My daughter the skeptic and Santa Claus

I believed in Santa Claus until I was at least ten years old or maybe even eleven. My disillusionment occurred swiftly, in one fell swoop.

My cousin who is six months older than me seemed to have absorbed all of the mysteries of life in one jam-packed playground tete-a-tete and excitedly shared her newfound news: there is no Santa Claus, no Tooth Fairy, and no Easter Bunny, and then proceeded to share the facts of life including a detailed description of menstruation. It was a bit overwhelming to have all of this information revealed at once. Although I had reason to believe the Easter Bunny did exist for a couple of years more, her information about Santa Claus proved true when I found the "gifts from Santa" stored in our basement weeks before Christmas morning.

I think that Clara, who is just five years old, has almost figured out the ins and outs of Santa all on her own.

The first clue came a few weeks ago when we were singing, "Santa Claus is coming to town." She noted that it seemed unlikely that Santa would be able to watch what every boy and girl was doing at all times while simultaneously making toys and supervising the elves in the North Pole. It seemed to be too much multi-tasking even for Santa. I didn't know quite how to respond, and so I suggested that she ask Santa that question when she saw him.

Since last year, Clara has been very suspicious of the different Santas we see at shopping malls or holiday events. "I don't think that's the real Santa," she reminds us at nearly every stop.

Luckily, the Santa at a local holiday event did look real to her, and she sat in his lap with excitement and a sense of wonder. Until he started talking. 

"His breath smelled," Clara said. "And he said my favorite color is pink, and it's not really. My favorite color is purple or every color of the rainbow." "And he said that he wanted us to leave baby carrots for his reindeer because the big carrot we left last year was too hard for Rudolph to eat, but we didn't leave a carrot last year!" Hmmm, I thought, maybe Santa should stick to listening rather improvising small talk.

Then, yesterday, as we sat surrounded by wrapping paper, wrapping Papa's presents, Clara looked straight at me with her Robert DeNiro death stare. She likes to imitate his Meet the Parents "I'm watching you" expression ever since one of her older schoolmates showed her how to do it. 

"I think you are hiding presents from me right now. Where are my presents?" Her gaze was unrelenting. I laughed nervously and agreed that I had some presents for her but reasoned that if I gave them all to her now then she wouldn't have them on Christmas. She kept staring. I felt she was one sentence away from asking if I was Santa before I quickly changed the subject.

I admit that it has always felt weird to me that one of the biggest holidays of the year is focused upon the lie of Santa Claus. As a Christian, there's already enough challenging ideas to explain to my daughter in this season like the virgin birth and returning to your birthplace to be counted for the census. It can be confusing to keep up with all of the Santa statistics in addition. But, don't worry, if Clara figures out that Santa is not real, I will make sure that she doesn't tell your kid. I'm not a fan of spoiling the magic for others.

Despite Clara's consistent skepticism about some of the details about Santa, she is, for now, still a believer. Whatever her concerns are about Santa, she did wholeheartedly believe in the Gingerbread Baby, a runaway book character who was eating candy in the gingerbread traps she and her classmates left around the school. Each day, she came home from school, with another exciting addition to the saga of the runaway Gingerbread Baby.

What I most want is for Clara to have a sense of wonder and awe around the beauty of Christmas and about life in general. So, I won't be terribly disappointed if she figures out the Santa ruse, but I hope that she knows that there is more to life than logic and reason and intellect. I hope she always maintains the ability to believe in wondrous things beyond our understanding.

-Ellyn

Sweet Potato Casserole for Thanksgiving

Most of the dishes at our Thanksgiving table are the traditional turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, orange-cranberry relish, and pumpkin bread recipes that have been passed down for generations. One of the newer additions to our family's table is this Sweet Potato Casserole recipe from my stepmother.

It is one of my favorites because the addition of the orange juice gives the sweet potatoes a sweet and tart flavor. I like that the potatoes aren't mashed in this recipe but have some firmness to them because they are layered in slices. I usually make this dish the night before Thanksgiving and refrigerate it overnight, and then bake it in the morning.

6 medium sweet potatoes

4 tablespoons butter

2/3 cup raisins

Pinch of salt

1 teaspoon cinnamon

2/3 cup maple syrup

4 tablespoons orange juice

1 cup mini marshmallows

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Boil sweet potatoes about 40 minutes until tender. When cooled, peel and cut into 1/2 inch slices. Place in dish and dot with butter and raisins. Top with salt, cinnamon, and syrup. 

Drizzle with juice and bake for about 30 minutes. Remove from oven, sprinkle marshmallows on top and bake for another 5 minutes until marshmallows have browned. 

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your families!

 -Ellyn

What do you want to be when you grow up? Why not an engineer?

When shopping online for Lila's Christmas gifts, a quick internet search for "girl's toys" yields results such as: Fashion Headbands, My First Purse, My First Sewing Kit, Barbie Glam House, Disney Princess Hair Accessories, Disney Princess Dress Up Trunk, Disney Princess Castle... Princess, Princess, Princess, Pink, Pink, and more Pink! I've written about my frustrations with the on-going gender stereotyping that my own daughter has experienced- Not all girls want to be princesses!

Thank goodness for a breath of fresh air- Goldie Blox: Building games for girls to inspire future engineers. Debbie Sterling, engineer from Stanford, is the founder and CEO of GoldieBlox. Inspired by her math teacher to pursue a career in which women are underrepresented, Debbie explains that she would've never known what an engineer was if her teacher hadn't suggested it. How would she when toys designed  for girls to explore "grown up" roles are generally restricted to domestic tasks (cooking, cleaning, taking care of babies) or beauty and fashion (dressing up, styling hair, putting on make-up). With these limited options, what messages do our daughters receive about who they are and who they can become? I love it that Debbie Sterling is totally "disrupting the pink aisle" with toys that inspire young girls to bust through these archaic barriers. The Goldie Blox kits include a story book and construction set that allows girls to utilize their problem-solving skills while learning principles of engineering.

Like most, I discovered Goldie Blox through their highly successful commercial that has been circulating all over the internet. Moms are sharing and talking and giving each other high fives. The demand is there. We desperately want more toy options for our little girls beyond the "pink aisle."

I'm super excited that Lila will have Goldie Blox under the tree this year.

-Tara

 

 

My five-year-old, the wannabee teenager

My daughter is five years old, but if she could be any age, she would definitely choose to be a teenager.

Clara's eyes glow and her voice gets shaky with reverence whenever I mention someone who falls into the prized category of teen.

When we recently met a new person of said age, Clara turned to me whispering, "So, you're saying she is thirteen years old. So, that makes her a... teenager, right!?" as though being a teenager is the most magical thing one could be.

I am not sure what caused this absolute adoration of anyone between the age of 13 and 19. Perhaps it is because I teach teenagers. Perhaps it is because being a teenager is just close enough to her age that it seems a reasonable reach, more attainable than adulthood. Whatever the reason, Clara is absolutely hooked on the idea of being a teenager.

At some point about a year ago Clara and I witnessed a situation where a teenage girl was being rude and dismissive to her mom. I mentioned to Clara that sometimes teenagers think they are "too cool" for their parents and try to separate from them. I was trying to teach Clara that this is an annoying but necessary and natural stage of development.

Instead, Clara took my use of the word "cool" quite literally. She believes that spouting the word "cool" must be said in direct proportion to the number of times that "teenager" is said.

Whenever I mention someone who is a teenager, Clara turns into this valley girl teen from the 80's spouting phrases I haven't heard in twenty years: "Oh my gosh, like, wow, this is so cool." "Cool, man!" "That's cool, right, mama?"


Clara took me for a trip down memory lane this week when she asked, "Mama, were you cool when you were a teenager?"

"I was well liked. I had friends."

"That's not what I'm asking. Were you cool?"

I did not consider myself to be a particularly cool teenager. I was cool in the sense that I was an individual and followed my own passions. But I wasn't cool like the goth girls who went to raves every weekend or the preppy girls who had their hairs teased to the sky with their matching plaid pants rolled up at the bottom who met up with the boys from the football team on the weekends.

I racked my mind for something that might represent coolness.

"Um, do you know what a prom is? It's a big dance where everyone gets dressed and at the end everyone votes for the prom queen and king."

Before I could finish my story, Clara interrupted, "And you were the prom queen, right, mama? So, you were cool."

"Well, normally the prom queen is the most popular girl, but in my case, I was running against all the popular girls and their votes got split, so I won more by being the nice girl than the popular girl."

"So, you were kind of cool?"

"OK, I guess I was kind of cool."

Clara seemed satisfied with the knowledge of having a mom who was semi-cool as a teenager.

I am still struggling to find the words to explain to my teen-dazzled daughter that sometimes being "cool" isn't actually the point. I want Clara to know that being cool is relative and temporary. As she gets older, I will remind her that being cool as a teenager is usually based upon other teenagers' views whose motivations are often full of insecurity and judgement.

To current and future Clara, always remember that the coolest thing to be is to be yourself.

-Ellyn

Conquering the morning & bedtime routine

Towards the end of a fun, impromptu play date at Clara’s house, I start the 10 minute count down, as I always do.

Me: Lila, we have to start wrapping up to go home.”

Lila (not looking away from the TV): Why?

Me: Because it’s a school night and we have to get back to our routine.

Lila: What routine?

I smack my own forehead, speechless.

Ah, yes. The bedtime and morning routine— the two-headed monster I’ve been battling day after day, night after night. Apparently, he’s an imaginary monster whom only I can see… and feel… and agonize over. This is my own personal battle. When my sweet, well-meaning husband tries intervening with a “perhaps I could offer a different approach” I wield my sword toward him—“NEVER!!!”  I shall conquer this monster with my mighty mommy powers!!

Uh huh. Yeah. I have no idea what I am doing.

First, it was the night time routine.  Somehow I was stuck in the routine of staying in the bed with Lila until she goes asleep. This results in me falling asleep in her bed and then waking up in the middle of the night to stumble back into my bed to my now sleeping husband. Needless to say, I have little to no downtime for myself or the hubby. (Not healthy.) My attempts to wean Lila off of having me in the bed have been met with tears and pure manipulation—

Lila: Mommy, why don’t you want to be with me???

(How in the world do I answer that question?)

Me: Of course, I want to be with you but…

Lila: WHAHHHHH!!!

And, I’m back in the bed staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on Lila’s bedroom ceiling. Lila’s fast asleep with a subtle grin. (You have won this battle, but the war has just begun, my sweet.)

Out of desperation, despite my husband’s silent protest, I brought up my dilemma at a parents' meeting at school. My story conjured up lots of emotion with the other parents. (Phew! I was not alone.)  I was given loads of advice, empathy, and well wishes. That night I faced the monster (aka the bedtime routine) with a renewed confidence.

Me: Lila, we had a talk at your school and they said you are too big now to have your mommy sleeping in the bed with you. So, starting tonight, after story, I am going to say good night and leave.

Silence... The jig was up. I have not slept in Lila’s room since.

That was seriously too easy. After all of those nights, that was it. Success! But it was not a total victory.

The morning routine was still rearing its ugly head.

At school in the morning Lila is expected to do 3 things:

1)      Put her folder in the homework basket.

2)      Place her “book buddy” folder on the shelf.

3)      Hang her jacket and back pack in the locker.

Classroom rule- Parents are not to intervene. Parents cannot do these things for their child. It’s all about building independence and responsibility and blah blah blah, I know, I know. I get it. It is just sooooooo frustrating when on "day 34" of the school year, kids are coming in and out, doing the routine 1-2-3, and your little one is in La La Land! Jacket on the floor… folder falling out of the back pack… 10 minutes later, still in the classroom… And I can’t help but wonder, “what am I doing wrong?!?!”

My husband’s interpretation is that I "baby her too much" and I need to "just drop her off and leave." Maybe there’s some truth to that (whatever), but I just can’t handle leaving with the image in my mind of Lila and her stuff all over the place. “She needs me” I convince myself. "She can't do this alone." I lose sleep thinking about it (making the newly accomplished night time routine a mute point—I’m not sleeping anyways)!

But, this morning in the shower it came to me! To the melody of Oh My Darling, Clementine—

"Homework basket, homework basket, homework basket, book buddy.

Hang your back pack and your jacket,

and then you’re ready!"

I came running down the stairs, dripping wet with my towel, where Lila was eating breakfast and watching TV. I proudly sang my tune. Lila smirked and amazingly, it worked! This was the very first morning that Lila successfully completed her routine without assistance.

The song was brilliant!

Lila: Mom, please DO NOT sing that song in my classroom!

Me: I won't unless you need me too, Sweetie.

Hey, whatever works... {Insert evil laugh here.} Mommy wins!

-Tara

Popcorn and Kale Chips

Movie nights are a regular occurance in our household. Usually on Friday night, it's our way to unwind from the hectic week and relax as a family. Being a family of foodies, the snack is usually more important than the movie itself. Here is one of our favorites-- Popcorn and kale chips.

Ingredients:

• Popcorn Kernels
• Olive Oil
• Cooking Spray
• Sea Salt
• A large bag of fresh Kale
• Seasoning (we use Old Bay)

The Popcorn:

• Cover the bottom of a medium sized pot with olive oil.
• Grind or sprinkle in some sea salt.
• Add a layer of popcorn kernels on the bottom of the pot.
• Cover and turn the heat to "high." Continually move the pot back and forth until you hear the popcorn begin to pop. Remove from heat when the popping slows down. The lid will usually start to rise up due to the popcorn.
• Pour into a large bowl.

The Kale Chips:

• Throughly wash and dry the kale. You may want to remove some of the stems if they are really thick.
• Line a cookie sheet with foil. Cover with cooking spray (or use an olive oil mister).
• Arrange the kale on the cookie sheet. Drizzle a little more olive oil. Season.
• Bake at 350 for about 15 minutes, until they become crispy.

Let the kale chips cool and then combine them with the popcorn. Enjoy this healthy, savory movie treat! It's one of Lila's faves.

-Tara

There is a Mouse in our House

   “I know why people make movies,” Clara declared definitively.

   “Really? Why?” I asked, curious about how she might define all filmmakers’ motivations in one succinct statement.

   “To show things that can’t ever really happen in real life.”

   “Like what?”

   “Like in Curious George when the tiger went in the house in the little boy’s bedroom. That would never happen in real life. Tigers don’t live in houses, right?

   “Right,” I concurred. “Where do tigers live?”

   “In the zoo.”

   “Yes… sometimes. Where else do tigers live?” I was a bit dismayed that I was raising a child who only saw animals in their relationship to humans and not in their natural habitat.

   “In jungles. But, we don’t have any jungles near us. We just have ants and spiders and mice in our house, right?”

                           

Unfortunately, Clara was right. For whatever reason, perhaps because we live in an older house or perhaps because we live across from a small wooded area, our house seems to be a hang-out spot for local wildlife.

To be fair, I am probably not helping the matter by my no-kill policy. From an early age, I taught Clara that we don’t kill bugs in the house. We carefully trap them with a cup on top and a thin piece of paper on bottom and bring them back outside.

All of this goodwill came to an end last week when a very friendly mouse decided to make a residence in my bed. Yes, in my bed.

When I think of mice, I think of scared, little creatures scurrying across the perimeter of a floor in the middle of the night trying desperately not to be seen by humans. Our Toddler Mouse was no such mouse. My husband dubbed him the Toddler Mouse due to his petite size and his toddler-like physical movements, jumping and stumbling through our house with a spunky independence that seemed newly discovered. Clearly, the Toddler Mouse’s mommy had not yet taught him to stay away from humans or to stay hidden away until nighttime.

The Toddler Mouse’s first appearance came when he decided to jump on my husband’s knee as he sat at his computer and then scurry quickly down his leg. For as much as I love animals, mice have always creeped me out, so it was with some amount of pride at my calm self-restraint that I stayed in the area in my bed reading despite the fact that a mouse was loose in the house.

When my husband asked if I was OK, knowing about my distaste for rodents, I said I was fine and then inquired how exactly the mouse incident happened. He explained that there had been a rustling sound nearby and before he knew it the mouse was on his lap. I took note of the circumstances and felt secure under my covers on my high bed.

Almost as soon as we finished our discussion, I heard a rustling sound from directly under my bed. Before I could react, I heard the disturbing sound of little mouse feet climbing up the corner of the bed, onto my pillow and scurrying across my hair! The sensation of feeling a mouse crawling along my hair while in my bed definitively ranks as one of the most skeevy experiences of my life so far.

   “Ahhhhhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhh. Ahhhhhhh!” I leapt to my feet, jumped up and down, reaching quite impressive heights in between my screams.

Clara never heard me scream like that and her initial concern about my well being quickly turned into delight that she had found something that could really get a reaction out of me.

For the past week, Clara found great joy in coming up from behind me and tousling my hair while saying with a straight face, “I think I see a mouse in there. Really, mama, a real mouse!”

In the mornings, she nestles in next to me, and softly squeaks as a smile stretches mischievously across her face. “Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. I think I hear a mouse in here,” she warns.

Yesterday, she decided she wants to be a mouse for Halloween. She is relentless.

My no-kill policy ended this week. The Toddler Mouse may or may not be gone. My husband set a trap and did indeed catch a mouse. I asked if it was the Toddler Mouse. He said it looked to be the right size but rigor mortis set in and even in mice, death does strange things to one’s appearance, so he can’t be sure.

My mom says that one seen mouse represents approximately fifty unseen mice that are hiding somewhere else in the house. This is a disturbing thought. I prefer to believe that we had one spunky, loner, adventurous Toddler Mouse who just toddled on into our house all by his youthful self.

In the meantime, my little Clara-mouse continues to keep the Toddler Mouse’s memory alive to my great chagrin and her great amusement. My hair still feels itchy just thinking about it.

-Ellyn