Yesterday was Jr’s first official school field trip. Like with permission slips and busses and “completely disposable packed lunch required.” Like for REAL field trip.
Also, with chaperones. EXCEPT, since it was the first field trip, half the kiddos’ in his kindy-prep class had parents who wanted to chaperone, and the teacher didn’t want to deny any of the parents the opportunity to witness this momentous occasion, so she let everyone who volunteered join.
I was one of those parents. And I lived to drink tell about it.
At 9:00 a.m. sharp under cloudy skies, 28 little energy-balls loaded on to two tiny busses, and off they bumped down the road with a line of carpooling parents convoying behind. 20 minutes later the whole kit-and-caboodle rolled up at a pumpkin patch located on the edge of the suburbs where sprawl gives way to wide open farms. What kind of hilarity/insanity ensued on those busses I will never know – Jr was tight-lipped about his first bus rides. I guess the Preschool code deems that what happens on the bus stays on the bus, yo.
With the abundance of parents, I had kind of pictured in my mind a paparazzi-style pack of us following the class around snapping pictures and looking conspicuous. But OH NO NO – if we were going to go, we were climbing in to the trenches with the teachers!! We each got two kids, our own and one other. I referred to them as my “accountabilabuddies,” amusing myself (and exactly not one other person,) to no end with the South Park reference.
Jr was so pumped – even in the chilly wind of a Colorado plains Autumn morning, he was way too excited to notice the cold. Accountabilabuddy numero dos was less impressed and talked mainly about when lunch would be, even as we lumbered through the field on a wagon pulled by a tractor and Jr squee’ed and squirmed with glee on the other side of him. (Honestly, it was pretty dang cold until the sun finally poked through, but come on dude, FIELD TRIP!!)
Each “friend” (as they call kids in preschool world,) got to pick out his or her own pumpkin with only one rule: it had to be small enough that the child could carry it without help. 15 minutes later a pack of empty-handed kids loaded back on to the wagon with 14 parents carrying an armload of kid-selected pumpkins, because four year olds? Not so much with the listening.
At lunch my formerly hungry accountabilabuddy suddenly swore off solid food, pounding his Capri Sun while side-eyeing the rest of his bag’s contents. Jr snubbed the Lunchable that was his special treat, opting instead for my pumpkin seeds and prosciutto and leaving me with slightly gummy crackers and ham. (He was happy to take the cookie off my hands though.)
Then there was goat feeding (no shit,) followed by handwashing and me pouring an amazing amount of hand sanitizer on to both of my accountabilabuddies up to their elbows (because seriously guys, do you even know your hands can go places that AREN’T on your face!?)
Which brings us to the pinnacle of the pre-k pumpkin-patch-apolooza. The one thing that every kid probably told their parents about when asked about the whole deal; AND the one thing that made accountabilabuddy number two grin and giggle and shout.
The “mine car ride.”
As it turns out, the mine car ride is actually a train of mini hay-ride-style wagons pulled by a tractor out into the fields and around a course designed to make Keri cry. (No? Well that is my story and I am sticking to it.)
It was FAST – way faster than I thought it would be – and I swear I heard the lady driving the tractor cackling maniacally she snaked us over built-up bumps and around crazy sharp corners. I froze my smile in place, reaching behind wooping accountabilabuddy B to clutch Jr’s arm because in my addled mind CLEARLY one of those kids was going to be thrown from that contraption, and dangit if it was going to be mine. Thankfully the cackling driver returned us to our place of origin (the barn, NOT the throne of Our Father, though I really thought it was going to go down that way for a minute,) and we disembarked.
The majority of Jr’s class is still firmly ensconced in the ritual of the afternoon nap, so some pretty significant cracks were starting to show in the behavioral foundation of the group as a whole. There was a fair amount of whining, dragging, hanging, and shouted refusals at this point. Must be group picture time! The parents tried in vain to position worn-out kids on and around an old-timey pickup truck and get everyone to hold still(ish) for a pic. It was like telling a nest full of hornets to smile and say “cheese.” ( I can’t wait to see if any of the parents there actually got a good shot – mine are a hilarious stop-motion series of the chaos.)
One more potty break, and back to the busses/cars for the return trip to school.
An hour later I was daydrinking chardonnay with a plateful of not-diet-approved chicken wings, because that ill conceived dare mine car ride left me with an acute sense of YOLO that could only be quieted with cheat food.
So we survived the first field trip.
Pretty sure I have a conference call the day of the next one… whenever that might be.
Tag Archives: moms
FIELD TRIP!!!
Filed under musing
Counting Stars
These are Jr’s glow-in-the-dark wall stars. He earned them after 2 weeks straight of awesomely pleasant and peaceful bedtimes.
He lovey loves them so, and helped me stick them up around his Spider Man poster on the wall where he can best see them as he drifts off to sleep.
That was exactly 3 nights ago.
Then last night, in a blaze of mortifying pre-school tantrum glory that I still haven’t been able to pin-point a reason for, he lost them all in a bedroom cage match of parent/child wills that will live in infamy in the annals of our family.
With all the screaming, bed-stripping, arm flailing, insult and stuffed buddy hurling gusto he could muster going on for a surreal amount of time, there is no doubt it was NOT his best moment.
I can also say it wasn’t mine.
I saw things beginning to escalate when he started wrestling a bit with his Superman sleeping bag and reminded him that he could lose the stars if bedtime went bad (right to a threat? REALLY KERI!? REALLY!?)
Then I whipped the sleeping bag out of his bed, and went right down the check list of stuff I could take away if he didn’t cool it.
What happened to the “Yoga poses to help your child calm down” article I had read over and over recently, trying to prepare for just such an occasion? What happened to me staying calm so he would? WHAT HAPPENED KERI!?
We had two weeks of great bedtimes under our belts, so what hellish moon were we now under to be guiding us both down such a crummy path so quickly? How were we suddenly there in the near-darkness of his bedroom, him jumping up and down on his bare mattress in his button-up santa jammies next to a pile of ripped off bedding and yelling; and me furiously plucking stars of the wall while stating “now you have to start all over friend, isn’t that sad!!!?”
Consequences? I am 100% down with consequences. But this? I think if I search deep down in my hurt-mommy-heart, this was more just me being hurt and turning it back on him.
This was so far from my finest moment in mommydom that my view of those moments faded away faster than the baggie of glowing stars I chucked angrily into the hallway. This was a low.
After the dust settled and Jr was asleep in a tantrum-exhausted heap in his bed, I put one star back up, near a leg at the head of his bed where he won’t see it. But I will.
And I hope it reminds me to just try the damn yoga poses next time.
Filed under Just Sayin'
2015.
My Christmas tree is still up, and today Jr went to school in big boy underpants.
These two things are actually totally related – so stay with me here.
2015 is going to be a biggie for us. It will be the year that the diaper pail leaves our house, and the year the big boy bed comes into it. The year that sees the end of trips into the baby product aisle, and me carrying a diaper bag…. the year the bubbie (pacifier) finally truly exits our lives forever. The year scribbling turns to coloring, forks get used more than fingers, and the year that feetie jammies get traded for two-piece (easy bathroom access) models. A year of so many changes I haven’t even had time to think up and obsess about yet.
Jr LOVES Christmas stuff. He loves the lights, loves the decorations, the special toys and books that come out of storage, loves Hopscotch (the family Elf on A Shelf.)
With all of the changes coming with the new year, I have been in no hurry to get everything stored away this go-around. I still happily comply with his giddy requests to drive down every side street and cul-de-sac on the way home each night to see what holiday light displays still linger in neighbors’ lawns. As I box up Elmo Christmas books and the Little People Nativity and North Pole sets, I wonder if he will be as excited to see them next year. I know that sooner or later he won’t.
It was just last year at this time that he was still calling Frosty “Prosty” and Santa “Ho Ho” – try as I might, I can’t get his older, wiser self to go back to that – so I know that next Christmas can’t be the same as this one.
This was his last Christmas as any sort of a baby. Now he is a little boy in tiny Batman briefs playing on the “big kid” equipment in the gym at school that he used to be too little for. And I am a crazy woman clutching his cushy elephant rattle while crying and eating a whole plate of bacon.
Yep. So far I am KILLING the “well-balanced parent” thing in 2015.
If anyone needs me, I will be trying to teach Potter how to use a bubbie and ride in the stroller.
Filed under musing
The Universe mocks me in the morning.
Can I just preface this with a confession – I ABHOR lateness.
If we agree on 5 pm for a glass of wine and chat some place, I am the girl who is there at 4:55.
That being said – I suck at mornings. I SUPER SUCK at mornings.
I do everything right the night before: clothes for Jr and myself selected and ready, lunches packed, bags together… I am on top of it.
And then sometime in the middle of the night, shit must just go off the rails. Because come dawn’s early light, getting out the door seems suddenly as difficult as climbing a 14er in a too tight pencil skirt and stilettos. I can’t get out the damn door in anything even brushing up against the definition of a timely fashion in the mornings.
Stuff just happens.
This morning we have managed to get coats, hats, gloves, etc on and secured, and I am loading bags out the door and into the car, SO CLOSE to departure that if this was a plane the flight attendants would be in their seats, and Jr declares “MY CAR SNACKS!!”
So I run back though the house to the kitchen to grab his go-cup of Cherrios, just in time to hear the unmistakable sound of Binky-the-wonder-dog starting to throw up… somewhere… off in the distance.
I track down the barf and start cleaning it up, bags still hanging off of every arm – determined to push through and get on the road.
Standing over me, watching this display and snacking down his cereal, Jr inquires “Mom, everyone throws up, right?”
“Yep that is true buddy, everyone is sick sometimes, even doggies.”
“Just like everybody poops? “ Errr…. Ok…. “I’m pooping right now,” he says, standing over me, 4 feet away from the bathroom door.
Add another item to the “to be cleaned up “ list.
I sigh and put all of the bags down.
One dumps its contents all over the floor.
Yep.
Getting out the door is nothing short of an epic trudge every damn day. You can pack the lunches the night before, but you can’t plan for the poop, people.
Poop happens. And barf. And horrific coffee spills. And “NOT THAT SHIRT, I WANT THE RED SHIRT” wardrobe meltdowns. (Sometimes even from Jr. HA!)
I inevitably end up in the parking lot of Jr’s school taking my first conference call of the day while picking the remnants of a cheerio explosion out of my messy top-knot (sure, we can call that “intentional” messiness. You betcha.)
I have tried getting up earlier. I have tried getting Jr up earlier.
You know what I determined about getting up earlier? There is just more time for shit to hit the fan and slow you down.
Screw it – I’m sleeping in. Maybe I can get out the door before the universe notices we are even up one of these days.
Oh, Three.
So Jr. has been 3 for a few months now, and I continue to look back on what people refer to as “the terrible twos” with misty-eyed fondness. Oh how I loved me some two. There was nothing terrible about two. Two meant nap times, and cuddles, and eating anything set in front of him, and running toward Mommy. Two was super cute.
Three? Three is a tornado. Parenting a three year old could be an ACTUAL boot-camp style fitness class, but people would drop out from exhaustion. Three, so far, has been kind of surreal.
Reasons I buy wine by the case Fun facts about 3 year olds:
-3 year olds don’t care what you say. A three year old will sprint from you while you say stop over and over. A three year old will climb the drapes like a cat right after a conversation about why it is a terrible idea. I am fairly certain that when I move my mouth, my 3 year old hears the same “Wah Wah Wah Wah Wah” noises that all adults seem to make in Charlie Brown land, and not actual words.
-You don’t need a bull horn if you have a 3 year old. A three year old is the loudest thing on the planet. So just get the 3 year old to convey what you need to say to any crowd you are leading – except see the first item on this list. Not so much with the caring what you ask. So mostly 3 year olds just yell NO or make animal–like noises you can’t explain.
-The more tired the 3 year old, the harder it is to get said 3 year old to stop moving – a line gets crossed, and after that point you pretty much have to wait until the kid drops mid-run. (this does happen.)
-The only acceptable thing to do with something a 3 year old no longer wants, is to fling/whip/throw it away as hard as the 3 year old can. Don’t want those peas? Leaving them on the plate or pushing them aside won’t do. Must. Fling. Peas. All done with that watering can, Jr? Oh you can’t just set it down, you have to whip it across the yard – probably in the direction of the dog? Silly me. (We are working on it – but I admit, if I see his arm move at this point, I duck/block my face without even thinking.)
-Speaking of food –3 year olds are fickle eaters. Mac and cheese can be the best substance on the planet one day, and the next it seems it must be like swallowing razor blades – based solely on the reaction of the 3 year old.
-Actually 3 year olds are fickle with the everything. The Room on the Broom ap that said 3 year old adored on the tablet during brunch last week? Whipping it out at dinner this week will get you an eyeroll and a shouted NO! Nothing is “for sure.”
-Messy and possibly slightly dangerous? That is the activity a 3 year old HAS TO do.
-Recurrences of separation anxiety are real, yo. And 35 lbs of kid velcroed to your leg is tougher to haul around and IMPOSSIBLE to pry off. (Ok, I confess, I am soaking that up mostly – because being the center of his world feels pretty spectacular… but it makes preschool drop off kind of tricky/heartbreaking.)
Suddenly I understand the mom I once saw full on tackle a toddler in a parking lot. I totally get the backpack leashes I have seen on some kiddos around this age. Even that look in a fellow mom’s eye that says “as soon as I know your safe, I am going to wring your neck!” Safety can quickly become a guerilla-style situation in the ever-changing world of parenting a 3 year old.
It is tough not to get extra helicopter-y as he starts to enlarge his personality and test the boundaries of his growing world. Extra prayer and adult beverages are often called for. (I reserve the right to be protective – I’ve got 3+ years of work into this model – and even in his current state, I know how far we have come… I am protecting my investment when I insist he refrain from diving off the top of the play set head first.)
Ok ok ok – none of this is ALL the time. It is accompanied by a large amount of cuteness, and charisma, and a wonder of the world that is amazing to watch each day.
You know – the kind of wonder that has a volume of +1000, and is streaking away from me at a flat sprint while giggling and dumping some sort of messy substance along behind.
Oh, Three.
Filed under musing
Reluctantly Suburban 