

Now that we've successfully switched homes and schools (and been assured by E's new teacher that his behavior and ability to focus are pretty much on par with every 6.5 year old boy she's ever encountered), I've started the daunting task of over-scheduling us within an inch of our lives.  Monday, there's the "mad science" enrichment class at school.  Wednesday, there's Tae Kwon Do.  Thursdsay, we go to swim lessons and Friday, Ethan can be found at singing/piano lessons.  That gives us Tuesdays for marathon playdates at the park.  On top of that, there's homework to be done and thank goodness that seems to have become an accepted and routine part of our lives.

And its never too early to think about summer camp!!! Lego camp?  Check.  Theater camp?  Check.  Space camp?  Check.  Pool membership?  Check.   This is remarkable for me, people.  I had Ethan signed up for these camps BEFORE the 1st of March.  Unprecedented organization!!  Wheeeeee!! Let's just hope I wrote down the dates of said camps, because it only works if you show up on the right day.

Ethan's first day of Tae Kwon Do was yesterday.  I think I did a great job of securing my role as "that mom" amongst the other moms sitting on the side of the mat.  I may have giggled too much at the adorableness that is a bunch of little kids in white uniforms, flailing and "hiiiyaaa"ing, tripping over their own toes and shouting "yes, sir!!" to everything the instructor says.  I may have sat way forward on my seat to take lame blurry pictures and one random video with my iphone while the other moms read on their kindles or entertained other siblings.  In other words, a little heavy on the enthusiasm.  I'll try to tone it down for the next class.  But seriously.  So cute.

stretching and warming up the ankles. Natch. 

Jumping jacks.  Hilarious.  

I'm Ethan.  I like to kiiiiiick....

 ....and block....

....and kiiiiiick! I'm Ethan!

(those captions only make sense if you remember Molly Shannon's Sally O'Malley character from SNL.  And even then, probably not really funny to anyone but me.  Ah well.)

Ethan LOVED tae kwon do and insisted on staying in his uniform all evening so he could show Husband and practice his fancy moves.  However, since I was making him spaghetti & meatballs for dinner, I did insist that he take it off to eat.  He was not pleased when I informed him that I was not in fact inviting him to dine aux naturale and that I expected him to go put some clothes on before dinner.  After dinner, the uniform went back on and there was much "Hiiiiiya!!!"-ing when Husband got home.

Growing Pains....

Remember that show? Remember when Kirk Cameron wasn't crazy? Those were good times.

Neither here nor there, though.  This post is about my kid's legs.  And the mystery pains plaguing them.   The pains that kept him up half the night last night (according to him; of course, from my perspective he slept all night, so the reality is possibly somewhere in between).  He started limping last night--unable to recall any traumatic leg event from earlier in the day which might have caused the pinching pain behind his knee.   There was much heavily whispered "Ow"ing at every move; whispered to ensure authenticity, but whispered loudly to ensure maximum attention-garnering, naturally.

So we looked at his legs--compared one knee to the other, examined the back of the knee for any sign of injury, swelling or foul-play.  Nada.  A perfectly proportioned, unbruised, unscathed knee.  Veritable patella perfection, front and back.

We offered ice; he declined.  I offered Advil; he declined.  The coping mechanism of near-constant complaining and limping prevailed for the rest of the evening.  It was fun for the whole family, really.

This morning, he suggested from the warm cocoon of his covers that he stay home;  you know, because of the pain.  I admit I was tempted, because the warm cocoon of my covers was calling me and it would have been so easy to just crawl back to bed.

But mystery leg pains don't come with fevers, vomiting or copious amounts of green snot, so as a responsible parent, I just couldn't bring myself to give him the day off for "leg pain."  Not that I don't believe his leg hurts; I do.  But his leg's going to hurt at home just like it would hurt at school and last I checked, leg pain is not one of your more contagious ailments.

On the way to school (which he agreed to with only minor screaming and kvetching after all), I told him I'd make an appointment with our chiropractor for after school.  Turns out having a chiropractor for your kid is a super convenient way to cure him of all kinds of issues.  I'm a fan of chiropractics in general, but for a child, its like a magical process of fixing every little thing.  Whether its placebo or real, I don't care---behavioral problems?  Take him to the chiropractor.  Leg pain? Take him to the chiropractor.  He asked me this morning how his back being out of whack could lead to his knee hurting and we spent the entire drive to school talking about the nervous system and the brain and the spine--he can't wait to get to the chiropractor's today to ask her all it.  And he seems to have totally forgotten about his leg pain.

When we got to the school play ground, I asked two of his friends to take good care of him today because his leg hurt and his sweet friend Bella, a fellow 1st grader, showed him a technique of rubbing the skin below her pinky fingers with her thumbs and said "this sometimes helps with growing pains.  And sometimes it just makes my fingers tickle."  His friend Jack, a 2nd grader, said reassuringly, "I used to get growing pains all the time last year when I was in first grade."  Apparently in 2nd grade, the growing pains go on hiatus?  And clearly the concept of "growing pains" is not foreign to these kids.  Bella later suggest, authoritatively, that Ethan might in fact be going through a "growth snurt." And then I died a little bit from The Cute.

Ethan hopped dramatically down the hall and into the class.  I carried his bag for him as an excuse to meet his long-term sub and explain the leg issues--and I kind of felt like an ass asking her to keep an eye on him and sharing his fears that his friends would tease him if he limped, and chuckled and threw out the phrase "growing pains" and "I'm sure he's really fine, but...."  Thankfully she looked at me like I was only a *little* crazy, and not the full-on lunatic that I am.

So we'll see how he does today with the growing pains and whatnot.  His teacher did tell me that they're taking a "history walk" today (a what?!) so I'm sure I'll hear all about how excruciating that was.      

Let's just all hope that these growing pains usher in the age of an Ethan who weighs more than 40lbs, so we can finally get that kid in a regular booster seat.  Having to endure the "why are you still in that baby booster seat?" questions from his friends is getting to be a bit much for his ego.  Here's to hoping he's in a regular booster by age 7.  Bring on the growing pains!

Homework success...just in time for vacation. Also? Golf.

Its the little victories, people.  Like the fact that cutting Ethan's math drill into strips and hiding them around the house lead to an enthusiastic completion of the exact same worksheet that took two hours the week before.  And the fact that the promise of a treat at the end of the week & the ability to make a smiley face on a white board after completing each homework assignment was all I needed to offer to get the kid to come home, drop his back pack and sit down at the dining room table for 30 minutes each day.  Clearly I forget what its like being 6 years old. Thanks for reminding me, interwebs.

Of course, we met with this moderate homework happiness just days before the beginning of ski week (or, for those of us who don't ski, "Cabin Fever Week"), so that did nothing for our momentum.   Hopefully come next Monday, Ethan will remember the feeling of satisfaction he got from the Star Wars Lego set completing his work and getting a taste of academic accomplishment.  Add to the mix that we were informed before vacation that his class will have a substitute for at least three weeks upon returning from vacation, and I think we've got our work cut out for us.  Super!

Also, last week was the sugar-coated Valentines Day extravaganza in Ethan's class.  They did things like play Valentines Day Bingo, create Valentines cards by gluing conversation hearts onto construction paper (I can't tell you how many kids tried to eat the conversation hearts off of their cards--complete with glue--after they finished them; nor do I care to expound upon how many kids ate the conversation hearts out of the bowls after their classmates had pawed them repeatedly, looking for just the right sentiment of "U R the best" and "U R my honey pie" to glue to their papers. I can only imagine that every child in that class is at home right now, stricken with plague.  ::Shudder::)

Ethan made this cookie:

and actually ate it.  I didn't get a picture of the cookie consumption because I was too busy calculating the grams of sugar and the counting the different artificial food dyes my child was ingesting.  And figuring, based on those calculations, exactly how terrible of a mother I actually am.  Then I remembered he weighs 40lbs soaking wet and Valentines Day happens once a year, and I let it go.  Ahhh, the power of rationalization!

Also, my parents were visiting last week, which means we watched a lot of golf.  Even the cat watched a lot of golf.

And just so we could say we did more than watch golf on TV while we ate snacks on the couch, we actually got in our cars and drove down to Pebble Beach.  To watch people play golf in the flesh, while we ate snacks on the terrace.

Husband and Ethan trying out the latest in golf hat fashions in the pro shop. 

I'm not sure if Ethan's playing golf or baseball here, but whatevs.  

The shmancy lodge on the 18th green. 

Hey there, classy guy. 

Oh look!!! People playing golf! (photo courtesy of Ethan)

We sat outside with the sun burning holes in our brains while we waited for the slowest waitresses ever in the history of waitressing to bring us $20 plates of beets and goat cheese.

Then Ethan and I took a walk down to the green, where we took pictures of ourselves and golf carts.  Like you do.

When we walked back to the deck to see if our waitress had emerged with the fancy appetizers and beverages, Ethan took the camera from me and began what I can only imagine will be a long and illustrious career as a portrait photographer.  Look out, Annie Lebowitz.

One can't venture down to Pebble Beach without at least racing at breakneck speeds (i.e. 35mph) through 17-mile drive.  So we did, stopping at the most touristy and crowded spots to ooh & aahh at the  site of trees, rocks and tons of bird poop. 

The GPS thought maybe we should stop...you know, before we drove right off the cliff and into the ocean...

The lone cypress--which really looks like two lone cypresses, which wouldn't make it lone at all, now would it?

My dad pointing out otters or sea lions to Ethan.  Although, given my dad's history of erroneously identifying marine life, it was probably just a surfer. 

Waves being all crashy and whatnot.  

"Bird Rock" which was actually lousy with sea lions (hardly a bird in sight), bellowing at each other and generally disturbing the peace.  

Afterwards we drove home and I'm pretty sure we watched more golf.