Deja vu

People keep asking me how I like having all my kids in school and what I do with my time. Well, considering days like today, being a mom of school-aged children has not equaled rest and relaxation. I got a call from the office which reminisced a call I received exactly one year ago. This time it went like this:

Office: Anneka?
Me: Yes.
Office: This is Kerri [who also happens to be my neighbor] from the school. Morgan's here in the office. She bonked her head, and she's bleeding.
Me: Okie dokie. Be there in a minute.

When I got to the school, it became clear that this wound was not nearly as dramatic as Marissa's, but it was still bloody and in a difficult place to treat -- right in the back of her head. Add this to her awesome haircut, and she's a sight to behold. I don't think we'll do stitches. Maybe some super glue will save the day.

As for what I do now that all my kids are in school? Let's just say that being a mom is a 24-hour job, no matter what phase you're in.

P.S. When I brought Morgan home from school, I let her watch a movie. She chose Beauty and the Beast, so of course I had to sing along. "Mom," she said. "Your singing is not helping my head." Oh, blast!

What did you do in the summertime?

Did you ...

... build a Barbie zipline?

... eat a ginormous ice cream cookie?

... prepare for warfare?

... use the [fish] force?

... flex your muscles?

... welcome alien lifeforms?

... invent a game named "Card Wars" ...

... inspired by a cartoon?

... dance by an outhouse ...

... that you oiled?

... plant yourself in the sand?

... see life through the eyes of another?

If not, you're missing out! But no worries. There's always next year.

It was one day bound to happen

Before - 1st day of school

I was in the bathroom one morning last week when Morgan knocked on the door. I opened it to her smiling face, hair bedecked with an assortment of clips.

"Oooh!" I appropriately cooed. "How pretty! You did such a good .... wha-a-a?"

I spied something amiss. I looked closer. Oh, the horror! The hairdo was NOT pretty. The clips were disguising bangs clipped ever-so-efficiently to the scalp. I responded with the stupidest question a parent can ask, repeating it several times as if the answer would miraculously change.

"Morgan, what did you do?!?"

She knew immediately that she could no longer show off her work with pride and ran crying to her room. I persuaded her to come out eventually, myself a mixture of laughing, crying, and scolding. I discovered the extent of the damage as chunks of hair fell into my fingers, but somehow collected myself enough to take a couple of pictures.

As you can see by her refusal to look at the camera, her shame was complete. I dragged her from her hiding place in her bed to take her to the salon to see how we could remedy the 'do. She kept her blankie securely covering her head until the nice lady at the salon coaxed it off and previewed the damage. Her first suggestion was a pixie cut, but I couldn't bear it. So we opted for pulling some hair from farther back to create the illusion of bangs and then evening up the back in a little a-line. Considering what she was given to repair, I think the end result was all right. We can work with it -- at least for the next three to four months while her bangs grow back.

Ms. Potter, How Does Your Garden Grow?

I grew up loving Peter Rabbit. My mom read it to me when I was young, and I thoroughly enjoy sharing it with my kids now. I have decided, however, that Beatrix Potter must not have grown a garden. Here's the reasoning behind my hypothesis:

We have voles.

 

Okay, so a vole isn't quite the same as a snuggly little bunny, but it wreaks havoc on a garden just the same. I have recently developed an unexpected sympathy with Mr. McGregor, the maligned farmer who turned poor Peter's father into rabbit pie. The scene below has been comically recreated by Jeremy and me as we wage war upon these creatures. Just replace the rake with a shovel, and you've got the general idea.

"Stop, thief!"

Are we heartless animal haters? I like to think not. But if you could see all the nibbles in my potatoes and carrots and tomatoes and squash we have so carefully tended and urged to grow, you would understand my vengeance. Just like I now understand the villainous Mr. McGregor and am quite certain that Ms. Potter a garden did not grow.