Not much to report

It rained on Monday.

It rained on Tuesday, and we went to the dentist.  Oh, and there were haircuts, but not at the dentist.  Although that would be really convenient...  Tiffany and Crystal at Doo or Dye worked their magic, and now Sage has the sweetest little bob and Ashton's hair lost five inches.  What she gained was an amazing cut and an awesome lecture from someone unimaginably more hip than her mother about the importance of washing, conditioning, and combing, not brushing.  Never mind that I've told her the same thing about eleventy billion times.  Tiffany has pink bangs, and with that comes a certain sense of authority.

Wednesday it rained a little more.

Lenten Post #2

Does sacrificing the beloved mommy board and Facebook for Lent count for anything if I instead use this blog as a palate for the brush strokes and spatters of thought that bubble through my brain every day? 

Unrelated: My use of brush, bubble and brain in one sentence hearkens to a Twitter post by everyone’s favorite seventeen year old bride.  Sorry about that.

So.

Parenting in the age of the interwebs means I no longer have to wait for a report card to gauge the girls’ progress in school, and earlier this week, I came across a ”B”.  Stop rolling your eyes.  This helicopter mama is just getting her rotors turning. 

A “B” is not a horrible grade; a “B” is a very solid respectable grade.  However, certain of my children who shall remain anonymous can absolutely do better, and has done better through the course of the year.  A ten point drop needs some explanation.  So the requisite email was fired off, and in response I found that said child has problems staying on task.  Her attention wanders easily, and although she readily absorbs and understands information, has no interest in evidencing that fact.  Case in point, over the course of six trips to the library, she managed to produce a whole four sentences of biographical information about one John Sutter.  “He was born. He built a mill. There was some gold. He died.”?  However, when pressed, she had no problem waxing eloquent about the man’s 77 years on this planet.

So last night we gently tried to get to the root of the problem – and met the Great Wall of There’s Nothing Wrong.  And then, a breakthrough.

“There’s too much noise in the classroom.”

You mean like talking?

“No, people shuffle their feet too much.”

Oh. Dear.

Yours truly may or may not have nearly had a recent nervous breakdown listening to a co-worker’s bare feet slap against the soles of her sandals (there I go again with the Stoddenism) whilst innocently going about her business.  The sound of her foot coming unstuck particularly set on teeth on edge and my mind to wandering about icky foot things.  I am similarly unable to listen to just about anyone eat cereal, Rob sip soup or my mother chew a granola bar.

Sorry, Mom.

I’ve not mentioned these things to the wee one, or really to anyone – quite frankly they’re persnickety and weird, and I get that.

However, it would seem that in addition to a flair for the dramatic, a love of slamming doors and eating chocolate (either together or as separate activities), a refusal to share my feelings and an obsession with the movie Twister, I have passed one more personality quirk onto that poor defenseless child.

At least she got her father’s hair. 

I am the worst blogger ever.

Really. Ever.

It’s been over a year since I had my tantrum about roofs, fences, overpriced appliances and the PTA? Rest assured that I have not spent all of that time sulking in a corner bemoaning the fact that responsibility is not fun.

And what a year it’s been.

Ashton has finally made the transition into full blown adolescent. “But…” you say? Yes, she’s still twee and precious and small and only eight years old – but she can roll her eyes and toss her head like she’s been taking private lessons from Elle Woods for years. And the shrieking. Dear God, the shrieking… I’ve probably lost 25% of my hearing since I last posted.

She’s been running from my desperate arms since she was old enough to walk (and of course walked before any of the books said she would), but this past year it’s become painfully obvious that she is her own person. Yes, I should have figured that out years ago, but she’s twee and precious and small and only eight years old. It’s hard to remember that she runs not from me but into life. Life should be scared – that child will own it one day.

Sage started kindergarten this year and has quickly become Elle Woods. One day last August, I dropped off a shy, slightly frightened little one who still has baby feet and dimples where other people have knuckles. When we picked her up, she had a first best friend, a second best friend, a third best friend, and a list of boys to be avoided. She’s a little neurotic about school – other children avoid homework, mine frantically wakes from a deep sleep at 10:30 PM yelling that she forgot to put her folder in her backpack – but we’re working on that.

All in all, they’re both impossibly smart, funny, and beautiful.

A few highlights that would likely be better suited to an annual Christmas letter…

Ashton’s First Holy Communion. I searched and agonized and plotted and agonized some more and finally had the perfect dress in hand. It was a beautiful confection of ivory dupioni silk and organza, and floated around my pouting and steely-eyed little gremlin like a cloud in a dream. The gremlin, you see, loathes dresses. But, oh, she was beautiful. First Communion was hard – I assumed we’d have a quick practice run, go home and visit with family and then attend a longish Mass and take lots of pictures. The reality involved my parents’ car being jimmied at a restaurant and removed of all luggage, the police, some wine to decompress, my crazy neighbor calling the police back because she sees Soviet spies when anyone parks over the imaginary property line in the street, and an evening of mad cooking. Woke up to more cooking, a four hour rehearsal at the church, home to dress the child, back to church for three and a half hours and finally home again to a huge glass of wine and some cupcakes a small but tasteful reception at the house with family and friends.

Thank God I have two more years to recover before Sage’s.

Texas Outdoor Adventures. In a fit of pure insanity, I signed the family up for a two month program over the summer (this would be the same record breaking summer that sent half the state up in flames) that involved our visiting various parks around the area to complete missions, take photos and compile a scrapbook.

We did hike our hearts out, all before 11:30 am, of course. This lesson learned after I agreed to hike a ridge with Ashton one early afternoon. She was like a little mountain goat; I came off the hill and through the woods with heat exhaustion. Hand to God, I drank four 20 ounce bottles of water when we got back to the car, and didn’t have to heed the call of nature for six more hours. Two weeks later I pushed aside a large clump of leaves to show the girls a lizard – simultaneously reading aloud from our program to watch out for poison ivy. Needless to say, my cred as an “outdoorsy girl” was completely ruined by summer’s end. We had fun, but by August had come to realize that south central Texas contains a lot of live oak, limestone and signs that say “watch out for bobcats, mountain lions and snakes”. There is no scrapbook, but we did score a reusable shopping bag. And of course some funny stories about Momma.

Soccer. This one sounded easy enough. Sign up, buy uniform, sit back and watch. The euphoria of our entrance into the world of competitive sports came to a crashing halt when we learned that Sage would practice Mondays and Wednesdays, Ashton would practice Tuesdays and Thursdays, and that games would be Friday, Saturday, and/or Sunday. I like to think I had a touch of the vapors, but Rob claims I became wildly hysterical and started to hyperventilate.

Practice started in August (while the state was still burning) and the games started in September. I’m not exactly sure what miracle of nature allows a child to run her heart out in 100+ degree heat none the worse for wear – the parents were dropping like flies, even huddled under huge umbrellas and mainlining ice water.

Ashton’s team played hard and well, but in the end had a rough season. Sage (who signed up for the nifty shoes) was part of a team that made it to the playoffs and came in second place. Not too shabby for the kid who preferred skipping to running because she liked to make her ponytail swish.

Both girls made great friends, Rob and I met a lot of wonderful parents, and we’re signing them up for more of the same via spring softball. I’ll just need to bring more ice water.