Miracle Grow

Whoa. I am confused dumbstruck.

At 5 feet 1 inch, I am the shortest person in my immediate family.

At 5 feet 7 inches (so he claims, overestimating by about a half-inch), Taxman is the tallest person in his immediate family.

Miss M, at age two-and-a-half, is already 3 feet 1 inch. Over the past five months, she's grown 2.5 (!) inches. (Yes, that's an average of a half-inch every month. Is it any wonder that her clothes and shoes seem to fit for only three weeks?)

All the children's height calculators that ask for parental height predict that she will be 5'5" at most. But they don't know about her tall grandfather, great-grandfather, or other random relatives. And they don't know about the red, curly hair, which doesn't seem to really fit anywhere either.

Now eight months, AM is falling off the growth curves, as breastfed babies are often expected to. But Miss M never did. She's spent her entire life hovering between the 75th and 90th percentiles, in a way that seemed to defy her parental genetics.

I'd love a little flip-flap in the space-time continuum to find out where this is going. Is Miss M going to spend her adult life looking down at both her parents? Will she be taller than her brother? Will the WNBA recruit a nice Jewish girl?

Or will genetic trends win over time?

Mysterious.

Deep thoughts from the bowling alley

Our blitzkrieg through the 781 area code included a stop at the Children's Museum of Boston, where Miss M and my college roommate's* son, J, would have gladly stayed on the floor with the bubbles and the running water for, I don't know, EVER.



Miss M got completely soaked, despite the smock, and then we had to take her out in the 20 degree chill. A fine parenting moment; thank goodness we were only parked about a block away.

Shabbat ended at 5 Saturday evening, and I was itching to run away to Paris with Taxman do something besides watching our hosts, the Zs, wash dishes and check their email. Because Miss M had taken a late nap, I suggested candlepin bowling, with bumpers in her lane. (I lived in Boston when I was a little kid, so this was my only bowling experience until I was about 14. I was never good at the grownup kind. Well, either kind, to be truthful.)




Miss M grooved on the bowling shoes, but could only be coaxed to roll toss a few balls down the lane. Even though she refused to participate in the Mommies (& toddler) vs. Daddies showdown after the first frame, we kept the bumpers up.

I am sure the bumpers improved my game, but somehow it didn't feel like cheating. I never managed to knock down all 10 pins, despite the three chances per round, and had a lot of trouble getting the four pins smack in the middle of the lane, but never had a gutter ball, naturally. It was fun, although I tended to forget the bumpers were there.

I got to thinking that this is how I want my parenting to be as the kids grow. I want to be the bumpers. To buffer Miss M and AM from the big stuff and the absolutely wasted chances. They will have the opportunity to make mistakes, to experiment, and to find their own holes, but I want to give them just a little boost. I want them to forget that I am helping unless they look back for a reminder. Then I'll be right there.

* My roommate is a true carrot-top, and at the museum had the following exchange with a stranger:

"Oh! Where did she get those curls?"
"I don't know; she's not mine. I can see how you'd think that, though."

Co-Sleeping Adventures, Part 224: Not for Amateurs

We spent a lovely weekend in the Bay State, visiting two sets of friends and trying to keep Miss M amused. (We succeeded, except for the car ride home.)

But we spent our first night away sleeping on a blowup mattress, the camping kind. So I was petrified that AM would sleep on his stomach, as usual, and not be able to breathe so well. Taxman and I took turns staying up most of the night to make sure he slept on his back. Then at about 5, Miss M crawled in with us too.

Did I mention the mattress was a double? Four people. One small, squishy bed. And a tension headache THIS BIG.

Parenting rite of passage

I just called Poison Control.

They are just lovely to deal with. I wasn't petrified, just mildly concerned, which could have colored my perspective. But still, the woman I spoke to is now high on my list of people I'd want holding my hand in an emergency.

Too bad I didn't get her name.

(Everyone is fine, I promise.)

Lucky Seven

Seven years ago today, Taxman and I got married.

We were young and insane and hopeful.

Our wedding was joyous and beautiful.

Now we are older. We've learned a lot on this journey. We've made sacrifices for each other, grown together, and cemented our commitment. We have laughed and cried and laughed again. We have poured energy and time into our spirited, red-haired children.

Through everything, we have been a team. From vacation planning to inadvertently sharing our bed with angelically nursing leeches, we try to come to a consensus on everything.

You know how starry-eyed newlyweds answer questions in unison? We still do that.

I am not the easiest person to live with. But somehow he makes it seem effortless.

Late last night, as we whispered in the dark, we just couldn't get over our good fortune. Seven years seems so long and so short, all at once. Looking down the road to multiples of seven, we can only hope that our luck keeps steering us like a gentle wind.

My only regret is that "I love you" is such an insufficient expression of gratitude and thanksgiving for what I have.

That is BRAND NEW information! (Or not)

Last week we had our first of about 60 parent-teacher conferences. You wouldn't think that a child two weeks shy of two-and-a-half would need a 20-minute tete-a-tete,* but we’re paying a lot for this experience, so we'll just roll with it.

Believe me, I have nothing against parents getting an inside track on their children’s schooling.** The thing that got me was the way the information was presented—like we were probably not aware of facts “a, b, and c” about Miss M. It would be one thing if this were a boarding preschool, or even a full day, but honestly, she is there for 10.5 hours a week. That's it. So when her teacher leaned in and said, sotte voce, “You know, she really doesn't play with the stuffed animals and won't take the doll that we pass around at circle time. It's fine, though,” all I could say was, “Oh, just like at home.” Duh!

Another brilliant observation: “She loves the art projects and the sand table and the playdough. Tactile things.” Really? Is that why she pesters me to “Play playdough!” seven days a week? And wants to dig in the sand every time we go to the park?

Taxman was with me at the meeting and ran to work afterwards, but that night he turned to me and said, “You know what the most surprising thing was? That at school she only eats bread and pasta.”*** I agreed, but added, “Plus that they'd love more just like her.” I know she is a “smart young lady,” to quote, but she's willful and a bit of a whippersnapper, so I wasn't sure how that was going over in a classroom setting with a dozen other two-year-olds. I suppose everyone is fine with it.

What I wanted to know—if Miss M has any particular friends playmates—was dismissed with, “Oh, at this age it's only parallel play.” (Although playdates outside of school are strongly encouraged. Why, if it's “only parallel play”?)

The two other families we are friendliest with have their conferences next week. I am dying to find out if they have any revelations from preschool. I'm betting...not.

* I have no idea how to make the accent marks. Sue me.

**Geek alert: One of my absolute favorite parts of the school year when I was in junior high and high school was Back-to-School Night. I sent my mom and stepdad to school with a super-secret packet of information, with my snarky observations of each class and instructor. They always filled in their own comments, and my stepdad usually included a crude teacher caricature or two. Other parents could never believe that I spent time acknowledging that my home and school worlds were colliding for a night, but it was a lot more fun than math homework! Plus, I was a total dork.

***And dessert, it should go without saying. She's not a great eater at home; I'd classify her as "good."

Help! I'm alone with my thoughts!

We are having major connection capital-I Issues over here. Not sure if it is the router (probably) or the wireless card (evil spawn), but I am holding my breath that this 90-second post will make it.

I haven't been able to really read any blogs--or anything else online (news? hello?)--since Monday. It's making me tense and cranky.

I miss you people!