mama’s sewing circus

I’d wish you a Happy Fourth of July, but we’re closer to Bastille day. So, let them eat cake then off with their heads!

In recognition of the independence of our country, we spent Independence weekend in Colorado Springs at the Broadmoor. (The Bro More to those in the know)

Lovely hotel from the outside. The same characterless 5 star generic hotel room on the inside that I’ve stayed in around the world. Yawn. We’ll be camping or lodging in Manitou Springs our next visit.

We made the kids suffer through the 3 hours of ascent to and descent from Pikes Peak on the cog railway. The scenery was breathtaking. The train was a marvel of engineering, using a cog wheel to control the direct (straight up and down!) ascent and descent. And standing at the peak felt like standing on the top of the world. All of this lost on the kids, of course.

We visited the giraffes at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo.

Everyone had a dangerous looking photo taken at Garden of the Gods.

There was plenty of swimming, obligatory fireworks, a thunderstorm (just as exciting to the Northern California crew as the fireworks), and good quality family time.

Etched into our brains after all that quality time with little Taylor Swift (aka Sylvie) is our daughter’s take on one of Taylor’s songs:
You wear short skirts, I wear tshirts;
You’re cheer captain hook, I’m on the bleachers;
dreamin’ bout the day when you wake up and find
anda whatcha lookin for has been here whole time!

You are blonde to meeee!
You are blonde to me!

Here she is filming her music video at the Garden of the Gods.

Hope your 4th was wonderful, too.

Kids these days. When asked to identify the lady on the Barbie dress Sylvie was wearing (Barbie, duh), Sylvie confidently insisted it was Hannah Montana. Okay. I get it. That girl is on more underwear and tshirts for the under 6 set today than Barbie. It doesn’t matter that there is no Barbie or Hannah Montana item in our house. I chalked it up to random playground chatter. Maybe the name came up. “My parents really want me to start using the potty, but they refuse to buy me the sparkly Hannah Montana panties. I’m holding out.”

Sylvie recently announced in her dinner table confession of the day that she loves Taylor Swift. Thinking perhaps the Kanye interruption at the VMAs made the playground, too, I filed this information in the back of my brain. In a moment of motherhood clairvoyance, I googled the most common lyrics of what I thought was an embellished version of a preschool song about clothing that Sylvie sings pretty much constantly, “She wears short skirts, I wear tshirts…” Whoa! Sylvie knows a Taylor Swift song! Who got my 3 year old hooked on Taylor Swift?

I’ve yet to piece the whole story together, but someone introduced my daughter to Miss Swift. Taught her the song. And she’s apparently watched the video on her favorite teacher’s phone. The secret lives of pre-teens (3-12)… For some reason I thought we’d reach this point much later.

At least it isn’t Brittany Spears or Lindsay Blow-han.

the square root of two written as a decimal.

If only to be a fly on the wall when these things get introduced on the preschool playground. If the dangers my children are avoiding in their play are any indication, the preschool playground is a heady science convention. Gone are the days of cowboys and indians. My children, instead, spend hours working together to navigate the treacherous ice floes, avoiding the hot lava running out from underneath their beds, and escaping that hungry black hole. The latest to cameo in their play is the evil tsunami.

Is it the movies they are watching? Or is this simply a side-effect of living where the average elementary school classroom looks like a Benetton commercial and the dinner table discussions are likely to involve topics of research at the local university?

It certainly has nothing to do with my weakness for geek music:

We’ve been suffering through heatwave after heatwave out here in the northwest driving us to the ocean for relief from the sweltering 75 degree heat. A few weekends ago, this brought us to the Fitzgerald Marine Reserve, just north of Half Moon Bay in Moss Beach.

At low tide, the tide pools are vast and it is worthwhile to get a map. We also invested in a laminated sheet of local life forms as the kids are old enough to enjoy checking off what they spot.

Although these guys were in our way – you aren’t allowed within 300 feet of one, and they just had to camp where all the star fish usually hang out – we were able to find quite a lot of great sea life.

I learned a few things from the kids. First, Sea Sacs, that bubble-like kelp is fun to squeeze. And, if you stick your finger into a closed sea anemone, it will suck your finger in. If you jab your solid 3-year-old finger into one, it will squirt water out at you. This is great fun for a 3-year-old.

After the tide pools, we headed to a frolic-friendly beach.

Some of us went straight from beach into the bath.

I’ve written before about the struggles with raising a little boy and having high academic standards. The greatest struggle is that early academic excellence is measured in literacy and handwriting, while little boys would be the star students were it instead science and math. My own pupil listens with rapt attention to technical explanations of explosions and spends hours at his experiments mixing common ingredients from the backyard hoping at worst to happen upon a yet undiscovered geyser producing concoction, at best an explosion. My little mathematician steals our devices to sit in a corner of the house quietly laboring at math problem after math problem. And this very same child will sit for hours, even from the age of 10 months, building and engineering should you place him in front of a pile of blocks (now Legos). Not to mention he’s an accomplished electrical engineer having built his age in robots. But, alas, we struggle with handwriting and literacy. So literacy is the area where we focus the last hours and beginnings of each day.

In the last couple of months of school, Will became a reader *and* a writer! As though the floodgates of literacy opened wide. On the long journey to this point, flashcards were helpful. Will seemed to find cards with single words much more approachable than simple books with 3 word sentences. He later progressed to creating sentences with the flashcards that I at first made him read, but later learned to simply let him concoct. Knowing that the standard 100 sight words were limited in their practicality, I’d enhanced the deck by including words commonly encountered in our house like ninja, sushi and chipmunk. I could have guessed, but was slow to realize that it would be most motivating to learn to read and write the classics like poop and fart. Duh. Anyway, despite the low-pressure and solid basics (thanks to a phonetically centric alphabet introduction in preschool) Will has only really come to find reading and writing exciting in the past couple of months since his teacher sent home the final homework packet of the year – 35 worksheets, one for each of the site words exiting Kindergartners are supposed to have mastered. Most of these are words he’d already had in the bag, and the worksheets are generally terribly unmotivating. Public school at its most mediocre. The kid was supposed to trace the word, write the word, write the word in the appropriate blank in a sentence, cut the word out and paste it in its appropriate space on the page and then write his own sentence using that word. Technically I believe the kid is supposed to copy the industrially sterilized and benign sentence on the worksheet in the space provided at the bottom, but what fun is that? I ache with boredom just thinking about it. The change in enthusiasm when I told Will he could write whatever he wanted as long as it used the specified word was incredible. This tiny modification changed the spirit of the entire assignment. And most importantly, my child, Will, who sighs heavily when you ask him to write anything, excitedly raced through page after page of homework, actually figuring out how to spell the silly sentences he’d concocted. Yeah, this kid who’d previously feigned illiteracy was WRITING! Not just gimmees like a and I or even cat. This kid was writing “An elephant is fat. … I like hot cocoa but I am thirsty. … I am in my house. … I pooped today. … I like playing with Matthew. …” Most interesting and obvious to me was his amusement with and ability to just sling out those bodily functions! “You smell like fart!” He thought of it, laughed about it and then quickly jotted it onto his paper. No battle over how hard it was to write or how he didn’t know how to spell it. The kid just figured it out!

Okay, so I get that if I were a “good” mom, I wouldn’t be so excited that my son can read and write curse words. But come on, if he can read and write curse words, don’t you get it? The kid can read and write. Who cares that it started, like most good things, with a little potty humor? And you know, worst case he channels this fascination with parts and functions of the nether regions into a profitable and satisfying career as a proctologist. Amen.

Will and I have deep conversations. Yesterday he asked me what would happen if a meteoroid ran into the sun. “It would burn up in its approach because the sun is super hot.” Okay, what would happen if a meteoroid as big as the sun hit the sun? Huh. So this is where the questions on my college physics tests came from…

So we’re going to test this. We’ve got ice and rocks and fire.

When the IT band screams, running on it causes pain as bad as labor. IT band pain, too, goes in waves. And, just like labor pain, there reaches a point with IT band pain where the waves plateau and even the ebbs are like flows. Today that was about mile 18.

I’ve done harder things in my life than run a marathon. Stage races when I raced bikes were harder. 2-3 days of grueling 2-4 hour pain or 8 hours at the track. In both cases, despite the fact that you hurt from the first race, you had to suck it up until you finished all of your races. Usually, the kid with the highest pain threshold won. Believe me, this is far worse than having to stay at the table until you finish your brussel sprouts. I’ve survived both. Labor was most definitely harder. But, because running a marathon is relatively special, but widely understood to be excruciating, as with labor, when you’ve finished, you hobble off with a ton of street credibility which somehow makes up for the fact that you are hobbling.

We ran the Napa marathon, today. I’ve been joking with Doug that when our friends go to Napa they get spa treatments and drink wine, and when we went, all we got were stinky tshirts and in my case a little soul in my stroll. We must be doing it wrong.

So it went. We set a PR at the half – which isn’t saying all that much at 1:50 – but we were aiming for under 9 minute miles and ended up zipping along a lot more comfortably and faster than anticipated. Comfortable all except my knee which until 13 was manageable, but definitely screaming like a petulant 3 year old who wants candy that she knows she isn’t going to get. At the 14 mile mark feed I was apparently looking pretty pained, and the knee had escalated it’s screaming to the over-tired 3 year old who really just isn’t going to stop until she falls asleep. The PT there pulled me over and stuffed me full of banana while she taped my knee. By this point, things weren’t going so well, and I was considering my options as the course wasn’t getting any flatter and though the tape was sticking, it wasn’t really cutting the pain. I took some advil and somehow ran/walked a few 9+ minute miles to 18 where I was doing more walking than running and sent Doug on his way. We met up at one more feed before parting ways. From 18 to 26.2, I just ran for the cameras. 4:26. The important thing is that I beat the guy in the funny shoes and the 70 year old guy with the bionic knee (no cartilage). I don’t know if I beat the guy with only one leg. It was close.

I’m icing and stretching and hoping to do the Marin Headlands half marathon on 4/3 and perhaps Marin Marathon on 4/25. Gotta keep trying until we get it right.

Friday was a big day in the Diego house.
Just as I was crossing Market on my way to the office Friday morning, my phone rang. It was Doug calling to report that Sylvie had banged her head and might need stitches. No strangers to cuts and bruises, we were both thinking the school was likely over reacting, but quickly rochamboed to determine the who’d be spending the day with Sylvie. Since we both work in the city and live in the East Bay, our commute can be kind of crazy. It is a 45 minute ride via bus to the office, but until 3:30PM, the only way back is via BART + 15 minute walk to our house + 10 minute drive to school. Not a big deal when we’re talking vomitous or feverish kids, but when the kid has a head wound, it is less than ideal. Thankfully, Sylvie’s favorite teacher happened to have a car seat that day, and the director’s mom was around to sub for a few hours. So, while I was making the epic journey home, Alyssa and Sylvie were headed to the ER at Children’s.

On my walk to the house, I ran into a neighbor who had seen Sylvie and was very concerned. My first sign that it might not just be a scratch was when I explained I hadn’t seen Sylvie, yet, and he waved his hand across his brow explaining that she’d hit herself there. That’s a large area – the whole brow. Maybe he just didn’t get a good look at exactly where the blood was coming from? You know, heads gush.

1:45 hours, a Bart, a walk, and a drive later, I arrived at the ER. Sylvie had already been seen, and they were waiting for me before discussing the dressing options for her wounds. Yes, wounds. My god, she looked like little frankenstein with crusty blood holding a very intricate butterfly of bandaids to the bridge of her nose and a Van Gogh-esque tourniquet covering the left side of her face. Her previously pink shirt was tye-died with blood and her blonde hair was tinged pink in spots. So, yeah, they weren’t overreacting. I didn’t take a picture because she looked so scary.

I think it is worth mentioning at this point that although I felt like I was going to pass out, Sylvie just looked irritated to be stuck at the hospital. She wasn’t crying; she didn’t look concerned.

We got to business shortly after I arrived. Sylvie removed her bandages so that the doctor could get a good look at the wounds – no tears, just all business, like a tiny robocop. The doc cleaned the cuts, discussed how to close the wounds without leaving scars, and then loaded her up with Fentanyl via a syringe up her nose. In a few minutes, they were back with a board to strap Sylvie to. We’d played up that they were going to wrap her up like a baby so when they returned, she laid down without drama. They asked her to close her eyes like Sleeping Beauty, and then gave her a local. I expected her eyes to pop open at the first prick of the needle, but Sylvie didn’t even flinch! (My eyes were averted through most of this.)

The Sylvie burrito and the needle (note that I’m holding her brow down so that I don’t have to look at her skull):

Exhausted from the stress of the injury, Sylvie fell asleep mid-stitching. About this time our nurse had to leave for fear of fainting. My little angel on the table:

The long story short: Apparently Sylvie had smacked her head on a cubby struggling to remove her sweater. She split the bridge of her nose and about an inch over her left eye. The nose opened up big enough to fit an adult pinky finger, so it required 3 real stitches. The eye was easily taped with 5 steri strips.

All stitched up and ready to go:

On my drive to the ER, I had been thinking about how when I broke my chin open in tap class at 4, my mom brought me right back to do gymnastics just hours after I’d been patched up. Man, she was a tough lady! For the next 4 hours that had seemed absurd. But somehow, as I was driving home with my perky patched 4 year old pleading to go back to school so she could still have her play date, it made sense. I mean, she was all patched up and feeling okay. And, really, if she got this banged up just taking her sweater off, what was I saving her from by having her hang out around the house for the rest of the afternoon? So yeah, she still went on her play date. I know it sounds crazy, but in this situation, you’d probably do the same.

Later in the evening:

Stink eye:

And another:

So she’s all better and taking to her new name – Scarface – a lot better than we’d anticipated. I’m still a little worse for wear.