Why I Love Books

It seems that I'm not the only one in the family who gets a little carried away by books.  Nora, too, appears to have inherited this tendency.  

On a recent trip to the library, she picked this up. 

She, then, proceeded to read it cover to cover while we, very slowly, walked home.  Upon said arrival, she immediately began constructing her own country:  The Domain of Smiley Faces, "where shooting stars, soccer balls, and smiley faces make a better way of life!"

Now creating a whole country doesn't just happen in an afternoon.  It takes time, at least a week. So, since that day, about a week ago, she has declared herself President, of course, written a National Anthem, 

Hail the Domain of Smiley Faces, beautiful and true. 

We stand tall for you!

With some flowers here,

and some trees there.

Here a smiley face,

there a smiley face, 

everywhere a true smiley face (Old McDonald had a .... Oops, got off track)

Hail the Domain of Smiley Faces, beautiful and true.

created a Constitution, (here's an excerpt:)

"We believe the individual has certain rights such as, the right to live, freedom of religion, the right to have personal security, and the right to own animals."

and written a book of laws, of which she's up to twenty-two.  

The following are a few of my favorites:

#1Everyone must like smiley faces. (Seems reasonable)

#2 Everyone must like to smile.  (Again, reasonable)

#9 If someone is full, another person cannot force them to eat. 

(Hmm... sounds like dinner-time around here)

#13 Everyone must have some kind of decor (unless you can't afford it) 

This certainly brought a smile to my face.

#18 If you are in jail, do not break out.   

(Although, technically, no one should be in jail because law #5 states No Criminal Acts)

And, finally, 

#22 People need to be clean.

(this coming from the kid who runs and hides whenever I mention the words bath or shower.)

As President, she's also compiled a list of National Holidays: Smile Day, Read Day, International Spinathon Day, (which, in my opinion and experience, does NOT seem likely to generate a lot of smiling) I Scream LOUD Day, (what?) and, of course, National Independence Day.  Although I'm still not sure who DSF declared their independence from.  At any rate, there will be parades, flowers, dances, parties, and, obviously, no one will have to go to work or school that day.  

She's also created Citizen Passes, which must be carried by all citizens, at all times, (okay that sounds a little Big-Brother-ish) and she's drawn up a map, which is very difficult to read because it was written in light, neon-green sharpie.  Suffice it to say, there is an Anna Road, an NJ Ave, an Army Fort (for protection) and a Governor's House, which is where, I imagine, the President resides?

Now she's working hard to create jobs for her citizens, of which there are three.  So, naturally, she created a newspaper, The Smiley News Weekly Paper, which I am "to run" because "you like to write mom."  Although, she will fill-in from time to time, when her Presidential Duties don't interfere. Thus, she conducted the paper's first interview (of me) 

Such a striking resemblance!

wherein I reported that I was excited about my move to DSF and looking forward to my new life.  

I realized, at the time of the interview, this was probably her attempt to put off bed-time just a little longer, but I didn't have the heart to enforce that rule.  I mean how often does one get interviewed for the  National News?

So, yes, in this house we love books.  A LOT!  

And I wonder what Dave's job will be...

The Value of Training

Last weekend, Nora Jane learned what all weekend warriors, who have come before her, have learned: training is important.

Standing at the start line of the Mazama 5k, she was nervous, excited, and ready to release the beast.  

Eager to be on the front line, among the elite, she kept inching forward.  When I suggested she "hold back a bit," to avoid getting trampled, she just looked at me like I had never run a race before and said, "Mom!  At school I always line up in the front! And last week I came in second!  

While I wanted to say that you only race against seven other third graders, of course you line up at the front.  You all do!  I did not.  Instead, I held her hand and said, "just a little longer, just until the kids' race is over."  The race that I, initially, suggested Nora run.  The race that Nora simply would not do.  

"Mom, I've already run lots of 1k's.  I want to run the big race.  With you.  I can do it!"  

And there was no changing her mind.  

As race day approached, however, I suggested she might want to try training a bit.  

"Mom, I don't need to.  I know I can do it." 

"I'm sure you can honey, but three miles is a pretty long way." 

Finally, a week before the race, she gave in.  And while  I prepared dinner and set the table, she set out to run a few laps around our block while her coach followed along on his bike.  After the first lap, she came running inside to announce that was easy!  We're going to do another lap!  And back out the door she went.  

The end of the second lap, however, looked, altogether, different.  Standing in the doorway, huffing and puffing, chest heaving, she said, "Mom, my knee hurts!"  

Ugh, I thought.  This race is NOT going to go well.

"Well, honey, you still have time to practice.  And, remember, you can always opt for the 1k."  She just looked at me like I suggested she go and watch Dora.  

So, naturally, when the gun went off, she took off like a rocket.  Well, a rocket in the midst of a very crowded solar system.  She jockeyed for position, trying her best to get to the front of the pack.  A place I've always tried to avoid at the start of races.  You can get run over up there.  But Nora was determined.  She was infallible. She was completely and totally inexperienced.  

Ponytail swinging, she ventured off the trail and onto the grass to secure a better position.  She leaned into the first hill and I looked at Dave and thought, "she's going to smoke us!"  I was so proud!  She's a natural!  Look at her go!  Watching her feet barely hit the ground, I thought we have the next Pre on our hands!  I seriously get SO carried away.  

And then, we hit the half-way mark and Nora said, "how much farther?"  

We just looked at each other and thought, oh boy! 

One mile is not a very long way, but it can feel like forever when you're tired.  And Nora was tired.  Her ponytail, now still, hung straight down her back.  The feet, that had just moments before seemed to fly through the air, were now scuffling through the dirt, too heavy to lift.  And she got passed.  And passed and passed and passed.  

I tried to help her, to encourage her.  I took her hand and pulled her along jogged with her.  I sang the Geoduck song to her.  I said "almost there" way too many times to be true.  Dave just jogged alongside her.  Stopping when she stopped, starting when she started.  The man has the patience of Job!  Nora just kept going, jogging/walking all the way to the finish line.  

When we got close enough to actually see the finish line, she, somehow, found the energy to sprint to the end leaving Dave and I stunned and annoyed.  For now, child-less, we had to cross the line like a bunch of losers who couldn't even keep up with the kids!  

It was the slowest 5k I have ever run.  And running past those cheering fans, (because that's what you do at fun runs, you cheer --for everyone-- even the slow ones who probably should have just stayed home and slept in) felt humiliating. 

While Dave walked over to the water table, I headed for the brownies.  What the heck, I may not have burned enough calories to compensate for eating even one of these babies, but I didn't care.  It was over.  I ate another.  

As we walked over to the pancake breakfast, I asked Nora if she had fun.  She just shrugged and said, "I don't know."  When the lady selling the breakfast tickets asked her, "how'd you do?"  She, again, responded "I don't know."  Not wanting her to feel bad about her efforts, I leaned in and said, "she did great!  She just finished her first 5k."  And, at that moment, I really was proud of her.  She hadn't trained,  she ran entirely on faith, hope, and dreams.  But, who hasn't done this from time to time? And she stuck it out, without one single complaint.  

After a trip to the rodeo, a stop in Winthrop to try on silly hats, 

As you can see, Minnie Pearl is alive and well
and living in Winthrop :)

and a healthy dose of playtime  with all the other kids at the lodge, she was in much better spirits.  At dinner later that night, I, again, asked her if she had fun.  Her response was difficult to hear; the restaurant was crowded and her head was resting on the table next to her half-eaten plate of food.  She was minutes from falling asleep.  "I guess.  It was hard."

The next night, however, as she crawled into bed with me, she said, "Mom, I think I need a training plan."  So she got out her sketch book, drew out a month's worth of days and began to fill in dates when she has time to run.  

"I still think I'm more of a sprinter, but maybe I can go farther.  If I practice."

Good plan kid.  

Keep on keeping on--

S-

What Do You Do When You Can't Help Your Child?

My daughter, Nora Jane, is nearly perfect.  Both of my daughters are, actually.  But then, I'm probably a little biased.

Nora Jane, though, is smart, funny, and adorable in that I haven't grown into my body or teeth yet kind of way.  She is kind, sensitive, and has a never-ending love of animals, and me.  To me, that's really her most important and endearing quality: she loves her mum. 

She has one flaw, though.  One flaw that I cannot fix.  One flaw that I can't help her with, help her to overcome, help her to stop.  And it kills me.  And I don't even like to call it a flaw, because that implies that she's broken, or defective, or, somehow, not right.  And she's not.

Nora Jane has Trichotillomania, which is just a fancy way of saying that she pulls out her hair.  Not all of her hair, only her eyebrows.  And, really, only one eyebrow.  And she only does so when she reads. And she hasn't always done this.  It's something that she started this year, right after she started in her new class.  A class of third, fourth, and fifth-grade highly-capable kids. (I hate this label too, because, somehow, it also marks her as different.)

Naturally, I assumed this behavior was the result of her new environment, the higher expectations.  But after talking to her teacher, she assured me that Nora Jane easily adapted to her class, made friends, and was doing great academically.  So what then?  

Nora has always been fidgety, wiggly.  She cannot sit still, cannot keep her hands still.  But this seemed off the chart.  When I first asked her about it, she seemed completely befuddled.  As if she didn't even know what I was talking about.  And I don't think she did.  Her actions were completely subconscious.  She simply replied that she felt something "weird" on her face.  Not weird, honey.  Hairy, maybe, but not weird.  

And that, I thought, would be the end of it.  We'd confronted it.  We'd talked about it.  Done.  

I was so wrong.  By the time Halloween rolled around, her brows were almost completely gone.  That's how fast this evolved.  When she started school in September, she had a full set of beautiful, brown, brows.   On Halloween night, her big sister said she looked like a cancer patient.  And she was right, not that this was, at all, helpful.

Thus, I began to plead with her, make demands of her.  One night, in the midst of my frustration, I loudly told her "enough is enough, you are too old for this!"  Which did nothing but make both of us cry.  It was that night that I knew we were dealing with something that neither one of us could control. So, off we went to the pediatrician.  

When he said she has Trichotillomania, I wasn't surprised.  I'd already surfed the web and stressed myself out in an effort to understand why she was doing this and how to make her stop.  I got no answers.  Just A LOT of anxiety-producing information: it's a compulsion, it's a form of turrets, it's a mental disorder.  It usually occurs in girls, smart girls, around the age of ten.  (Apparently Nora's a little advanced, dammit.)  By the time Dave took my I PAD from my hands, my head was filled with worry and I had visions of my completely hairless daughter  entering high-school.   I started crying and asked him why.  Why is she doing this to herself?  She's the kid with no troubles.  No problems.  She's happy.  She's smart.  She's loved!

He just held me and said, "but she's not perfect."  He was right.  She's not.  But she is.  

"But why!"  I kept asking him, demanding an answer.  "Why would a smart, funny, well-loved kid start mutilating herself?"  

"I wouldn't call it mutilation," he replied in his calm-down tone that told me I was starting to over-react.  "It's just a phase.  Besides you pay someone to rip out your eyebrows." 

True.  Okay, I'll give him that.  But Not ALL of them!  Only the unruly ones!  And I pay someone because I can't do it myself.  Because it hurts!  And it should hurt Nora!  And plus, Abby always puts on that nice smelling lotion that soothes my skin.  And she has that soft, soothing, running-river-sounding music playing in the background.  Why if she wasn't ripping the hair from my face, I could probably fall asleep in her little room. 

Nora's doctor had no calming music in his exam room.  Only a bench that barely accommodated both Dave and I, and a swiveling stool that he sat upon while asking Nora a long series of questions: 

Do you have a hard time falling asleep?  Yes.

Do you wake up really early?  Yes.

Does it seem difficult for you to put your mind to rest and stop thinking about things? Yes.

Do you do well in school?  Yes. 

And just like that, he confirmed my diagnosis, "it's a compulsion."   Instantly, my mind started thinking about all those "weird people."  The ones with all the weird routines; like placing their keys just right on the table, or in the dish.  The ones who have to have all their yogurts facing forward in the fridge.  The ones who place their pantry items in a specific, systematic order.  (Oh wait, that's me!  But I get this from my dad, so I can't help it!  And not anymore!  From now on, my pantry will be one big, chaotic mess!)  Or the ones who count the stairs every time they climb them.  Even if they've climbed them hundreds of times before.  (Shit! That's me too!) 

God, the poor kid!  She was doomed from the get-go.  

The doctor went on to discuss the various methods of treatment.  The first of which was Distraction Therapy, which is simply giving her hands something to do when she reads.  Because this is when she plucks.  "Or," he continued, "you could limit her reading time."  What?  Do you know how much my kid reads?  Just the thought of limiting her reading time, taking books from her hands, would be like asking her not to breathe!  Two of her favorite past-times are going to the library,  the bookstore.  Just this morning she was ready to rush to the library to pick up a book she had placed on hold. It was barely past sun-up.

So, Dave and I clung to every word about distraction therapy, BMT (Behavior Modification Therapy) while Nora, clearly not bothered by any of this talk at all, patiently sat on her paper-covered exam table swinging her legs and thinking about the promised post-doctor trip to the frozen yogurt shop. "And whatever you do,  do not make a big deal out of it."   I've been bringing my children to this man for nineteen years, and, clearly, he doesn't know me at all.  He concluded his speech with "the bottom line:" she has to be retrained.  Retrained?  She's perfectly trained!  I know!  I trained her!  

Not at all happy with the advice from my pediatrician, I sought out the other experts.  My dad said it's because she's too busy.  She has too many activities.  But he was wrong.  She played soccer and went to Girl Scouts TWICE A MONTH.  I hardly consider that "too busy."  Besides,  I probably shouldn't consult him on this matter seeing that he has his own share of idiosyncrasies.  Take his coin counting, for example.  Whenever he goes out, he counts out a very specific amount of change to take with him:

4 pennies, because carrying 5 would be the same as bringing a nickel,

1 nickel, because carrying 2 would be the same as bringing a dime,

4 dimes, because carrying 5 would be the same as bringing two quarters, and

3 quarters, because carrying 4 would be the same as bringing a one-dollar bill.  Yikes!

See what I mean?  Nora didn't have a chance!  But  we can't be the only weirdo-schmeardos out there.  What about all those nail-biters?  Biting their nails to the quick, until they bleed!  Or those people that are constantly clearing their throats. Or the ones who can't stand it when their foods touch!  Just to name a few.  

The difference between Nora's compulsion and my dad's, however, is that his doesn't cause him any harm.  It's just weird, calculated.  And while, technically Nora  isn't in harm's way, I don't think picking away at her skin and hair is a good thing.  And I can stop ordering my pantry, or counting the stairs (I think) anytime I want.  Finally, I could decide right now to never again have my eyebrows waxed.  And if it would make Nora Jane stop, I probably would.  But it won't.  I know, because I'm her mom.  I know her.  And I know it's not just a phase.  Otherwise, we wouldn't have entered Round 2.

Yes.  Round 2.  After many months, Nora's plucking seemed to have stopped.  I don't know if she just forgot about it, or if I just laid off her long enough, or if all the squeezy balls we bought for her to "play with" while she read actually did the trick. But for whatever reason, her eyebrows grew back.  And they were beautiful!   And Dave was right: it was just a phase.  

But now it's back.  And some of her eyebrow is, again, gone.  

And Nora, sweet Nora, said, "I feel so guilty mom!  Because you and dad keep buying me all these balls and I just lose them and it just doesn't help!  And I can't stop because it feels good!"  And I was crushed.  Crushed by the weight of those three little words.  Crushed by the tears and emotion that poured out of Nora as she stood next to the fridge, clinging to the handle, the snack she was after completely forgotten.  

I walked over to her, and hugged her and told her that she should never feel guilty about something she can't control.  And I told her I'd buy her every squeezy ball in the world if it will help.  And I told her it will be okay.  And that I  loved her.  I will always love her.  

Shearing Day

Who needs sheep or angora rabbits?

Not me.

I have my own fiber producer:  Jack, the Ever-Shedding Lab-Mix.

And yesterday was shearing day on the farm.

Just Like Grandma Used to Make

Since Nora Jane's after-school-hours have been consumed with a research project on Norway, and today happens to be Syttende Mai, (May 17th, Constitution Day in Norway) I decided to send one of her favorite Norwegian treats in her lunch today.  Since I didn't get up early enough to whip up a home-made batch of lefse, however, (nor have I ever made home-made lefse) we had to improvise.

And with just one minor adjustment, lunch was ready! 

I am Norwegian To THE CORE :)

Just like Grandma used to make... Almost.   

Prepared just the way I was taught,
with lots of butter, sugar, and cinnamon...

LUCKY NORA!
Just the way my Grandpa would've really said it :)

Happy Grunnlovsdagen (Constitution Day) everyone!

Out of the Mouth of Nora Jane

"Mom, can we lay off the rhubarb for a while!"

What I thought:  What?  Are you crazy?

What I said:  Of course dear.  Just as soon as I make these rhubarb bars

After the Rain

Yesterday's bike ride didn't happen.  There was the rain, the flat tire, the other flat tire, more rain.  In short, it just wasn't meant to be.

When Dave came home from work, though, he made me a happy girl.  For he came bearing gifts:

New tubes!

And wine!  

Apparently, one of Dave's co-worker's sister has a winery!  Lucky us!  

Today, however, dawned anew.  The wine had been tasted, the flat tires repaired, and the sun was out!  Thus, Dave and I hit the road.  

Just gotta read the signs.