Poor baby!

I had parent/teacher conferences this week with Jonas and Marek's preschool teacher.

She starts with Jonas because "he's going to be the easy one." He's reading like a champ, know simple addition/subtraction, has learned all the basic preschool skills like lines, listening, and sharing. He's more than ready for kindergarten next year and seems to be ahead of the game at this point.

Then, we move on to Marek.

"I'm so sorry," she says, "because I didn't realize that he couldn't count until we did his testing."

I didn't know he couldn't count either. Oh. My. God.

She shows me his testing results. Shapes are okay, colors are excellent, writing not so good, counting not good at all.

"He says one, firteen, nifth, aaaaateeen," she says.

She apologies because she just didn't realize that Jonas, she means Marek, hadn't been catching on to counting.

Um, yeah, I hadn't realized that either, then the guilt set in.

Whereas I spent a lot of time working with Soren and Jonas when they were three, scrutinized the kinds of television they watched, and read book after book that counted cows, and stars, and slippers, I have not been doing those things with Marek.

Marek just tags along with whatever we're doing or watching, and much of that doing is more kid-appropriate rather than toddler-appropriate activities.

I spent a lot of my time teaching Jonas how to read this winter, then read to Marek, without testing him on comprehension.

It's my fault, not his teacher's.

And I've vowed to focus more on my baby. Now we count before bed. A trip to the store for a workbook is on this weekend's chore list. And, the older boys are going to be forced to give up some TV time to accommodate their little brother.

I feel bad that I've dropped the ball. That he's neglected as a younger child. But, I'm gonna make it better.

My boney, first-world problem

Over the last year and a half, I’ve lost 30 pounds. I’m a couple pounds away from a healthy weight according to all those BMI charts on the internet. Believe me, I checked them all looking for the we-like-our-girls-on-the-chubbier-side chart, but it doesn’t exist.

So here I am, the healthiest weight I’ve ever been as an adult. I’m feeling pretty good about the accomplishment. Plus, I’m proud of the strides I’ve made in becoming an overall healthy person.

The biggest change was in what I eat. I ignored all the fad diets and eat what makes sense to me. I focus on non-processed food, vegetables and fruits. Oh and I stopped drinking soda — for the most part. If a family member opens a can of fizzy pop, I will inevitably ask for a sip. A sip is satisfactory.

I still eat junk food from time to time, but mostly not. In the past, I tried eating according to some crazy diet that involves flax seed and grapefruit juice. Now, I eat the healthy foods that I like. Sounds crazy, but it works for me.

Here’s the rub. 30 pounds down and I’m still chubby in all the places I was chubby before. OK, I’m less chubby in those places, but still obviously chubby (I’m avoiding using the term “fat” because I’m trying to be nice to myself. But when you read “chubby,” know that it really means “fat”).

And get this. The places that were just fine before are now boney and not in a good way. My collarbones jut out in a less than attractive manner, while my thighs jiggle with every movement and my butt is still as cottage-cheese looking as it ever was.

When I was demonstrating to Bill my boney shoulders and décolleté, he tried to act like he wasn’t grossed out, but I could see it in his strained smile. It’s not good, people.

I’ve never seen before-and-after weight-loss pictures where the girl goes from pear to bowling pin. I’m feeling a little ripped off.

But then I realize that I’m complaining about losing 30 pounds. When I was 30 pounds heavier, I would have punched someone complaining about this “problem” square in the face. So I’ll take my boney shoulders and shut up already.
 

As seen on Joan Lunden’s site

Robin just shared a link that Joan Lunden has on her site at www.joanlunden.com.

I love how stuff like this is still exciting to us after nearly 8 years of blogging. Wow. How should we celebrate this year's Haute Blogo-versary?

Tastes like chicken

It takes me so long to do everything. Get out of bed. Brush my teeth. Write a lecture. Grade research papers. It’s like I’m stuck in slow-motion. I push, but I never go any faster.

I think it’s because I’m slowly cooking myself.

See, I’m always cold these days (the fact that it’s cold out and I won’t turn up the heat may be the source of the problem). I sleep with my mattress pad on low. I sit at my desk with a heater at my feet and a heating pad on my back. In my car, I never turn off the seat warmers.

I think I’m being slow roasted. I think if I started basting myself with butter eventually my family would able to serve a tasty, rump roast at my wake.

Soon, summer will be here and I’ll be outside sitting around getting cooked further by the sun. My skin will continue getting all brown and leathery, like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. Maybe I should start wearing cloves and apply a orange glaze.

I bet my general sloth-like daily routine will lead to tender leg meat. My wings will be pretty skimpy, but I bet my pork belly will be great for frying up with some over-easy eggs.

Just think how much money my family will save on catering at my funeral.

Mmmm ... tastes like chicken.

Wordless Wednesday: Saturday mornings

Yet again

The bombs in Boston were set by people to hurt other human beings who were out just trying to run a race. The children and teachers at Sandy Hook were just going through their school day and they were shot down by another person, another human being. A gunman shot people, human beings, sitting in a movie theater. I could go on and list all these events, but it boils down to people, human beings, attacking each other. Like it or not, we live in a war zone.

I tell my daughter to not worry, we are safe here. But we’re not. We’re at war with an enemy we can’t identify because the enemy is us. Anyone of us might be planning a similar attack. People, human beings, just like us, will die and be wounded. It will happen again.

I wish I had an “unless” to add to that last statement, but there is no “unless.” We will continue to terrorize, hurt and kill each other. It’s not because of guns or religion or politics or because someone was bullied in school.

It’s because we hate.

We as a species on this planet attack each other because we hate. Oh, there is always some justification why these things happen. But I’ve never heard of an attack done by someone who just loved people so much they just had to blow them to pieces.

There’s never been a time when human beings weren’t killing each other.

Oh, we like to pretend that we have evolved. But I don’t see it.

So what do we do? How do we prevent this from happening again? I have no idea except maybe hate less. Yes, that seems ridiculously simplistic, but it’s what I can do.
 

In the dugout

The saga of Little League continues ...

We had the first baseball meeting a couple of weeks ago where I stood out on the track in my work skirt and esperdrilles and told a group of parents that I was the default manager, but obviously not a coach. One parent piped up — "well, who's going to teach our boys to pitch?"

Yeah, my point EXACTLY.

Our group had a few dads who said they would be more than happy to help, but their jobs wouldn't let them make a full-time commitment. A few are oil and gas guys, another a firefighter, another a lineman ... fine, but commit to what you can and let's take it game by game. We had enough parents to pull it off, probably.

There was grumbling.

So, I said, "Look, I don't want to have to tell my kid he can't play baseball this year. I don't know what I'm doing but I'm going to do what I can." I really said that, then immediately regretted committing to more.

I set up more practice. Last week, I spent much of my free time sending emails to parents, picking up uniforms and equipment, and filling out paperwork. Basically, I nagged and nagged and nagged until I had a whole folder of volunteer forms and concussion training certificates. Nearly every parent on our team is registered, probably not qualified, but registered to be out on the field if need be. When I turned this fat packet in to one of the board members, he laughed, saying he hadn't seen more organization from any team so far.

I thought I'd really accomplished something!

Last night was our first game. We had coaches, an ump, and even someone who knew how to keep score. I was in charge of the dugout.

I had no control of the dugout. It was like Boys Gone Wild only they were shooting Gatorade and talking about cups. "Every time I play ball I get hit in the nuts," one boy said. "Awwww," the boys chimed back.

Me: "Boys, don't say nuts."

Them: "Are we supposed to be wearing cups?"

Me: "I don't know. Ask your dads."

It went on and on this way, except remember, they're all 7ish so in the meantime there's some lying on the ground, others spitting, another crying ... I felt like I was sitting in the dugout of the "Bad News Bears" only their wasn't any alcohol.

It didn't make it any better that we didn't know all the kids' names. I think that fact alone helped us get stomped 5-0.

The boys were sad. Glove throwing, cussing, more crying.

Losing sucks.

We have another practice next week where I'm going to strongly encourage some names on jerseys. And next time, I'm coming to the dugout with the biggest bucket of gum Sam's club sells and using to wisely.

Run, Little Sugar, Run

Remember a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned that Mar had signed up for track? I wasn't sure she was going to like it. Well, guess what?

She loves it.

She talks about track all. the. time.

I'm so happy and not just because we spent a bunch of cash getting her signed and suited up for it, but because she has a sport that she enjoys ... for the most part.

Yesterday was her first track meet:

She was excited. My mom and I were excited. Bill wanted her to not get hurt. It's not contact football, it's track. Sheesh.

Her first event was the 100-meter hurdles:

Look at her ponytail fly!

I was so happy to see her clear all the hurdles. 

Her second event was the 100-meter sprint. 

She had a great time and really enjoyed the experience ... until she found out she didn't place in either of her events. She ran well and was first or second in both of her heats. But not placing burst her bubble. And that's too bad. I hope she figures out that doing her best and improving with practice and effort is way better than not running at all.

Wordless Wednesday: 15 years at the Sentinel

With sugar on top

Last night Margaret handed me this note:

It's a hand-written request asking me to bring Taco Bell for her and her friends to lunch today.

Just look at how cute the whole note is — especially its emphasis on the "Thank You." Of course I agreed. Did you see the little heart at the bottom? Oh the cuteness.

It just goes to show that being thorough and polite is the best way to get your mom to bring you junk-food lunch.