what makes cool

The sign on the classroom door read, 

AM & PM Pre-K needs snack replenishment. 

Like all dutiful moms, I made a mental note to pick up a package of something to help my little Obi-1 and his friends stay fueled throughout the afternoon.  In my head, I wondered how I would figure out a nutritious snack that would satisfy a classroom of 4 and 5-year olds, without creating a repeat performance of the sanitizer wipes conundrum.  

And so, days later, we were in that great place of consumerism, Costco.   Upon seeing a large container of organic animal "crackers" (and let's all just agree these are cookies), I suggested to Obi-1 that they could be the snacks at his school.  I expected some sort of tribute to my cool factor and declaration that I was the best mom ever.  Okay, I just expected him to light up with excitement, as these animal cookies are pretty much a once-a-year treat for my guys.

Instead, he looked thoughtful and said, "I think I'd rather take fruit."  Fruit?  Really?!  In my own shock, I failed to remember that I was the one who has raised him to think that fruit was delicious.  Oh, yeah.  Fruit.  Good idea, Obi-1.

Since the snacks have to stock a cupboard, I looked at dried apples, raisins, and apricots with him.  Always in favor of empowering my kids to make healthy choices, I asked what he thought his class would enjoy.

"Plums.  I want to take plums."  

"Plums?  Um, but these are dried plums.  Do you think everyone will like dried plums?"

"If they don't like the snack, they can just put it in the middle of the table."  

My son, ever logical, wanted to take dried plums.  It is a wonderfully nutritious snack, and easy to purchase for a classroom.  It is also, at least I think, probably not the most requested snack for pre-kindergarten.  While my mind wandered to "what-will-everyone-else-think" ridiculousness, my son was confident that his mom would give him a snack he liked, and if his friends liked it too, cool.

Cool, indeed.  My mom & dad used to tell me that "cool" was being able to have confidence about who you were, even when (especially?) you were different from "everyone else."  Or something like that.  I was pretty distracted by trying to fit in, and may have missed some of their wisdom.

Evidently, Obi-1 has not missed the wisdom of being yourself, even if it means bringing dried plums for a snack at school.  Even when the snack cupboard is filled with crackers of all sizes, and his is the only fruit-snack in sight.  Even if a large percentage of children pile their plums in the middle of the table at snack time.

There are days when I just smile and think, "I have a really cool kid."

of little faith

Overheard this afternoon on local newscast:

"People are having a hard time knowing where to put their money...

... or their faith."

I may not be able to tell you whether your money is better placed in a stock or under your pillow tonight, but I can safely say this with confidence:

If you put your faith in a government, policy, economic system, or candidate, you are truly and seriously misguided.  Your very life, freedom, and future hangs in the balance of this decision.   Not one of them, no matter how fully you trust, will save you.  While you may cast votes and give limited confidence to those who represent your ideas and values, do not cheapen your faith by placing it in a present time or person.  They are not saviors, and they cannot rescue you when you finally realize that you need your own bailout.

  

There may never be a completely safe place for your money, but there is a safe place for your faith.  If you're wondering how to invest, ask.

In Love,

MamaToo

in which time literally flew

I know that time has absolutely flown by, when I realize it's been many days since I posted here.  I might not notice, except for friends start commenting that they enjoy my blog, but when - oh, when?!- will I write again?  Evidently, since starting this blog, I've written fewer and fewer times each month.  So are the days of our lives...

It seems that my writing just can't keep up with my living, which is good, considering the alternative.  Nonetheless, I understand it's frustrating for people who trust this spot for little updates on the Kenobi lives.    I admit, since last writing (about the second day of school), I've still not quite gotten the hang of being a parent-of-a-preschooler.  That said, nobody has missed a day or had any dramatic encounter at school, nor have we begun homeschooling to avoid hand sanitizer, so things are going relatively well there.   There are stories I've half begun to write, but they'll have to wait for publishing.

Today, I realized that I was born before two of the major candidates on our presidential tickets graduated from high school.  It's an insignificant detail, I suppose, and yet it is the one thing that made me feel old.  That, and being older than most of the Olympic athletes this year.  I'm also older and wiser, or at least older, than my husband, whose birthday is tomorrow.  This "older" status happens with Mr. Kenobi & I every year for a day, although this year I reminded him that (thanks to leap years), he's actually 365 days older than thirty.  That fact doesn't seem to keep him from taunting me with "you're older" smiles, though, so I replied by suggesting we get a puppy to celebrate becoming thirty-something.  

We're not.

Getting a puppy, that is.  We are thirty-something (or at least I am), and so we're going to have dinner together - without our darling children - tomorrow.  We'd celebrate today, but it's a school day, and a work day, which means I must do dishes. 

Friends, there are far more important things going on in my life, family, and neighborhood, but this is all I can write about today.  For all who kindly read & celebrate new posts with me, thank you.  In the words of a famous governor, "I'll be back."

second day

Having only two days of school under my belt, I can safely assert that I like the second day of school.  The first day is not all it's cracked up to be!

Obi-1 started pre-K this year.  For months, he's looked forward to this day.  I've had moments of excited anticipation, too, and less rational moments of dread.  One of the realistic reasons I've been a little anxious about school was the sheer discipline of doing the same routine every day.  I wasn't sure how this new schedule would affect our otherwise laid-back lifestyle at House o' Kenobi.   We tend to do a lot, but much of our "doing" is flexible.  I had reason to be concerned.

Monday, the first day of school, was also our weekly church staff meeting day.  Fortunately, my boys are welcome at our flexible gathering, and we get together at a home while they play soccer and color pictures.  Nonetheless, it's a lot to pack into a significant day.  I made a big pancake breakfast, followed by putting bike helmets on all and carting the bike trailer off to our meeting (blocks from school, by the way) at 9 AM.  

Biking, by the way, deserves mention all its own.  I am determined to bike to and from school as often as possible.  The school is close enough for a pleasant walk, although it would tire little legs.  My stroller(s) are on loan to parents who need them more than I do.  So, biking is a great way to do our little educational commute.  At least, that's what I tell myself as I lug 100 lbs of burley trailer & children along the street.  Seriously, I think I like the image of biking more than the reality.  This article aptly describes me, I'm afraid.

Okay, so at 11 AM, the boys & I left the meeting and bike back home.  I'd prepared a healthy tabouleh lunch with hummus and pitas, which they love.  At 11:50, we were back on the bike, determined to set the habit of arriving early, not just on time, for 12:15 school days.

Obi-1, for his part, practically skipped into class on that first day.  He hugged me an took off for the adventures.  I did not cry.  I didn't even flinch.  I watched other parents nervously hover & help their children adjust to the classroom, and I walked out the door with Obi-2 holding my hand.  We played at the park a bit while I talked to another mom, and then headed home for naptime.

Um, that is where my plan began to unravel.  Obi-2 did not nap.  He was too excited to go back and pick up his brother.  I did not nap, as child protective services frowns on mothers leaving 3-year-olds to their own devices.  No, in fact, all I could accomplish was a bit of ineffective pleading with my child, picking out a snack, and hopping back on the bike at 2:45 to go get his big brother.

This being my 5th ride of the day, I was definitely accepting the fact that my legs are out of shape, and I don't care if my boys don't weigh much, this trailer thing is heavy.  And hot.  I love the sun, but I'd rather be sitting by a pool.

Nonetheless, we got to the school and sauntered in to pick up (I imagined) a thrilled little Obi-1.  He wasn't.  He looked ready to break into tears.  I barely got him out of the building before he started explaining all the disappointments of public education.  The didn't paint.  None of his new friends wanted to read with him.  Come to mention it, they didn't learn to read at all today! They learned the letter "A," and he already knew that.  Worse, the principal didn't come to school.  Obi-1 was even beat up by a girl (evidently she clocked him on the eyelid with a block).  He did not like pre-kindergarten, and he didn't want to go back.

Good grief.  At least he wasn't upset about hand sanitizer, but my work was cut out for me.  We pedaled home, me brainstorming how to encourage my boy and him barely keeping his eyes open.  I was sure he would rest happily and perspective could be regained later.  So sure, in fact, that I was shocked & dismayed when both he & Obi-2 steadfastly refused to have any sort of "downtime" when we got home.  I served up snacks, and soon found myself trying to get out the door for violin lessons.  

Yes, violin lessons.  Because I'm just that insane - I hadn't rescheduled those for the first day of school, and dang it, if I've paid for them we're going.  Going to violin lessons, it turns out it exactly what it sounds like: going.  It doesn't imply that a child will play his violin.  Nor should we confuse going with responding to anything the teacher asks, no matter how reasonable.  We left violin lessons with me muttering something about "no more violin lessons, ever."

It was 5:30 PM.  There were pancake pans and tabouleh dishes still waiting my attention, and dinner was turning into a box of mac-n-cheese.  Mr. Kenobi took a look at me, heard a 30-second replay of the day, and insisted on taking us all out for a hamburger and microbrew.   They don't serve beer to minors, but I enjoyed mine immensely.

By bedtime, Mr. Kenobi & I had convinced Obi-1 that pre-kindergarten was more fun than he initially thought.  He had learned to draw fun block letters (the kind you could cut out of construction paper and use for bulletin boards) once his teacher saw he knew a "regular A."  He made friends - including the little girl who clobbered him.  He played on that cool playground equipment.  The principal, we assured him, was at school that day; he had simply not come into the pre-K classroom in the afternoon, but he might tomorrow.  While they didn't paint, they did lovely marker decorations on their book bags, and there was plenty of time for painting on another day.  Sure, not everyone was interested in reading in pre-K, but he could always enjoy books at home with us.  His wonderful teacher loves him. By bedtime, he was looking forward to going back to school.

The second day was much better, most importantly because we did not try to pack in too many commitments or too much bike riding.   This new routine will take some getting used to, and I'll probably have to plan our days a bit better.   Obi-1 loves learning & social opportunities, so I'm glad he gave school another chance.  I'm not sure I'll enjoy bike-commutes, but I'm learning from my boy: don't judge an adventure by its first day.

purpose

Excerpt from a debate about emotional response...

"Is birthday cake happy or sad when people eat it? I think it's sad." (Obi-2)

"I think it's happy." (Obi-1)

"But it's getting eaten!" (Obi-2)

"Yeah, but that's what it was made for." (Obi-1)

May we all age with as much wisdom as this 5-year-old perspective.

five

I'm not sure how I got here, but I have a five-year-old.  I hardly feel like I've moved much beyond that foggy new parent stage of life, until I realize that I get to sleep in while my big kid plays with legos in his bedroom.  This, among luxuries like eating my own meal and having time to write on a blog once in a while, are sweet rewards of a child growing older.

Five years ago, when Obi-1 was born, I became "mama." Motherhood was such a significant transition in my identity, it brought a new title and name.  Those first years were a challenge, and I'm certain I did not accomplish all things gracefully, but motherhood has been one of the deepest blessings of my life.  I love being Mama, because of those who call me by that name.  This is a day to celebrate, and a day to look ahead with joy.  

Happy Birthday, Obi-1.  You amaze and impress me.  Your stories make me laugh and think, your drawings make me imagine and consider, and your future is exciting and hopeful.   You are growing into a young boy with thoughts and dreams and personality all your own.  I hope and pray your fifth year will bring you many blessings.  As you grow older, part of me wants to hold onto my little baby, but mostly I'm excited to grow with you.

Our day will be filled with meeting our new pre-kindergarten teacher, finishing a (requested) carrot cake's frosting, and staging a venerable pirate party.  It is my first time to host a party with a handful of little friends without their parents.  What an adventure!  Treasure may lie buried in my backyard, but greater gifts continue to grow in my birthday boy.