First Grade!

What do I remember about first grade?

 

1)  One of my favorite teachers: Mrs. Steely. She had been everywhere! She filled my head with dreams of seeing the Statue of Liberty, Washington D.C, the Liberty Bell…

2)  I got put in the corner. Even Mrs. Ogilvie’s granddaughter couldn’t mess with Mrs. Steely. I was “quietly” goofing off with a couple of others during rest time when our heads were supposed to be down on our desks. I never did that again.

3)  And that’s about it.

Me in First Grade: 1986-1987

 

What will Emry remember about first grade? Being homeschooled, probably not a whole lot since one year can be very much like the other. But at least she won’t be forever haunted by mask wearing, temperature taking, fearing to sneeze, and only 100 square feet to play in on the playground. 

 

Emry in First Grade: 2020-2021

Training Wheels

The earliest memory I have of my first bike is blurry. But I know it was in Iowa. I know my grandfather pulled it out of his garage or basement. I know it had been my dad’s bike. I know I thought it rather ugly as it had no real color left, leaving it look like it was covered with rust even though it wasn’t. And I know it was too big for me…blocks of wood were attached to the pedals so I could reach them. But I was only four. And a bike is a bike.

 

I remember riding it in Iowa on the sidewalk, but I don’t remember riding it back home in Texas on our driveway. And the next real memory I have of it is my dad telling me to stop running into the bushes around the house…a habit I had because I wasn’t very good with the brakes. But I can’t recall really learning to ride it – either with training wheels or without. I know I didn’t learn at our house in Tennessee (where we moved about six months after I got it) because all we had there were gravel driveways and a yard on a really busy street with no sidewalks. It was kept mostly at my grandmother’s house as she had a paved driveway and quiet neighborhood. But I did know how to ride a bike…and even learned to use the brakes.

 

In New Hampshire, probably when I was nine, I got a real, new, store-bought, I-got-to-pick-it-out-myself bike. As was popular in 1989 or 90, it was bright neon pink.  With white wheels. I even got to have these neon clacky things put on the spokes and a “license plate” that read “Melissa”. We had a great driveway to ride on, and I was very proud of my new bike. Almost so proud it didn’t hurt too much when my brother Daniel not only got my old bike but also got to paintit…something my dad wouldn’t let me do. (Yeah, yeah, it still hurts a bit. As a child it still rankles as unfair. As a parent, I get it.)

 

I enjoy riding a bike. In Minnesota, I saved up some money, did a lot of research, and bought a really good bike. I road it to work several times a week when it was nice up there. (Which means late June through, maybe, early September.) On Saturdays when I didn’t have to work at camp, I’d take it out on long rides around the countryside. I loved it. Ed and I even did some biking in Pittsburgh and bought a tag-a-long to take the kids. Emry was not at all impressed with the thing, but once Ethan joined her she didn’t seem to mind. 

 

Ed, too, loves to ride. He practically grew up on his bike, riding all over his Pittsburgh neighborhood as a kid. So, when Emry turned one he had to get her what he thought was ingenious: a Strider. You’ve probably seen them – a small bike with no pedals. The object is to teach the kids to balance which will progress to a real bike – no training wheels needed. But Emry didn’t even walk when she turned one and by the time she did at 18 months, our tiny little girl still needed to grow by leaps and bounds to fit on the bike. By then we had learned that Emry is far too cautious to benefit from a Strider. So, we set it aside for Ethan and gave her a bike with training wheels for her 4^thbirthday. It took her a day, but she finally caught on and has been merrily riding since. At least, until she saw a little girl her age riding a bike with no training wheels.

 

We attempted no training wheels for the first time a few weeks after Elly was born. Ed was gone, so I took to the kids over to the nearby school where Emry would have lots of space to ride and Ethan could play on the playground while we made the vain attempt at riding on two wheels. For despite her dreams that she would learn to ride in one easy lesson, her cautious and calculating approach to “dangerous” things doesn’t allow for that. Even another lesson the following morning didn’t go that well. And it was set aside for a couple of months. But the idea returned and I went out a couple of mornings for the back aching attempts. When I couldn’t take it anymore, she even started trying on her own. But it wasn’t until Ed got her to take it halfway up the small hill of our driveway and coast down, curving onto the sidewalk, that she finally picked it up. Coasting fell to pedaling by that afternoon. That evening as I was out with her, trying to encourage her to try without the hill but only her feet to push off, she was busy explaining to me how she just couldn’t do that while she tried to do that…and, suddenly, off she went. 

And she hasn’t slowed down since.

Don't Grow Up

 There are some days when I can’t wait for my kids to be a bit older. The days when they can all read well and do their schoolwork mostly on their own. The days when they will be doing the dishes, and sweeping the floors, and folding the laundry. (Even though, yes, I will have to listen to them complain about it.) Or the days when, maybe, they won’t talk every waking moment…sometimes all at the same time. But often I wish they wouldn’t grow up at all.

 

I think what I will miss the most when they are grown is the vocabulary they now have. Some things they say because it just makes logical sense. Like both Emry and Ethan have always (and still do) call sneezes, “Bless yous”. Which makes perfect sense because every time they sneeze, one of us says, “Bless you!” not “Sneeze!” The other day Ellyson sneezed a couple of times and Ethan calls out, “Mama, Elly had two bless yous!”

 

Or the day when Emry came to be several months ago and informed me she needed shoes “with hips”. I had to pause, ask her to repeat herself, and pause again…before it dawned on me. “Oh! With heels!” I said. She looked confused at my response so, in very Emry fashion, explained it in length to me so I knew what she was talking about: Elsa has shoes with hips…the blue ones…she needs them to go with her Elsa dress…did I remember them from the movie? I got the point. However, we still don’t have Elsa shoes. But she did get Sunday shoes “with hips” for the summer. (I tell you that girl and I have very different styles of clothing!)

 

Then last week I was having some allergies: scratchy throat, the sniffles. (NOT COVID – ALLERGIES!!!!!) I was sucking on a throat lozenge and Emry noticed. She first asked what it was and then wanted one. Sucking on a little honey and lemon never hurt anyone, so I gave her the only other one I had. She promptly went and told Ethan. Ethan came running: “Mama, I need a hiccup drop!” It was so cute. I had to laugh.

 

One day I will miss the way Emry says “musnic” for “music” just as I already miss the way she once talked about herself in third person.

 

I will also miss how Ethan says, “litta-bitta” for “a little bit” just as I miss the way he  said “Chick-a-way!” for Chick-a-la. A phrase he corrected only last week.

Sigh…they grow up far too fast!

Running Away

Did you ever want to run away from home? I did. I think everyone has. Probably for the same reason, too: something “unfair” had occurred, or yet another punishment given for some wrong action. Like me, you probably don’t remember why you wanted to run away – you just know you did.

 

When I was seven or eight years old, an acquaintance of mine did run away. I knew her from church. She was the cousin of my best friend. A year older than me, she didn’t attend the same school as I did that year but went to the new elementary school which had been built up the hill behind our house. So, one day after school when I was in the living room doing something, I happened to look out our front windows and saw Beth and another girl walking across our front lawn. I watched them walk across our driveway and then across Mrs. Mayberry’s yard next door until I could see them no longer. I thought that was odd because I was pretty sure neither Beth nor the other girl (who I knew only by sight) lived anywhere near me. No kids I knew lived anywhere near me except a passing acquaintance with a few much older than me down the road in the little trailer park neighborhood. An hour or so later that afternoon, a very anxious adult knocking on our door and speaking to my mom informed me that Beth didn’t live anywhere near me: she had run away from school that afternoon. As far as childhood runaway plans go, this one was well thought out with extra things in their backpacks, hiding somewhere and missing their buses, and then leaving the school and finding their way across our yards down towards the factory Heil Quaker where they were eventually found that night. I don’t remember telling my mom and the adult that I had seen Beth, but I must have for I certainly told my friends that night at church. Beth was still missing at that point and it was all anyone was talking about. I do remember rather admiring Beth for going through with it, but I also remember how her “courage” scared me. The reality of what running away from home actually meant hit home. After that day, I never thought about running away again.

 

But this weekend, Emry decided to run away. In her case, she contemplates this action whenever Ethan has annoyed her to a breaking point. Which, some days, is not difficult for him to do. He had done so that evening and so when I went out to see what the two of them were up to, Emry asked me if she could run away. The fact that she felt she needed to ask permission told me two things: 1) she doesn’t quite understand the whole idea of running away, and 2) she’s a firstborn.

 

I won’t deny that the idea of her following through on her actions scared me a bit. But addressing one of the quirks of her personality seemed to stall the whole idea. Emry is nothing if not a planner…my questions obviously caused her to realize she did not have the whole plan worked out. For she had decided to run away for only four weeks. And she wanted to run away to a tree house. But what she was going to eat, or how she would get to activities like dance lessons and soccer had not yet been worked out. We avoided running away that very night by leaving open questions and deciding to watch Paw Patrol.

 

However, another of the quirks of Emry’s personality is she has the memory of an elephant. There is very little that girl forgets. And so the next morning she asked again if she could run away. Then she told me she needed to take my phone so she could call me. (When I pointed out if she had my phone she could not call me as I would not have my phone, she had to stop and think that through.) She also asked if she could have some money so she could buy food. And the four weeks had shrunk to two so she wouldn’t miss too many dance lessons or soccer games. Following through on all of her plans, though, was cut short when we needed to get ready to go to soccer. Yet another crisis avoided.

However, she does have the whole idea now stuck in her head so I am sure we will hear of it again and again whenever Ethan annoys her or Mama and Papa demand obedience to something she would rather ignore. Perhaps next time she brings it up I’ll offer to run away with her. Quite honestly, four weeks in a tree house with no responsibility would be amazing. 

Happy 27^thBirthday, Abby!

Sandwiches

For the most part, we have had our kids in church with us since they were born. On many Sundays I wonder if the effort is worth it. While I haven’t had too many out-and-out battles, a pew strewn with markers, crayons, stickers, and what-have-you certainly looks like a battleground. And I’m still trying to figure out if others around us who remark how quiet they kids are are either being polite, are deaf, or are really caught up in worship. 

 

However, there are moments when I am glad we keep them in church. Moments when I realize that despite their whispers, they’re fiendish coloring, or the endless searching under pews for loss crayons; they are actually listening. For instance this past Sunday when Emry turned to me about three minutes into the sermon and whispered, “Mama, why is he talking about sandwiches?”

 

One of our pastors is a native or Puerto Rico, so English is not his first language even though he speaks it fluently with hardly an accent. But because English is not his first language, he finds some of our colloquialisms interesting and tends to use them often. In this case, he was using the term “sandwich” to refer to Mark 14:1-11 where verses 1-2 and then 10-11 seems to “sandwich” the scene of Mary anointing Jesus. To be honest, I had trouble explaining that in whispers, and I’m pretty sure Emry just decided to shrug it off as some adult thing.

 

But, oddly, I had been thinking of sandwiches this past week. Metaphorically speaking. Because I was thinking of Ethan, sandwiched between two girls as he is. And feeling sorry for him. For he’s only started seeing the tip of the iceberg. 

 

Since having two kids, I have become much more sympathetic towards my younger siblings who I always felt had no reason to whine about anything for they weren’t the firstborn. But now that I’m on the outside of the sibling relationship is respect to my children, I can see that being the younger sibling isn’t easy. And now that I have three kids…well, I am much more sympathetic to my middle siblings. No wonder they complained of being overlooked. If Ethan wasn’t the only boy, I think I would unwittingly overlook him more than I already do!

 

I certainly don’t mean to overlook him. But Elly is a baby and so requires a lot of attention at times. And Emry has more responsibilities I’m forever trying to remind her of. So, Ethan is often just there. Not that he isn’t quite noticeable – his endless chatter, his constant disasters, his boyish ways in the midst of two girls. But, poor thing, he’s also at what will seem like the endless age of never getting to do anything. Last week Emry was big enough to go on one of the waterslides at the waterpark, having finally hit 42 inches. Ethan, all of 37 inches, had to stand on the sidelines and cry his little heart out because he couldn’t go too. (And, sadly, I doubt he’ll have such a growth spurt he’ll be able to go next year either!) Then there was soccer. Emry is old enough to play, Ethan is not. Emry has dance lessons. The age of 3 isn’t old enough to do anything he’d be interested in. So, yes, now I know. It really is hard to be the younger sibling. And even harder, I’m sure, to be the middle one.

At camp in Minnesota, the women’s director had three kids: boy, girl, boy. She told me often that she was happy to have the boys (having had brothers), but at a loss when God gave her a girl. She soon realized, though, that her daughter was the cream in her Oreo sandwich. Perhaps comparing Ethan to the sweet cream of an Oreo is a bit of a stretch, but he can be the cheese in my grilled cheese, or the salami on my Italian sub. Special. Just as special as my girls.

                                                            

Soccer

Thirty or more years ago, playing sports was so easy. I put on whatever uniform had to be put on, got in the car, and went to the field. No doubt it was a bit more complicated than that, even for my elementary-aged self. And now I know it must have been way more complicated than that for my parents. With as many kids as they had, I’m now amazed they let us play sports at all.

 

Of course, it might have been a little simpler than it is today. Thirty years ago no one communicated by e-mail. You certainly didn’t have your inbox flooded with directions, links to calendars and sign-ups, or a ridiculous amount of reminders as to time, place and proper wardrobe. My parents were of the generation that kept a printed calendar on the wall with time and place clearly posted. They were then responsible for checking said calendar and getting us to the correct place at the right time. I am apparently of the generation who cannot be responsible for getting to the correct place at the right time without a dozen e-mail reminders, the calendar on my phone beeping, and text messages for extra measure. And even with all that, the coach on Emry’s team didn’t even show up.

 

More than 30 years ago, I played soccer. Twice. I’m thinking it was four to six weeks of Saturdays on chilly autumn mornings at the fields of the local Christian school in New Hampshire. To be honest, all I remember was that every Saturday was chilly, foggy and damp. (Probably not true, but it seemed that way.) The shin pads were uncomfortable, I don’t remember a whole lot of instruction, and I got put in the same wing position every time. The ball nevercame my way and, if it did, it was being chased by the more “important” kids on the team who had no intention of sharing it with me. My only use was to throw it back in when they kicked it out. All in all, I loathed soccer and learned nothing except to stay out of the way. In God’s sovereign plan for my life, perhaps that was the only thing I was suppose to learn. Because it certainly proved useful on the soccer field this past Satruday.

 

Emry has wanted to play “football” ever since she kicked a soccer ball around at the Indy Children’s Museum two springs ago. (And, yes, she calls it “football”…I don’t know why except that’s what it logically should be called.) Since two of her little friends from church were joining another church’s league, we felt it was a good idea to give her a taste of the sport. When I signed her up, of course the online form asked for volunteers. I had no intention of volunteering for several reasons, the main ones being I don’t like soccer and I have a baby. However, you either volunteer or pay $20 not to volunteer. Every ounce of spendthrift Scottish blood coursing through my veins screamed. Were they kidding? Is that even ethical? Because I was not about to paynot to volunteer. So, I bit the bullet of being a good parent, and volunteered for the easiest position in the dropdown box: manager. I mean, you don’t have to know anything to herd kids.

 

Unless, of course, the coach doesn’t even show up. Which means the “manager” gets to coach! Thankfully, Ed was there to keep an eye on the sleeping Elly. Thankfully, there is very little skill needed to instruct four to six year olds in soccer. Thankfully, the team was down two kids so I could throw a yellow t-shirt on Ethan and let him play. (He was over the moon with delight after a long week of bemoaning his three-year-old fate of not being old enough to play.) And thankfully my two seasons of soccer finally paid off.  After kicking the ball around with the kids and giving them some very basic instruction on the sport, all I had to do was stay out of their way while yelling things like, “Don’t touch the ball with your hands!” “Not that way – your goal is the other way!” and “Keep the ball within the lines!”  Even I could do that.

 

And so begins our time as soccer parents. When asked, Emry says she had fun. It’s hard to tell because she’s so serious about it. Ethan, not at all afraid to be right in the middle of all the action, was elated. Elly slept through the whole thing. I think Ed was mostly bemused at my having to coach. And I was so exhausted I couldn’t keep my eyes open that afternoon as I tried to get a jump start on a proposal I have due this week. 

Honestly, I’m glad the “season” is only eight weeks long…soccer still isn’t my favorite sport.

Two Months!

Today, Elly is two months old! Between the world she was born into and her older siblings, I would say that is a great accomplishment. I sometimes wonder if her earliest memories will be of people in masks…

 

Her personality is starting to shine through a little more, and I am happy to say she has become less serious. Although she often has a serious look on her face and she views the world around her, she now smiles and coos. She likes to “talk”, most especially to Emry. Sisters sharing secrets already.

 

I sometimes wonder if some of the things she seems sensitive to are because she is a summer baby. Ethan and Emry were older by the time the warm months came on, so they didn’t suffer from the heat rash she has had. Or maybe she just has very sensitive skin – something she will despise as a teenager.

 

Like all babies, she loves ceiling fans. She also giggles, coos and waves her fists at the mobile on her swing. She likes to wave her fists around. Perhaps she is warding off her older siblings!

 

I have always been surprised that my children have heads full of dark hair when they are born. I expected them to be much more bald and turn blond, since I was a bleach blond as a kid and Ed was also blond. But while Ethan’s hair turns light around in the edges in the summer and Emry’s has natural blond highlights, if you look closely at Ellyson’s hair, it seems to have a red tint. Especially her eye lashes and eyebrows. Since I have two sisters who had red hair, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. And yet I think I will find it a little odd if her hair ends up having red tints to it.

And, she is by far my largest baby. She has more than a pound on Emry at the same age and a little short of a pound on Ethan as she weighs in at 9 pounds, 9 ounces. She is also nearly 22 inches in length, proving that Ed may be right and she will be tall one. As the youngest, I guess she needs something to lord over her younger siblings!

The Library

Apparently we have all missed the library more than we knew. It closed, like nearly everything else, sometime in mid-March. It wasn’t until May when it opened for “Curbside Pickup”. My first trip there, I had ordered over 20 books to be picked up! But, finally, it opened its doors to the public again a few weeks ago. I didn’t even realize it was open until I drove over there to pick up a few things. For once, I didn’t care if I had to wear a mask. And Ed says I came home all smiles.

This past weekend, we all went to the library. I had some things to return, an item to pick up, and the kids are always up to going somewhere. Ed, too, wanted out of the house so we all drove our, put on masks, and headed inside. I had already warned the kids that all the puzzles, games, and computers they played on were put away. In fact, the library in general is somewhat like a tomb even if there are a dozen or so adults usually there. I have yet to see any kids. And no wonder with little to do, no cozy nooks to sit it, and no storytimes. My kids were quickly bored. And yet we walked out of there with thirty or more books!

To be honest, I’m a bit confused by it all. I understand that computers, especially ones kids drag their dirty little fingers across, are full of germs. And yet there are computers throughout the library set up as “card catalogs” (to date myself). One hopes the keyboards are frequently cleaned, but who knows. The library also took this time to install self checkout. I think the sole purpose is to distance ourselves from the library staff, but that doesn’t seem to be working out too well. To be honest, I used self checkout systems in Texas over ten years ago that were better than this one. I have had nothing but problems with, which means the staff person hovering about trying to give instructions from six feet away ends up two feet away taking my books from me anyhow.

First of all, if the idea is to eliminate places the public touches, why are they touch screens? In fact, I have to touch the thing to get it to start…and then scan my card…and then touch it again to type in my passcode. I know systems you just scan your card and your account comes up – no touching of anything necessary. And why do I need a passcode? The library has on record public information: address, phone number, date of birth. I can find that with a google search. But just in case I haven’t touched the screen enough, I have to touch it get a receipt or not and log out. Just as the dozen or more people before me have done. As we would say in first grade: I just got Cooties!!!!

I also guess the idea of the big, black pad like thing is to make checkout easy because you can put four books on it and it somehow reads the codes all of all them. Actually, the book only has to be near it – not on it. And while this would logically lead one to believe it faster than running the barcodes under a scanner one at a time, I then have to look at the screen and quickly read each title to make sure it got them all. About 75% of the time it does. The other times, it has a problem with the book so it lights up in red and yellow. These must be put back on the pad. Sometimes more than once. And, if that doesn’t work, the barcode scanned. If that still doesn’t work, that’s when the hovering librarian (who is now three feet away trying to see the screen so she can give further instruction) comes closer to get the book from you and scan it herself. The old fashioned way with the scanner at her checkout computer after I have had to hand her my card. And by the time this whole process is over, I could have saved considerable time if we had started there in the first place. 

I guess I will endure a great many things to spend some time in a library.