Tuesday, April 17, 2012


Coyote and his Great Teacher
Fridays are nice.  I know today is Tuesday, but still the memory lingers. Fridays: No homework.  I go easy on chores (and then spring back like Chore-Lioness on Saturday morning: ROAR!) and we usually watch a movie and have nachos or some other lazy, marginally nutritious food for dinner.  Last Friday was the laziest.  It was sunny and slow.  Coyote was doodling and snacking and he says, "Mom, I'm writing you a note.  And I'm going to put it in the mailbox by your bed.  Are you going to read it?"  "Sure!"  His notes are so sweet. 

Then we all went outside and I roamed the garden, wondering if anything will ever come up other than quack grass.  And I checked out the new leaves on my new willow archways over the entrances to the garden.  And the kids were playing cooperatively..  And Coyote asked if he could play a video game and I said, as usual, "If it's past 5:30, then yes."  And he ran in to see what time it was and did not return.  And that is when I realized it was 5:30 and we were late for soccer.  In about five minutes, people had shin guards and shorts on, had put on cleats, cried because they fit wrong, threw them off, and had burritos to eat in the car.  I'd forgotten about this new soccer coach's Friday thing, ruining our lackadaisical weekend kick-off.

When I fell in to bed that night, I finally saw Coyote's note and it said, "Dear Mom, don't I have soker pratis tobay?"  Translation, "You dipstick! You totally forgot about soccer practice, but I remembered and I didn't tell you! na-na-na!"

But that is the way with kids,  they like to keep their parents clueless.

I just found out that one of Blue's art projects was selected for a display at the airport and has been there several months already.  She said it's not a big deal and she's not a very good artist.  But I disagreed. I love her art.  She's right that she's not a great drawer (but any skill improves with practice), but her 3D and abstract stuff always stuns. She says that's just cuz I'm her mom.  And I'm like, "Girl, I did not pick your piece for the airport.  Some one else also thinks your great."

She also says she's not that good at math.  But her Math is Cool team is headed to state, or "masters".  And she is one of four members, the only girl.  Still thinks she's not that good. 

Blue had a big crush on the game Risk! this winter
When she was about four, we were bored, on an airplane, and I decided to teach her addition.  Within five minutes she was easily adding long stacks of five and six digit numbers.  "Um..." her confused mother said, "Montessori isn't really supposed to be teaching you this kind of stuff right now."  "I didn't learn it at Montessori."  "Where did you learn it?"  "Right here. You just taught me."  And then she rolled her eyes in that precious way she developed at four months old.  And yet some how, this girl thinks that because she's a girl, she can't do math.  She thinks the boys are ALL way better than her, and yet she beat a lot of them to get on the masters team.  I keep telling her that boys just brag more about stuff, but that doesn't mean they can do it better.  This crap has not come from us or her teachers. This girl/math crap can only be something that is in the air.  I believe she got it from breathing.

2nd place team!
And what is with her insecurity?  On the one hand, I prefer that to the dangerous swagger of over confidence.  On the other hand, I am her mother and I am the number one culprit for the role of Creator of Insecurity.  Perhaps she has gotten it from watching me flail at life and hearing me denigrate myself, and rarely mention any accomplishments (I try sometimes and it seems to go bad.  Many women don't want to hear it.  They want you to "play small" and they aren't going to like you if you don't play along.) 

That shirt says 42 and refers to Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Or maybe it comes from when she was two and threw her bowl of olives and chick peas on the floor five times when I was already having a bad day and so I locked myself in the bathroom and cried on the floor, rather than beat her. Or maybe it's because sometimes we didn't talk when she was a baby.  They say you should narrate every second of living for your baby.  "And now I am pinning the clothe diaper... oops! not to your skin, no, that's my bad.  No I'm pinning the diaper to itself."  But I would have her in the sling and hold her feet and feel peaceful as we walked along Alki Beach in silence for a few effing minutes of the day. 

When we visit Coyote's school, her old friends will ask her where she goes to school now and she WON'T TELL THEM!  She just shrugs and changes the subject.  I asked her why and she said they'd just think she was weird, she had enough experience with them to know that being smart is not okay.  So maybe that's where she got this all from, and not me.  After all, I am her mother. No matter what she does, I'll be proud of it: oh honey! a poop sculpture incorporating all the variety of farm feces, and in the oven too, you are so clever! 

So to set a good example. I will tell you that I won third place in the Write on the River essay contest.  I would rather have won first, of course.  I am not competitive in any sport other than ping pong (with or without alcohol) and so I am surprised to feel this competitive-like feeling about third place.  But a prize is a prize and money is money and at least I placed! And if I'm going to cheer on my daughter for taking second, then I've got to be proud of taking third! Also, I found this rather embarrassing but amazing review of my blog: Linkage Love (thanks Lysa!) I am not even going to try to live up to that. 

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