Where Does She Get it From?

I was going through my old Facebook photo albums the other day. It’s wild to see how our family has grown and changed since the first day I signed up for social media all those years ago.

During my stroll down memory lane I came across a series of photographs. Of my daughter. From over a year ago. Refusing to swallow a bite of food.

As I was looking at my two-year-old little SweetZ obstinately holding food in her mouth for more than an hour, I was asking myself, “Where does she get it from?” – that stubborn refusal to do the thing that she really doesn’t want to do.

Then a childhood memory of my own came flooding into my thoughts – a very specific trip to the dentist. I’d heard my parents whispering in the front seat of the car during the trip there about what we were going to have done. They didn’t know I was listening, but I was. Even though I was too young to fully understand everything they were saying, I was, however, plenty old enough to understand these words:

“…stitches…”

“…shots…”

“…needles…”

I made up my mind very quickly – lonnnnnng before we reached the dentist’s office. No way in hell was I going to open my mouth. That dentist could call frogs from the waters and fire from the heavens, and nothing – ABSOLUTELY NOTHING – was going to make me open my mouth. Not if doing so meant that there would be needles, shots, and stitches.

I remember sitting in the dentist’s chair (which to my little, distrustful eyes, seemed like some kind of mutant-mechanical praying mantis waiting to eat me, slowly and painfully), looking up at the posters they had tacked up on the ceiling. A kitten sitting in a wagon. A pretty rainbow scene. That classic shot of the two little boys wearing overalls that reads, “So, how long have you been farming?” I distrusted those posters. They reminded me of clowns. And I was LIGHTYEARS ahead of Stephen King when it came to the ugly truth behind clowns. I had my own preconceived notions regarding those devilish bastards before IT was published…and he was 39 when that went to print. I was a mere sprite when I realized the true evil behind clowns. But that’s a story for another post, another day.

Anyway…

I was staring up at those posters, all alone in the examination room, contemplating my chances of success if I were to bolt, when the dentist came in.

He said hello.

I stared at him.

His nurse said hello.

I ignored her and stared at him.

He sat on his chair and pulled on his mask. His eyes crinkled behind his glasses. Maybe he was trying to smile at me. I thought he was glaring.

He asked me to open my mouth.

I stared at him.

He repeated himself.

I stared at him and gave my head a tiny shake. No.

He looked at the nurse and gave her a slight nod. She moved a step closer to the chair.

My tiny head shake grew into something a little bigger.

I don’t remember much past this point. It’s all kind of a blur. There was a commotion, some loud yelling, and hands holding my shoulders down while someone else tried to pry my mouth open.

I still have bad dreams. I still loathe dentists.

I don’t know if they were able to do what we’d come for them to do – I honestly don’t remember. All I remember was clinging to the notion that if I were to survive that visit, I MUST NOT OPEN MY MOUTH.

So, as I was looking through our family photographs of my daughter displaying her stubbornness, I realized,

Oh.

She gets it from me.

And I smiled. Because even though she’ll have to learn to develop the kind of self-control that doesn’t allow her to just give into her stubbornness willy-nilly, seeing myself reflected in her is a pretty darn cool thing.

Now, check out SweetZ in her 1 hr, 10 minute refusal to swallow her food.

Fifteen minutes into her refusal to swallow a bite. She's still trying to smile at me as if to say, "Look, lady. I could do this all night long."

Twenty minutes in. It's becoming less and less fun.

Forty-five minutes into the battle of the wills. All eye contact has been cut off. She had no idea at this point just how stubborn her mama could be. And clearly, I had no idea just how stubborn my daughter could be.

A full hour into it. An HOUR, people.

And there it is. Seventy minutes later, the will broke. The food was swallowed. And there was much, much cuddling. We never had an issue with her swallowing her food again.

ROW80 Check-In: Week 4

Hey y’all!

Week four was satisfying. Reading, writing, exercising…all went well. There wasn’t a whole lot of overachieving going on, but I nailed each goal (except one), which is enough for me at the moment. The exception was the ‘do something good for myself’ goal (*scrunches up nose*), but I’ll do better this coming week, promise.

Hey, and you guys, I absolutely loved getting feedback on writing log-lines (and blurbs), and can’t wait to spend some time this week playing with your suggestions. Thanks – like, a ton!

The really, really good news is that I think we’re looking pretty darn good, homeschool-wise. If that aspect of my life is going smoothly, all the other pieces fall into place relatively easily.

Birthday boy!

Today marks my oldest child’s tenth birthday! We’re super pumped – at our house, we celebrate birthdays for a full week. Birthday weeks are everybody’s favorite because it’s a week chock-full of fun, fun, fun. So I might be a little more absent online than normal, partying my booty off to celebrate a decade with one of the coolest, most remarkable young men I’ve ever known. Go ahead and be jealous! Or, better yet, come over and join us in the fun. We know how to have a good time!

Wishing each of you a happy, productive week!

I Could Fly

When I was a little girl, I could fly.

Every recess you could find Little Jo Blu, as my grandfather called me, making a bee-line for the swings.  I would stay there for as long as I could, pumping my legs as hard as I could, soaring into the sky.  I could fly, and fly I did…usually donning an imaginary red cape very similar to the one Super-Woman wore.

I don’t really remember much about flying in the school-yard.  It seems like there must have been someone alongside me, but I can’t remember who.  The memory is isolated and foggy.  All I can really recall is the feeling I’d have in that achingly brief moment when my swing would reach as far as it could go, and for a instant – a fraction of a breath – I’d be suspended in air, weightless and free.  Then gravity would wrap its firm fingers around me – a reminder of just how earth-bound I was.

It never got old, that feeling of suspension.  The feeling that if I believed hard enough, I could become a bird, or at least fly like one.

Last week, as I was lying in bed wide-awake, trying to talk my frazzled mind into going to sleep, this memory (among others) careened into my brain.  I can’t figure out what prompted it, but I miss it.  Miss being so utterly lost in the feeling of swinging, in the power of imagination, that for the briefest of moments, you are what you dream you are.

These days my dreams are different.  I don’t daydream about flying.  I haven’t had an imaginary red cape in decades.  I dream about a house that cleans itself.  A dog that doesn’t shed, or eat poo.  Meals that make themselves.  Clocks that count seconds a little more slowly.

Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, I forgot about flying.  It left me.  No, that doesn’t sound right.  I think I left it.  At some point in my life I decided it was silly.  Too fanciful.  Unrealistic.

I think I need to go find a swing, and remember.

ROW80 Check-In: Week 3

First of all, let me say to all you who stopped by and left the sweetest, most encouraging words last week, THANK YOU.  I’ve gone back and re-read all your encouragement several times throughout the week – it’s meant so much to me.  If I could squeeze each and every one of you, I would.  Thanks, so much, from the bottom of my heart.

Last week’s check-in turned out to be the start of a week-long pit-stop for me.

With some carefully-worded guidance from my sweet, enduring husband (who knows full-well just how ugly my pregnancy listening filter can make any words, no matter how kind), I decided to all but cut myself off from the web, and focus on the most pressing issue at hand: our homeschool curriculum.

Thankfully, after two months of tears, tripping down the wrong paths, pulling out our hair, etc., I think we’ve finally got it figured out.  The week has been spent diving into this new curriculum, and I’m seeing all the signs that we’ve found one that works: the boys are happy and willing to do their work, sweetZ’s tickled to have her mommy-time back, and I’ve got a couple spare hours a day I can devote to writing/blogging/WANA-ing.  This coming week will really be the true test for all that, since I didn’t write a sentence – blogging or otherwise – last week.  Instead, I snuggled with my girl, napped when I was tired, and had fun helping my boys along.  I’ll add back in my writing responsibilities this week, and see how it goes.

Even though last week was less-than-stellar, goal wise (with the exception of the wholesome brekkie thing, and the reading thing), I’m satisfied.  Some problems, if you don’t stop everything to fix them, will grow into something wholly crippling.  This was one of those problems.  Any homeschooling parent lives with a constant nagging shadow following them around – the fear of somehow failing their kids in a way that will cripple their chances at becoming a successful adult.  It’s a powerful fear, one that will bring me to my knees faster than just about anything.  Last week was one of those weeks, but I’m finally feeling that burden beginning to lift.  Phew.

Hoping your week went well, sweet friendlies!  Sorry I’ve not been to any of your blogs over the past week, but I’ll get back into the swing of blog reading in the coming days.  Much love to you all!

SIDEWALK CHALK

Sidewalk chalk is a staple of childhood in the Shafer house – along with bubbles, slip-n-slides, and water guns. Our driveway is often covered with graffiti: aliens with fourteen eyes, giant scary spiders, kick-ass rainbows. Every single one of us becomes a Klimt, a Van Gogh, an Escher, a Michelangelo, when we’re squatted on the ground with a fat piece of chalk between our chubby little fingers.

But holy cow, guys. Some folks have taken this childhood art-form to a whole ‘nother level. And it is oh, so good.

Any childhood activities you’ve seen translated into grown-up fabulousness that have made you stop and stare in wonder? Share ‘em here!

Big grins,

Myn

(Not-So)Silly Soapbox: Mr. Popper’s Penguins

I wish I could sit you down and read this book to you.  Like, right now. Cover to cover, in one sitting.

This is one of my all-time favorite books.  Sure, it’s a children’s book, but the story is so sweet, so endearing, so funny.  No person with a heartbeat could help but adore Mr. Popper from the moment you see him walking down the street covered in paint and bits of wallpaper, ’till the end when you’re waving goodbye to him and his penguins as they make their journey back to Antartica.

From start to finish, this is a great book.  No wonder it was honored by Newbery.  They’re kind-of known for having great taste in children’s lit.

About a year-and-a-half ago, I had the happy job of reading this book to my kids for the first time.  They ate it up, just like I had when I was little.  Some things are timeless.

My kids are being raised in a world where everything is available on a screen of some sort – movies, books, music, tv, art, games.  While technology definitely has its advantages, I have to admit, I dig that convenience far less than the average person.  The hubster and I often butt heads about this.  It’s his job to be on the cutting edge of home integration technology – a job he loves.  Which means we have more gear than any sane person has the right to (even if it’s far less than he would like).  And it’s something that the kids have adapted to from day one.  They’ll never know what an answering machine is.  What a rotary phone is.  They’ll never know the joy of going to the movie rental store to pick out a movie to rent.  There’s been a digital world at their fingertips pretty much since the moment they emerged from my womb.  They’ve grown up with this stuff.  So whenever we read a book together that’s a hit, it’s only natural that they’d ask whether there’s a movie for it (and if they can watch it in the car on their iPod).

My response, as the ultra-stellar-super-cool-number-one mom that I am is to simply roll my eyes, chalk it up to my boys being little miniature versions of their dad (who, by the way, is ultra-stellar himself), and Google the title of the book in question.  This time, it was Mr. Popper’s Penguins.

Nope, I told them as I scanned the screen.  No movie.  Oh.  No, wait. (clicks on IMDb website)  They’re making a movie.  Oh.  (gulp)  It’s a Jim Carey movie.  Hmmm.  (squinches eyes)  Looks like they strayed from the plot a little.  There’s a trailer.  Let’s see.  (watches, dismayed)  Welllll….the main character’s name is Mr. Popper, and there are a few penguins, soo…I guess that’s the same.  

Thankfully, the movie wasn’t due to be released for several months, and the kids forgot about it.  *phew*  A family of five has to take out a second mortgage to see a movie in the theaters these days, so we usually only go if one of the children proclaims they might actually die if we don’t.  This usually only happens if the movie involves alien robots simultaneously trying to save/destroy Earth while some teenage busty babe – played by an actress who is clearly not a teenager – pretends to fix cars.  Gag.  Me.  Now.

(This, by the way, is a tactic I plan on using when The Hobbit is released.  I will die if I don’t see it in the theatre. The thought of missing it actually makes me feel faint and a little nauseous.)

So, we didn’t see it in the theatre.  In fact, we pretty much forgot about the movie altogether.  Until we found ourselves home this New Year’s Eve with kiddos who were anxious to watch a movie.  As we were scrolling through the rentable selection on AppleTV, Mr. Popper’s Penguins popped up.  And the kids remembered.

How bad can it be? I asked myself as the kids bounced up and down, noisily awaiting my decision.  I mean, even if they mess with the plot a little, it’s still Jim Carey.  He’s always good for a laugh or two.  Or at least a snorting chortle.  And there are penguins.  Penguins are cute, right?  If Morgan Freeman’s taught us anything, it’s that penguins are cute.

And so we rented Mr. Popper’s Penguins to ring in the New Year.

Blarg.

Let me tell you where the screenplay writers and director got it right:

(1)  There is a guy in it named Mr. Popper.

(2) A penguin arrives at his house via mail.

That’s it.  Those are the only two similarities between the book and the movie.  Oh my gosh, and it makes me so mad!  Not because they made the book into a movie – if there was ever a movie that could have rivaled the heralded children’s classic Babe (the book’s name is The Sheep-Pig) in the sweetness of the story, the humility and lovability of the main (human) character, and the ample personality and charisma of the main (animal) character, it’s Mr. Popper’s Penguins.

I understand that when a book is adapted for film, that the film will usually stray from the story a bit – that’s expected.  I don’t know if there’s a book out there that’s ever been made into a movie that hasn’t been changed at least marginally.  But this is a whole ‘nother animal completely.  They didn’t simply do some tweaking to make it more film-worthy.  They re-wrote the whole story.  Here are a few examples of how:

In the book… Mr. Popper is a poor but loving husband and father whose favorite pastime is daydreaming about adventuring into the wild.  In the movie… Mr. Popper is a very wealthy businessman who’s divorced, barely knows his kids, and daydreams about making lots and lots and lots and lots of money.

In the book… Mr. Popper receives a penguin in the mail from his hero, Admiral Drake, as a gift for a kind letter he wrote to the Admiral.  In the movie… Mr. Popper receives a penguin in the mail from his dead father (who was an adventurer) who never had time for his son when he was alive.

In the book… Mr. Popper teaches his clever penguins to dance and perform together, and he and his family hit the road to do a traveling show (and have many adventures together).  In the movie… Mr. Popper uses his penguins to try and win back the love of his kids and ex-wife.

In the book… Mr. Popper finally gets the dream of his lifetime when Admiral Drake returns and offers to take him on a trip to Antartica to return the penguins safely home.  In the movie… Mr. Popper finally gets the dream of his lifetime by managing to purchase Tavern on the Green for his real estate company, thus becoming parter in the firm.

Sorry.  I have to say it one more time.  Blarrrrrg.

I get it.  Movies with cute animals, spunky kids, physical humor, and parents getting back together work.  I mean, when I was a kid, I could recite The Parent Trap word for word.  But to take a book like Mr. Popper’s Penguins and break it…it seems so totally unnecessary.  Why not just write an entirely new movie, name it Mr. Miller’s Macaws, and be done with it?  Believe me, nobody in their right mind would have ever thought the two were similar…because by changing the name and the type of bird, you just completely erased any similarities at all between the book and the movie.

I would love, love, love to see this movie done again.  The right way.  Set in 1938 when the book was written.  With humble, sweet and charming characters.  With birds who are not named ‘Loudy’, ‘Bitey’, ‘Lovey’, and ‘Nimrod’, but have names like ‘Captain Cook’, ‘Greta’, ‘Columbus’, ‘Victoria’, and ‘Magellan’ – to name a few.  With hilarious hijinx that involve more than the birds pooping on Mr. Popper.

How do you feel?  Have any of you read the book?  Seen the movie?  Have a favorite book that’s been slaughtered by Hollywood?  Think I’m full of crap?  Talk to me, people!

The Death of a New Year’s Repeat

New Year’s resolutions give me the heeby-jeebies. Big time. And yet, every year, I find myself making them. And breaking them, almost immediately. It’s a sickness. Someone should make a pill for it.

For the past, oh, I don’t know, say gazillion years, one of my New Year’s resolutions involves running. That I’m going to start running. Keep running. Find my stride. Enter races. Place in said races.

*Enter daydream sequence here* Que music: Chariots of Fire, of course. It’s a rainy race day; but true athlete that I am, no amount of drizzle will keep me from putting one foot in front of the other in an effort to be the very best I can be. The finish-line ribbon is just ahead. So is one other runner. Some Amazon with long, sculpted legs of steel. She looks like she was bred to run. She’s probably been running since infancy. She doesn’t know how hard I’ve worked; she can’t understand the obstacles I’ve had to overcome (yes, in my daydream, sheer laziness is a plague one cannot blame oneself for; it’s simply a mountain to climb. I told you this is a sickness). My legs pump faster, harder. I cross the finish line first, barely. My opponent weeps out of joy for me.

Seriously. This daydream has to be brought on by some kind of chemical imbalance. Big pharma, where are you when I need you?

Anyway…

I used to run. Two miles every day in high school through my first year of college. I loved running. Not because I was good at it, or fast…oh, no. Not at all. In fact, I believe my running style could best be described as Drunk girl slowly being chased by no one. But it was just me, solitary, on some lonely country road in south-central middle-of-nowhere Kansas. Endless skies. Dusty gravel. Pretty, simple country birds. Cows. Sometimes a tractor or truck would pass by. But it was such a quiet, simple place to be. I’ve never loved running because of how I felt doing it; I’ve loved it because it was a way to be totally, utterly alone.

These days, I’m never really alone. It’s not for lack of opportunity – the hubster is awesome about letting me have ‘me’ time whenever I want/need it. I don’t take him up on it as often as I should – not because it’s something I don’t want, but because I find when I am alone, I still can’t shut off. I can’t get there like I used to. I can’t find a way to get to that flat-line buzz I used to have all those years ago, as a teenager running alone in the country. Maybe that’s one of the caveats to being a grown-up: you can never fully shut off like you could when you were younger. Too many burdens in daily life to accomplish it.

This year is nearly finished. I’m going to turn thirty-three in a few days. And I’m thinking, once again, about what I want this next year to look like. I know I’ll find my way to New Year’s resolutions; it’s compulsive, I can’t help it. And running will probably make its way onto the list again. Not as an ill-fated foray into escapism, but as a means to other ends (namely, shedding baby weight after #4 comes in April). Because I think I may have finally come to terms with the fact that the thing that I was striding for in running is something that’s out of my grasp…something I’ve lost in my adulthood, that has its place only in childhood – that short, short time of life when trouble can be forgotten by simply putting one foot in front of the other.

I know that sounds like a dark and gloomy place to start the new year, but really, I don’t feel that way. I’m as hopeful about this coming year as any other that has passed. I’m just done chasing that particular rainbow. I may never be able to travel through this life without the burdens adulthood places on my shoulders, but I’m strong enough to carry them. I don’t need to escape them. And that feels pretty good – recognizing my own strength, and not shrinking away from life and the curveballs it’s guaranteed to throw at me on more than one occasion during the next 370-some-odd days.

I want to hear about you, sweet friendlies. Does the year’s-end prompt introspection in you? Are you replacing New Year’s resolution repeats with newer, improved resolutions? Don’t be shy!

Only Human: Guest Post by Ginger Calem

Today’s post was written by my friend and blogging buddy, Ginger Calem.  I knew we were meant to be friends when I read her post about the grubby-undie-syndrome on Survivor.  You can check out her blog here, and find her on Twitter here.

Today she’s touching on a subject that’s bit me in the keister more than once.  I’m sure many of you can relate:

Child loses tooth.  Tooth-Fairy magically arrives in the dead of night depositing cash prize.  Child finds prize and assumes that, for the rest of forever, when teeth fall out, the Tooth-Fairy will return, prompt and swift, bearing enough cash to one day pay for college.

Sadly, however, this is not always the case…

Take it away, Ginger!

************************************************

The Tooth-Fairy is human too.

Ok, maybe the Tooth Fairy is not exactly human but seriously, they are put on this high pedestal and they can make mistakes sometimes.  It’s inconceivable that they can be on time to leave their loot in exchange for every tooth that falls out each day.  I mean, sometimes there’s a blizzard raging over Europe and making it to Texas might be a stretch.  Do you want her to be flying in those conditions?  It’s all about safety people!

I know of a home, and of course it would not be my own, (ahem), where the Tooth Fairy may have been a tad unreliable.  It’s an oddity that this has only happened with this home’s middle child. (Why is it always the forgotten middle child?)  But see, those parents recognized that there were nasty, dangerous weather conditions where it might have been possible that poor little Fairy had to tuck in for the night to wait out the storm.

There may have been occasions that some parents (again I won’t name names!) might have suggested to a random middle child that perhaps his room might have been too messy for the Tooth Fairy to risk life and wing to find that rogue molar.  Again—safety first!

I offer these observances to all parents out there so you’ll be prepared for those rare occasions where you might have to explain why the Tooth-Fairy, in all her cute glitter-winged glory, might need a little forgiveness.  I’m sure that should she be late, she will arrive!

Has the Tooth Fairy ever been tardy in your house?  Please share so that I will not all the other families will not feel alone.