The whole tooth, and nothing but the truth

I'm in a real brain cell slump lately. Last week I forgot: 1. James' kindergarten doctor's check-up and 2. Kyle's school planning conference with parent and guidance counselor. He called me that morning from school. "Uh, Mom . . ." One purpose of this conference is to address concerns, but I wisely refrained from stating I'd like Kyle to develop more responsibility and not be so forgetful.

My losing (my mind) streak continued with this morning's drama. Elise came up the stairs in tears. Her speech was so twisted in sobs that I could hardly understand her. Finally the words "nothing there" and "pillow" and "tooth" took shape.

Oh, no! She'd lost a tooth the day before. Somewhere in the middle of church -- visiting teacher -- choir practice -- make salad -- trip to Grandma's -- white-knuckle drive home -- late arrival -- let kids sleep in clothes, we're all so tired -- it had happened. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I, ahem, I mean the tooth fairy, forgot.

My mind raced. "I'm sure it was the storm," I told her, giving her a hug. "Let's try again tonight."

There's not much worse than knowing you've disappointed your children, even if it's a myth-perpetuating type of letdown. I wanted to make it right, and help her leave for school in a good mood. So while sad Elise was resigned to her breakfast I scrambled through the house looking for paper and writing implement special enough to be used by a fairy but nonetheless untraceable.

I failed miserably -- just a pencil and plain piece of writing paper. But you can't very well call out, "Hey, has anyone seen the glitter gel pens?" in a situation like this. With my left hand providing a foil I wrote a quick ditty about that crazy storm, and what a sweetie Elise is to wait. I signed it Love, T.F.

I motioned Emma down the hall, and we sneaked into my bedroom doorway. "I can't have Elise think I've gone downstairs yet today, so can you take these down to your room?" I asked her, handing her the note and several compensatory coins. She smiled at me conspiratorially, and was about to say something -- something, I'm sure, about how fun it is to be big enough to know better, but to still let the magic live on -- when we heard water running. In my master bathroom. Ten feet away from us.

Quickly I investigated. Elise was in there, of course. "Elise, did you hear us?" I asked.

"Kind of."

Well, I went ahead with the plan anyway. While I chatted with Elise back in the dining room -- "Hey, was it warm enough downstairs last night? I haven't been down there" -- Emma delivered the goods. I also instituted our inaugural bed-making inspection before school to unearth the ruse.

Elise got a real kick out of the tooth fairy's faint script. Together we surmised it must be awfully hard for that teeny fairy to manuever a mighty pencil.

Whether Elise is on to me, I can't say. I may have forever dashed her belief in fairies. But maybe as an adult (or 10-year-old like Emma) she'll look back on this and reflect that the tooth fairy is only human, that she makes mistakes, too, but that those mistakes can be fixed with love.

That will be magic enough.

Lucky thing

"Spring is lucky," Elise observed. "It can have whatever weather it wants."

Sam I Am

I'm a spitfire with a cherub's face.

I will not stand still in one place.

You say "left," I will turn right.

I will not go without a fight.

I'm in a hurry to be big,

But nursery and haircuts? Not my gig.

Force me into something new,

I'll kick and scream the whole time through.

I'll throw a tantrum here and there.

You cannot take me anywhere.

You cannot calm me with a treat.

It's YOUR idea; I refuse to eat.

I will teach you, you will see,

The only good plans come from ME.

When I want something I want it now.
Don't ask me who, what, why or how.

Trust me, you will rue the day

You did not let me have my way.



(Good thing I'm cute. That quality alone prevails

In keeping me away from gypsy sales.)

My grunting and throwing and all sorts of damage

Seem larger-than-life for someone so Sam-age.

I think that I will have a say

In all your hair becoming gray.

Yet at night when in my room you peek

And see me recharging in my sleep,

Despite the day's MANY rigors,

You will sigh, you will smile -- it figures --

And be so glad that I am yours.

Good to know

It's nice to know that Elise (the writer) and James (the illustrator) are looking out for their baby brother.

Do'nt put Sam

in the trach

can!

Too bad their sign was directed to teenage older brother Kyle. Sigh.

Syllogism

Friday night when we planned our weekend Jeff asked if he could go to REI sometime on Saturday. (AARGH! Not another Saturday of flying solo!)

Saturday morning he built this seed-starting rack for me:


Hmm. I think the two are related.

Jeff had a great time at REI.

The real scoop

Thanks to good friends and role models for words of encouragement. I wrote about Elise's easy-breezy timeout not because I'm an expert (HA!), but because it was a rare moment of clarity for me, and I need to remember it. Most of the time I haven't a clue.

Here are two fresh examples that better paint the daffy mom around here:

• It was 8:30 when the girls left for school Monday morning. Emma doesn't grasp the abstract so well and was still trying to figure out daylight savings. "So, it's really just 7:30?" she asked. Yep, I said. "Oh, well," she mused, "at least I'll get out of school an hour early."

For a split second I deliciously imagined the look of befuddlement that would be hers at precisely 2:25 p.m. when the bell was silent. I pictured her still reeling until 3:25 at least. It was so entertaining I almost didn't want to correct her misconception. But I did.

• Sunday night James came to the side of my bed complaining that something was in his eye. Unhgh-hunghg, I groggily replied. I looked at it and declared it speck-free (my groggy vision notwithstanding).

"But I can't sleep!" he persisted. "Well, go in your room, close your eyes and count to a million," I said, and left it at that so I could go back to sleep.

Tuesday morning he ran into my room, triumphant. "I got that thing out of my eye, Mom!" I asked him later why he never complained about it again. "Well, you told me to count to a million, and I can't count that high!"

Love: the best enforcer

Elise's "Toad Face"

Saturday afternoon was a contention-filled sibling squabblefest at our house. I thought I was going to lose it (again) when Elise's mean yells carried up the stairs above the cacophony. She can be loud when she's happy, just imagine it when she's not.

Instead of fighting fire with fire I'm glad I paused to take a breath. I went downstairs, silently took her by the arm and marched her back up. I set a stool in the broom closet doorway for a time-out and placed her on it.

Neither she nor I said a word. I started out angry but I softened as I could tell she was so sad. I put my hands on her cheeks to lift her face, telling her as I did so that I love her. Man, those brown eyes get me every time. I told her I was setting the timer for seven minutes (that whole minute per year thing) and that she could come back down when it went off.

I lost track of time in the laundry room (pathetic, I know), but surely the timer would have gone off by now, and I was within earshot. I went back up the stairs, surprised to see Elise still on the stool.

Her explanation? "I set the timer for five more minutes."

I know I have many, many more disciplinary moments ahead of me. I have a 13-year-old and a 1-year-old, for crying out loud, and lots of ages in between. Even my 12-year headstart won't eliminate the road hazards my youngest will create; I can only hope I'm better at recognizing them when they come. And what about the tricky unchartered territory I get to enter daily with my oldest? Again, I can only hope.

I know future moments won't go as smoothly as this one did with Elise. Yet I'll draw from this experience. Discipline needs to be a shaping, not a punishment. Further, they may not like being disciplined, but deep down our children know whether we're fueled by anger, or whether we're acting out of love. They're surprisingly adept at monitoring and improving themselves if we guide them.

I'm reminded of Aesop's fable about the sun and wind betting which could get a man to take off his coat. As the wind blew stronger and stronger the man wrapped his coat tighter. Only when the sun provided its warmth did the man relax and remove his coat.

Whether I am the wind that sharply belittles or the sun that gently encourages is up to me.