I'm a slacker

Oops, I just realized I haven't updated this since the first day of school. What a slouch I am. But in my feeble defense, life's been a wee bit busy here in Whoville.

There's been the adjustment to kindergarten, including the infamous frame-it-to-show-to-your-boyfriends note that read: "Dear Who I's parents: Who I has been kissing some of the boys. We've put her in time out, had the center director talk to her and another teacher talk to her, and she won't stop. Please talk to her." Yes, I'm the proud mom of the kindergarten floozie.

We've had new ballet classes for Who II, and the insanity of sicking the killer bees on the neighborhood for Halloween. Oh, and a visit from grandpa during which I discovered neither he nor hubby had ever carved a pumpkin. What's with THAT???

Then there's been the birthday season. Whos I and II celebrated in October with a rousing time at the local gymnastics spot, where the zip line was all the rage (and even Mama Who gave it a whirl and lived to tell about it). And Baby Who is now 3 and celebrated with five of her closest 3-year-old friends at our house (I'm certifiable) with the help of a wonderful children's entertainer.

Oh yeah, and we've squeezed in a trip to South Carolina to deliver three gorgeous flower girls to their Uncle Dave's wedding.

And did I mention we got a new dog? She's now officially my fourth child. The cats, well, not sure where they rank.

So maybe it sounds like excuses. But life is churning along here in Whoville. Maybe the photos will speak for themselves.

Bring on the holidays!

Milestones

It's been an eventful week here in Whoville. The cage is gone. So is Cousin It. and the first 12 years of life inside a school have begun!

We kicked of the week in grand style, disassembling Baby Who's crib and officially agreeing with her indignant declaration that "I a Big Girl now!" We hadn't planned to set her free to move about the cabin just yet, but a scheduled visit from our friendly window installer necessitated moving all furniture at least two feet from the windows. And since Baby Who's room was starting to resemble a furniture showroom, with the twin bed just waiting for her to grow into, it seemed like it was time to say a nostalgic farewell to the crib that has kept the little monkey confined so well for almost two years. Oh, and did I mention we did it on a school night? No, we're not right in the head.

But she loves it.

A few days later, it was off to the marvelous Zefan for haircuts. Only this time, Baby Who got to go too. Mind you, the child is nearly 3 and has never had her locks trimmed. And, um, it showed, though Grandma Mimi was uncharacteristically tactful in not mentioning that her youngest grandchild had long ago begun resembling Cousin It. I knew I was going to have to do something when the dermatologist, who was looking at the Who-lette's skin, NOT her hair, said abruptly, "You really should cut her hair." That was in May. I finally got the guts to do it in August -- not because I didn't like the Pebbles Flintstone look that kept her scraggly wisps out of her eyes, but because Uncle Who is finally getting hitched, the Whos are going to be flower girls, and I don't want his future in-laws to think we're really the great unwashed. Or, in this case, the great uncut.

Baby Who, by the way, did marvelously. And she can see now without hair devices and no longer resembles a TV character or a shaggy dog.

Both events would have been enough to send this Mama Who into tearful sniffling as she realized her babies were growing up. But today was the final straw -- the Big Whos started kindergarten!

We took the traditional front step photo before heading off to school. Then I took some more when we got in their classroom at the church where they'll attend kindergarten.

As you can see, Who II was psyched -- it's nearly 9:30 p.m. and we're still scraping her off the ceiling as she continues to declare, "I had a very good day! I love kindergarten!"

Who I? As my dear papa knew so well, a picture speaks a thousand words. And I don't think any of them are printable.

If you haven't heard about baby Stellan ...

This is little Stellan. He and your family need your prayers right now. It's amazing to see how his MckMama has kept a journal of her faith even while facing the darkest times in her life.

Sometimes you're the windshield ...

And sometimes you go "Splat!"

This is what I walked into when I dropped Big Who off at school yesterday after learning that four of her no-enamel teeth needed fixing (thank you, Third World crappy nutrition).

Baby Who had just become one with the pavement. Apparently, she was pushing a bike at full speed (she really doesn't have any other speed) and tripped. Bike kept going -- and apparently she did too, earning a lovely case of road rash right down the middle of her face.

My immediate reaction was "What HAPPENED?!!!" Followed quickly by, "NOT THE FACE!"

The pediatrician assures us she'll heal, though we're going to have to work hard to prevent scarring. Daddy's already looking for plastic surgeons and a plastic bubble to keep her in. Baby Who? She's barely missed a beat after the initial reaction.

Ah, drama. Enough, already!

Nostalgia

I remember as a kid being overjoyed every time the ice cream truck came past our house. Our folks, as I recall, were pretty indulgent, and I know I ate my fair share of the patriotic red, white and blue bomb pops. Anything to make your lips look extra ghoulish, right?

Our neighborhood now reminds me a lot of the one where I grew up. Lots of families, kids out playing and riding their bikes. So it was no surprise when the familiar tune of the ice cream truck showed up a few weeks ago.

What was surprising was my reaction.

Maybe it's just innocence lost. Maybe I've read one too many stories about Bad People who prey on children. But the ice cream truck creeps me out now. So I've resisted the eager eyes who look imploringly upon Mean Mama Who, begging for a treat. No sugar before bedtime, I say. We have ice cream at home, I add.

Today, I caved.

I've been feeling crappy for weeks, and we're still trying to figure out why. I've had enough blood tests to make even a vampire feel full. We've ruled out a bunch of bad stuff but still haven't figured out what's messing me up. It's sucked, quite a bit, because I know I haven't been a lot of fun to be around. I haven't had energy for much more than what absolutely needs to be done many days. Who I, my deep thinker who worries about whether her body will stink when she gets big and still cries over the dog we lost a year and a half ago, has even asked her daddy, "When you and mommy die, what happens to us?" and told me, "Mommy, when you die, I'll be sad."

Sheesh.

But today, finally, was a good day. I spread mulch, with the help of Who I, and my flower garden doesn't look like a weed patch. I finished the laundry and did the grocery shopping. My house doesn't look like pigs live here for the first time in weeks. So when the ice cream man hit our street and they heard the music, I didn't say a word. I just grabbed some cash and said, "Let's go."

Yes, the ice cream man creeped me out. I'll probably have the same reaction when we take them to the fair. There's no way they're going to ever go without adult supervision. And my husband simply shook his head at me when he saw I was letting them have SUGAR that close to bedtime. (This is the same man who thinks the cinnamon rolls from the place with the yellow arches count as dinner for the wee folk.)

But sometimes, even Mama has to break the rules. And the joy on their sticky little faces was a much-needed reminder of how incredibly blessed I am.

A sprinkle(r) a day

Five years ago this week, we got a phone call that changed our lives. There was a little girl in China who was waiting to make us a family.

Little did we know that we would meet two of our daughters that day, or that China would beckon a third time. It's probably best that we didn't know that back in June of 2004, because we'd have freaked out. Big time.

But the best plans are often the ones made for us instead of by us, and as you can see, the joy of Three Whos is hard to beat.

Money well spent

Today was Who II's first dance recital. They actually didn't call it a recital, but a year-end demonstration. I think that's to take pressure off the kids. But mom was a mess!

The stress started with the very explicit instructions about hairstyles. "Style however you want, just don't do pigtails (oops, there goes my area of "expertise") and if you do a bun, make sure it's on top of the head, not on the back (oops again. How do you keep slick little Asian hair on top of one's head???)." So being the smart mama I am, I called in reinforcements. $20 later, we had princess hair, courtesy of the wonderful Zefan!

Part II of Mama Who's mania came when we tried on the tutu (I just love saying that word, don't you?) and it promptly slid down Who II's nonexistent hips. Remember, this child is nearly 6 and weighs a mere 35 pounds. And that's being generous. So out come the needle and thread. Mind you, home ec was not my best subject. Needles are best suited in my household for removing splinters. But I managed to take up the waistband without bleeding all over the lovely lilac tulle. Victory!

So off we went to said YED (code for year-end demonstration), where Who II was most definitely the best ballerina of the bunch. She's only had four months of lessons, while the other girls have had at least a year. Even the teacher told us how good she was and what a quick study she'd been -- to the point that the other girls followed her lead.

It was wonderful to see her smile and to see how self-confident she was. This is a child who's found her element. So guess who's on tap for more ballet lessons?

Plie, anyone?

The better to see you with, my dear

I still remember my first pair of glasses. Chocolate-colored horn rims at the ripe old age of 5. I sported them proudly in my cute yellow dress on the first day of kindergarten.

The older I got, though, the more hideous they became. We'd call 'em birth-control glasses today. Sure, they were in vogue way back when. But they still make me shudder.

Fast forward a few years (ahem) and we learn my beautiful 5-year-old has eyes that need a little boost. We want to make sure her superior brain is working at maximum capacity when she hits kindergarten in August, so after a second vision screening at preschool came up shy of passing, we checked out the local eye dude. He did a great job with the exam, even breaking out the cartoons (let's hear it for Elmer Fudd and that screwy rabbit!) as a way to help her concentrate while he peered into the inner depths of what turns out to be very astigmatic eyes. Normally, he says, he doesn't prescribe specs at this age because the eyes change so much. But we're a special case, and the eyes need some help so they work together better. Naturally, my mom guilt set in quickly. Maybe she WASN'T just shaking me down for the yummy grape medicine all those times she complained of a "heady-ache!"

So off we went to the children's frame selection, Big Who excited and Mama Who determined to make it a fun, positive experience. We started trying on frames and suddenly I froze, then a low keening sound erupted from deep within me.

"Noooooo," it said. "Nooooooooooo!"

For what to my tired progressive-lens-wearing eyes did appear but frames that looked Exactly. Like. Mine. From 1970.

"No! Absolutely not! Put those BACK!" I ordered the poor 20-something optical technician.

OK, I'm crazy. And don't get me wrong -- I love my mother, oh she of picking out the chocolate horn-rims. I really do.

But I promised myself I would never get my kids glasses that looked like that and I would never dress them in red, white and blue vertical-striped pants. And if they ever had a brother, I most DEFINITELY would not dress them in MATCHING red, white and blue vertical-striped pants. Ever.

So far, so good, though I'm sure I'm well on my way to embarrassing my kids on many other fronts.

I'm really pleased with the frame we picked out. It suits her face. And Big Who's frames are red like Mama Who's, which we both think is pretty cool.

The glasses haven't made their debut in school yet. She'll be the first in her pre-k class to wear glasses. We have a very supportive teacher in a school that works hard to promote kindness to others and strong values. But I know some kid is going to make a comment that maybe isn't so nice. And my very sensitive girl, who's so excited about her glasses, is going to be hurt.

As much as I'd like to, I can't protect her from that. So we're building her up now. She looks stylish. She looks beautiful. And she looks so smart and grown up!

And for now, that's going to have to be enough.

Happy Easter to All

Here in Whoville, the youngest Who has given up the ghost and grabbed a nap (appparently, sleeping through church didn't count). The Big Whos are sugared up and napless, a dangerous combination, but currently engrossed in a movie (thanks, little yellow sponge guy). And mama and daddy Who are wishing Easter fell on a Saturday so we'd have a day to recover!

Despite what it looks like, the girls DID get Easter baskets. They just didn't want to empty them out for the egg hunt. But I confess we never got eggs dyed. I had the eggs. I had the dye. The two just never met up. Something about the day before spent with swimming lessons, haircuts, five loads of laundry and a much-needed pizza dinner out. The hours just disappeared.

Sorry, bunny. Maybe we'll dye some nice July 4th eggs.

The daily insanity

We've been on a roll lately, starting with Mr. Fix It's sinus infection, which became Who I's double ear/sinus infection, which became a cold for Who II just in time for grandpa's visit, which became a cold for Baby Who, which became a cold for Mama Who that she ignored until it became a sinus infection two weeks later. But thanks to the amazing Monica at the local drugstore walk-in clinic, I now have pretty pink medicine. Bless you, Monica! (No, that was not a sneeze!)

Then there's the cat. This is the formerly free cat, rescued from a certain online classified ad site. The dog in a cat's body who is much more pleasant than her bitchy feline counterpart, who has decided that under no circumstances will she accept this interloper -- even though she's been here seven months.

Puppy cat has developed a hideous intestinal virus that has prompted spontaneous pooping and various other atrocities everywhere EXCEPT the litter box. $400 later, we've ruled out everything but the gut. We have two antibiotics, kitty Immodium and tonight I stepped in crap. Mind you, I have $4000 worth of new carpet that mercifully she has not hit -- yet. But I'm starting to panic. Especially since I. stepped. in. poop. Yuck!

So you have 5 illnesses among humans, 1 cat illness, 1 visiting grandpa who did not see us at our best. Now throw in a hectic weekend: swimming lessons for big Whos, a 2-year-old who spent the weekend apparently on speed, a daddy-daughter banquet that Who II freaked about and refused to attend, and Mama Who's madness in schlepping the Big Whos 90 minutes away to a concert after a sleepless night.

The good news amid the chaos: Baby Who can sing her ABCs almost perfectly! And let me remind you -- SHE IS ONLY 2!

At least someone in the family has brains.

Sink your teeth into this one

The Tooth Fairy Cometh. To my house. And what a workout her little fairy butt got.

First came word from Dr. Demento, the smiling, "You're paying for my next vacation to someplace warm" pediatric dentist that the two baby teeth we'd tried valiantly to save had -- gasp -- given up the ghost. Yup, not one, but TWO teeth. Kablooey. Including the one I spent 300 smackeroos to crown. Do I have "Sucker" plastered all over my forehead? Crown this puppy now, $330. Ka-ching. Yank it a year later, add spacers, pull its little friend on the other side, add another spacer. $900. Ka-CHING!

But hey, she broke the news with a smile. Witch.

To her credit, Who II took the news calmly. And to my credit, I tried to bill it as her getting something before her sister did. "The Tooth Fairy will visit you first!" I cried with glee, hoping she wouldn't hate me later. Explained that she'd get to wear the "elephant nose" and breathe her favorite flavor, then they'd make her mouth all sleepy and get those teeth out so the Tooth Fairy could have them.

Smart girl, not to be fooled, asked, "Will it hurt?" I quickly backtracked to the elephant nose.

So Dr. Demento and her laughing gas-wielding minions did the deed yesterday. One, two -- sad little teeth out, spacers in. Home in less than an hour. And Who II did great.

But the fun was just beginning, at least for us poor fairies.

Mama Tooth Fairy was exhausted and quite honestly could have hit slumberland about 9 p.m. But no, there was fairy-ing to be done, so she toughed it out until 10. Sneaks into Who II's room, now shared by Who I thanks to the miracle of bunk beds. Who I is sawing logs on the top bunk. I go to cover up Who II, the cold, hard tooth cash in my hand, and what to my dismay do I hear but, "I'm not sleeping yet, mama!" ACK, ACK, ACK!

Off I slink, bags deepening under my eyes, cash still in hand, teeth safely tucked under the pillow in their hot pink plastic tooth box.

Thirty minutes later, I try again. This time, I THINK she's asleep. Or she's doing a great job of faking it. Only problem is she's asleep on top of the tooth box and facing me so that if she wakes at all, she'll bust my big fairy ass but good.

Out I go, money still in hand. It's time to enlist the big guns. So to Mr. Fix It I say: "You're going to have to do this. I have to sleep."

I tell him where the tooth box is. I'd pulled it back to the edge of the pillowcase for easy access. And off to bed I lumbered.

Fast forward to 5:30 a.m. Who II wakes, finds tooth box still under her pillow, goes to Daddy disappointed and says the TF didn't show up. Daddy tells her the fairy's probably running late and to go back to sleep. Mercifully, she does.

Come to find out daddy tried to get the box and COULDN'T FIND IT because she'd moved it farther under the pillow. He described a fit of panic as he ran his hand under the pillow, raising it up and flopping her little Who head around with no results.

The good news is that when she went back to sleep, he was able to snatch the box and replace it with the greens. So the next sound was her tapping on the bathroom door to show me her cash.

And I thought Santa had it bad!