Mother of the Year

     My middle child's school year started off with a note : "Dear Teacher, despite what you may hear, I am NOT headed to jail..." Apparently my ticket for a MINOR traffic violation from the state highway patrol left a big impression on my five year old. (You parents out there know that all it takes is one conversation on the playground for a rumor to start.)
     Halfway through the year I received a form letter from the principal regarding my children's attendance.  They had missed quite a few days because of the plague that struck us the week of Thanksgiving and lasted until the Christmas tree came down (March 2nd. Yes, you read that date correctly.).  However, the attendance office's main concern was not with those absences but with the number of times the children had been tardy.  (I should've seen this coming when our daughter's 2nd 9 weeks report card came and my husband said "Good job on the fantastic grades yet again, kiddo. Impressive increase on days tardy too, Mom."  Although it is standard procedure to receive this letter when the magic number is hit, I took it very personally.  How did I go from the woman with a penchant for punctuality to the mom in the bathrobe cursing under her breath when the tardy bell rings in the car pool line? The mom in the school office signing her kids in late while wearing pajamas with a toddler wrapped around her leg...yeah, that's been me.  More than once.
    The letter came at the worse time.  A few days prior, I had spent my daughter's birthday in the ER with my son, and was back again two days later because both they and I had missed something.  Suffering from residual mommy guilt along with  lingering exhaustion from pulling more than one all nighter with a very sick little boy,  I already felt as if I was teetering on the edge of a meltdown.  And then I opened the mail.  The line at the bottom of the letter was the kicker "If there is a certain health condition or other concern of which I should be made aware, or if I may help in any way, please call me at (insert school's telephone number)."  So I made the call, offering further proof that moms in this state of sleep deprivation should not have telephone access.
     Looking back, I don't recall exactly what I said (and I'm grateful for that), although I"m fairly certain my purpose behind dialing was to explain or rather defend myself for the excessive tardiness and assure the principal that we would be making some changes to ensure that the children arrived at school on time from here on out  Yeah, that was my plan.  The execution? Epic fail. The snippets of the conversation that I DO remember are as follows: " There really WAS a pack of wild dogs circling my house one morning, I misjudged how long it takes me to get them ready for school when I have a 103 degree fever, we ran out of barf bins and the little one puked on the floor as the bus was pulling up, I didn't realize my son had a permanent marker mustache until the last minute...do you know how hard those are to wash off? The naked toddler rolling around in the snow takes precedence over the older kids making the bus, I was on the phone with poison control about the hair roller that the little guy swallowed, and The only way you can help is to close the school and germ bomb my son's Kindergarten class."  As always, the principal was kind and gracious and reassured me that the letter was only a formality and he was certain that things would improve. Clearly, he's an optimist.
    Although the children haven't been late since I made that phone nearly a month ago, it's what happened last Friday that makes me a shoe-in for the Mother of the Year award.  I forgot about the kitchen utensils that I had put in the bottom compartment of my son's lunchbox the evening prior (to prepare a snack of apple in the car for his little brother in between errands) and sent him off to school with cheese, crackers, carrots, yogurt,  a juice box, a steak knife, and a potato peeler.  Thankfully, the only person that peeked in that compartment was my son and when he realized the extra items weren't fruit snacks or Oreos he zipped it back up and went on with his day.
     I was horrified when I opened his lunch box after school...visions of school suspension, expulsion and parent court danced in my head. I was grateful that no one had been inadvertently hurt as well as relieved that my mistake hadn't been discovered by anyone other than my child. When my husband walked in the door from work that evening, my daughter ran up to him and said "Guess what Mommy did today, Daddy?!  Just guess!  I'll give you a hint...it's way worse than bringing us to school late too many times. She could've gone to jail for REAL this time."  Glad I don't have to write THAT note to the teacher...
      

The Two Types of Moms

     Mothers can be categorized in so many ways...stay at home moms, working moms, first time moms, experienced moms, mothers of boys, mothers of girls, mothers of singles, mothers of multiples, older moms, younger moms, etc. etc.  Shortly after I joined the ranks myself, I started grouping all moms into one of  two categories: moms of children who sleep alot, and moms of children that don't.  I fall into the latter category.  Times three.
    While my friends' newborns snoozed (for multiple hours, multiple times a day), mine was wide eyed and wide awake All. Day. Long.  Sure, she'd pass out a few times a day while nursing for about 15 minutes, but that was it (and  I'm not entirely certain that dozing while eating  qualifies as a nap anyhow).  By the time she turned 1, those brief rest periods were consolidated into one 30-45 minute power nap that she gave up around the time we brought her little brother home from the hospital, a month shy of her second birthday. While her baby brother nursed and dozed,  I'd lay down with her, close my eyes for a few minutes...and wake up with a new hairdo. It was during this time period that I learned how to nurse standing up with the baby in a sling while drinking coffee . The only way to stay awake was to stay upright and caffeinated. 
     Although baby boy visited daylight hour dreamland slightly more than his predecessor, it wasn't by much   ( he took TWO 30-45 minute power naps which he gave up before he was out of diapers). By then, I was pregnant with baby number three. While some of my friends were trying to wean their kids off naps before starting Kindergarten, I had two kids under the age of five and the only person in the house whose eyelids drooped mid-afternoon was me.
     Convinced that our new little guy would break the nap rejection cycle,  I read all the best selling infant sleep books while playing the white noise machine, practicing my swaddling technique, and implementing a soothing, predictable nap routine. I also interrogated, er, interviewed all of my girlfriends that raised good nappers and took copious notes. After all that, not only did this kid refuse to nap but  he refused to sleep at all anytime, anywhere other than in my arms or in my bed.  So I did what any other exhausted mother would do...put side rails up on our bed, and started using the crib as a giant hamper. Showering at night and sleeping in my clothes to allow for some extra shut-eye in the morning. Refusing to teach the kids how to tell time so I could put them to bed at 6:30 p.m. If you read the last few sentences and find yourself shaking your head in confusion, then you my friend are one of THEM.  If you're nodding and smiling in understanding, then you dear reader are one of US.       
     
     
    
   
    

5 Minutes For Mom Ultimate Blog Party

     Excited to be attending a party... even better that I can wear my robe, comfy slippers, and night cream.  This is my first time submitting to the "5 Minutes for Mom Ultimate Blog Party."  I began my blog after dozens of my Facebook followers encouraged me to take my writing to the next level.  Apparently folks all over town were pouring their morning coffee and logging on to find out what was going on in the Pinciaro household.  As a result, Life According to Laney made it's debut in February 2012.  From rainbows and paper hearts to K-cups and childbirth, take 5 minutes to read and laugh, cry, or cringe along with me.

Trash or Treasure

     While sitting in the waiting room at the eye doctor's office, I decided to be productive and clean out my purse. In one pile I put the important stuff:  wallet, keys, cell phone, etc.  In another pile I put the items that had been cluttering up my bag: gum wrappers, a pile of rocks, a fake mustache, a toy figurine minus an arm, the missing arm, a lollipop, etc.  I noticed an elderly woman watching me and considering her neat appearance I assumed she was appalled at the junk I had accumulated.  As I was debating what to do with a crumpled paper heart, her name was called by the nurse and she stood.  As she walked past me she leaned over and said "I miss when my pocketbook used to look like that." I gave her comment little thought, and shoved the majority of the contents back into my purse as the nurse came to escort me to the exam room.
     A couple of weeks later after an exhausting trip to the grocery store complete with a check out line tantrum from the toddler, I was grateful for all of the "junk" in my purse.  Headed to the car, the little one was happily slurping on the emergency lollipop while giggling at his brother wearing the fake mustache.  As I reached into my bag to get the keys, my daughter spotted the torn paper heart that I had put in a Ziploc baggy to preserve.  She smiled, remembering that she gave it to me more than a year prior to cheer me up if I ever felt sad.  As I loaded the kids into the van, the elderly woman's comment went through my head.  It was then that I realized that someday I too am going to miss when my pocketbook looked like this.

KISS Day

     KISS Day had finally arrived (Kids Invite Someone Special) and Gianna was thrilled to have Poppa Carl  spend the morning at her school.  The entire first grade had a program prepared and she had been working on a book for her guest of honor all week.  I couldn't wait for her to come home and tell me all about the special memories she had made with her grandfather.
    Later that day Gianna told me all about the fun activities they participated in.  I was happy to hear she remembered which homemade muffins I contributed and had shared one with my dad. She was proud to introduce Poppa Carl to her teacher and show him her classroom. I read the heartfelt entries in the book she created for him and knew it was something he'd treasure forever.  I like when "Poppa scweses (squeezes) me wale he hugs me".  "Hide and seke and reading" are things we do together. Something that makes him happy is "when he comes home I jump out and he picks me up and twirls me around".  I smiled remembering that was exactly what he did with me when I was a little girl.  Gianna then told me that her teacher read an excerpt from her book to the entire group, and I wondered which one of those precious entries the teacher chose to share.  Gianna told me it was the last page of her book and I turned the pages to the entry I somehow had missed.  It read "Poppa" is funniest when "he brps out loud and my Grandma gets mad. She says 'Carl don't tech the kids things like that'." 
   

Calling all parents of little ones...this blog's for you!

Life According to Laney: It's Not All ABCs and 123s:      I started researching preschool options for my first born well in advance.  A friend of mine was so impressed with my thorough checklis...

It's Not All ABCs and 123s

     I started researching preschool options for my first born well in advance.  A friend of mine was so impressed with my thorough checklist and comprehensive file that she told me she'd send her daughter wherever I decided to send mine.  The school I found was a perfect fit.  It was accredited by the National Association for the Education of Young Children, utilized a developmentally appropriate play-based curriculum,  implemented the security features that I felt to be of utmost importance, and was located in a church with prayer before snack, celebration of Christian holidays, and monthly story time with the Reverend. My daughter thrived at this school, and when it came time I enrolled her younger brother.
     Tony was the opposite of his sister.  He liked preschool well enough, but instead of the detailed accounts  that I got from her I was told that he "forgetted" what he did, what he read, and even what he ate.  All of my teacher education training told me not to push him, so I waited it out.  I pored over the class bulletin board,  viewed the art work in the hallway, and daydreamed about the big breakthrough when he would be ready to talk about his day.  Would he bring home a precious piece of art  and describe it in detail?  Maybe he would come home one day and proudly write his name using mostly lower case letters. Perhaps he would retell me his favorite tale from story-time or sing me a song.
     After much anticipation, the big day came.  When I arrived to pick up Tony, he looked as if he might burst with excitement.  "Guessa what Mama?  Guessa what?  I learn-ed sumpin' new today.  Do you wanna know what it is?"  Did I want to know??  I had been waiting for this day for weeks.  I knelt down to his level, looked him in the eyes, and prepared myself for the precious memory that I would rush home to write about in his baby book.  And then he said "I learn-ed that Nicholas's butt stinks too, just like mine.  He tolded me.  Isn't that great?!"