Peach on TV! Well, sort of...

Peach and one of her BFFs wrote and illustrated a story one afternoon during a playdate.  They shared it with their teacher, who asked them to read it to the school via their closed-circuit morning show.  I was allowed to sit in the kindergarten classroom and make this video.  (You can hear Pimento in the background.) Enjoy!

Ready? Fight!

Here's another post inspired by an assignment, this time from Informal Logic: 

Consider a recent argument and present it in a premise/conclusion format.  

The following is a true story.

Just a few hours ago, I was reminded of a bitter dispute between my family and, of all places, a karate studio.  We were sent a collections letter seeking payment in the amount of $1400, despite attempts to negotiate directly with the owner of the studio regarding the cancellation of a two-year contract for karate classes once my husband’s medical treatments and the costs thereof created a long-term shortage in our budget.

When the issue initially came up, following a robbery of our apartment and subsequent purchase of expensive medication to replace what had been stolen, we spoke to the owner of the karate studio with the hopes that he would be understanding of our circumstances and make arrangements to buy out the contract or, even better, forgive the remaining obligation completely.  Our premise was simple: we could not afford to continue paying for karate classes.

In response, the karate studio owner’s premise was that we had signed a legal contract and were obligated to continue paying him for the duration with no exception.  However, he advised us to pen a letter to the “customer service department” explaining our circumstances and that “they” would consider further action, implying that there would be some resolution if we followed this course.

We wrote the letter as he advised, stopped bringing our five-year-old to karate classes, and were surprised to see additional payments taken from our bank account via the debit card he had on file.  We followed up with the studio owner, insisting that we had written the letter as advised and were expecting resolution, not more charges, and he restated his initial premise in harsher terms: that we signed a contract and were obligated to pay at any expense, regardless of our circumstances.  Further, we discovered through subsequent phone calls that there was not a separate "customer service" department, as he was the sole owner of the studio and was obligated to no higher power.  

Facing this staunch opposition, we chose to cancel the debit card he had been charging, thus removing his iron grip on our finances.  Yes, I've been sleeping soundly.

This exchange took place several months ago, and the letter of collection came today. The conclusion I have drawn is that, despite being in the business of teaching honor and respect, the karate studio owner values money over people.  He may have concluded that we are liars or deadbeats, but I value his perception of me as much as he seems to value mine of him. 

Clearly, the fight is far from over.  

A Word (or Two... Hundred) on Standardized Tests

Are you successful?  I mean, really, take a look at all you've accomplished in your life so far and all that you still want to accomplish and CAN accomplish and tell me (or just yourself), Are you successful?  

First, I suppose we should define how we are measuring that success.  Perhaps you're a successful mother, partner, friend, or cat lady.  Some amazing people I know (I'm even related to some of them!) are successful educators, entrepreneurs, and multitude other respectable professions.  One could even be a successful bargain hunter, or a great success at always doing the right thing.  The point is, there is no right definition of how a person can be successful.

Here's the thing: In order to continue funding the deeply-flawed No Child Left Behind model of standardized education for millions of American students, the government has declared the need to measure a school's success not by graduation rates or other classic indicators, but based on its pupils' ability to pass standardized tests.  Then, some number-crunching bureaucrats use more deeply-flawed formulas to determine which schools get the most federal funds for the next batch of student-bots. 

The trouble with measuring "success" based on test scores for either teachers or students is that there are so many different incarnations of "smart" or "gifted" that cannot be measured through the regurgitation of facts.  Truly, one can memorize "correct" answers, and still have no skill in manipulating the information or creating something new from it, and those acts are the ones that will indicate future success in the professional and entrepreneurial marketplace.  I will put it another way: the peons in any workplace can perform repetitive tasks reliably, but the guys (or gals) running the place have big, creative visions.  (Bill Gates, anyone?)  


In short, the current emphasis on testing, while great at training the future data entry clerks of America, does not serve as a reliable indicator of "success" in the terms we generally associate with that word, and endlessly hammering bright young minds with the added stress of practice tests and pre-tests and real tests is a detriment to their potential, in whatever field they find their strength.

Recounting Pimento's Arrival

It was a surprise.

From the very beginning, we weren't sure what to expect.  We learned of her burgeoning presence just one day after landing in Wisconsin for Daddy's new job.  We had just purged our stash of baby stuff before the move, were living out of suitcases in a hotel, and had only begun to amass housing options.  

In those first weeks, the morning (yeah, right) sickness kept me bedridden on more days than I care to recall.  Nothing smelled right, everything gave me a headache, my mouth tasted like spare change, and I had no appetite for anything except saltines and ginger ale.  Once I got over the worst of it, I was constantly tired.  The heartburn was endless.  And then there was the fluttering.  It started around my second trimester, and from that point on, falling asleep at night was a struggle.  Flutter, flutter, little bird...

This was not how I remembered pregnancy.  

Granted, my last pregnancy was spent mainly on my feet, waiting tables at a TGI Friday's for tips that never seemed worth it.  I was in better shape, counted my calories, and walked three dogs twice a day.  I was also able to nap when I felt like it, without feeling like a neglectful mother.  

While I'm on the topic of napping, one could argue that my visceral need for sleep may have been the cause for Pimento's early arrival.  Let's all go back to that day after Halloween, November 1st, 2010...

I was completely wiped out from an evening of costumed hiking and begging for candy, enhanced by a lovely evening of visiting with my Uncle Al (The Kiddies' Pal), topped off by Peach's Monday morning gymnastics class.  Around 2 o'clock in the afternoon, I couldn't take any more.  With Peach having given up on afternoon naps unless properly coddled, I plied her with a snuggle and the verboten Mommy Milk, and we napped peacefully together.  Shortly after we awoke, my dear husband arrived home early, anticipating his 20-hour workday of covering the elections the next morning.  

It was a lovely autumn day, so I offered to take our two dogs for their afternoon walk.  Halfway through, we met a large lab-mix and his girl, playing in the leaf piles across the street.  Our little hairless mutt, Loki, must have looked suspicious because in a matter of seconds, the large dog had streaked across and was on him, and our Jack Russell (Lloyd, the "big brother") was a blur of defensive strikes on behalf of his best bud.  The neighbor girl ran after her dog, called him off, and took him home.  She was freaked, I was freaked, and my dogs were in shock, one of them bleeding from his bite-wounds.  I hurried them home, washed the bites, and Daddy rushed Loki to the nearest vet for assessment.  He was fine, we were told, the wounds were superficial and he had a nice protective layer of blubber in lieu of fur.  The girl's father paid for the vet bill, and I was able to settle my nerves.

By the time all the hubbub had subsided, it was nearly dinnertime.  I don't recall exactly when I noticed my stomach hardening, but once I noticed, I kept an eye on the clock.  This didn't feel like labor.  It couldn't possibly be labor.  I called the midwife, and she gave me two options: wait it out or come get checked out.  With Daddy's long day of election coverage looming, I figured it was better to get a professional "all clear" than have him worrying about me while at work.  I packed a bag for myself, told him to stay home with Peach, and drove myself to the hospital, thinking I would be home in an hour or so after they confirmed my suspicions of "false labor" or whatever this was.  

Around 8:30 pm, the midwife told me I was 5cm dilated, but some women had been known to stay at that point for up to a week, so it wasn't a conclusive indicator.  I should stay and walk around, and they would check my progress in an hour... At which point, I was 6cm dilated.  

"You're having a baby," the midwife said.  

No way.  She was two weeks early.  Incredulous, I insisted it didn't feel like labor.  I had no pain at all!

Regardless, all signs pointed to L&D,

I called home, and Daddy got Peach ready to go.  They moved me to a birthing suite with hardwood floors and soft lighting.  By the time my little family arrived with their bags, it was nearly 10:30.  

I had been walking the wings, waiting for my so-called labor to feel like the punch-in-the-gut I was expecting. After all, when Peach was born, I was awakened by the cramping contractions of impending motherhood.

We settled in, and I tuned into some Bossa Nova on Pandora (thanks to hubs' smart phone) while Daddy and Peach slept on the provided sleeper sofa.  The midwife checked me, hour after hour, and my progress eventually stalled at 7cm.  My water hadn't broken, I still had no pain.  Around 1 in the morning, she stripped my membranes to move things along, and that's when things really kicked into gear.  I kept walking the halls, but this time I had to stop periodically to lean on the wall as each contraction demanded my full attention.  

I found my way back to bed, waking Daddy to let him know we were close. Back in the bed, I lay on my side and clutched at the side rails, breathing through the contractions as Daddy fretted about my comfort and we inquired about the possibility of an epidural.  Thus far, I had remained drug-free, and I was told we were already too close to delivery for an epidural to be effective.  Okay, then.

When it was time to push, the pain was intense, but not unbearable.  My pleas for help likely convinced Daddy otherwise.  The pressure urged me onward, and then I felt a release as she slipped from me and into the world.  She was here.

Peach woke only to her sister's cries.  

Born 2:53 AM on November 2, 2010

It's Happening.

Pimento is starting to talk, gesticulate, and stand on her own.

Granted, the three "words" that I've understood so far (all today!) are variations on the "ee-ee" theme.  Kitty, doggy, and pretty.  I should probably count "mama" and "dada" too, since she says them frequently enough, though I've dismissed them both as baby babble for a while.

Her greeting gesture is an open-closed-open-closed fist, and it's the same motion for animals or people.  She mixes in waving, sometimes with both arms flailing together.  Flapping.  She is the Little Bird, after all.

I'm trying to be consistent about teaching her sign language for things like "eat", "more" and even "diaper change", while infrequently remembering to sign "drink", "light" and other notables.  She may have attempted to sign back, though it's a work in progress and I can't say for certain.

There can be no doubt, however, that her desire to communicate is strong.
"Ahhhhhhhhh!" she yells, "I have something to saaaaaay!"

The surprise of her standing on her own coincided with her desire for big sister's awesome new toy, a Lite Sprite.  This ingenius playset comes with a "magic wand" that uses an electronic sensor to collect color from anything, display it, and then transfer said color (from up to seven feet away!) to a little plastic fairy with LED lights inside.  Really cool stuff, and it gives Peach a huge thrill to have that kind of power.
 
Anyone who has ever encouraged their babe to crawl by placing an expensive electronic device just out of reach will be familiar with the sudden inspiration to achieve milestones when there's something verboten nearby.  And so, she let go of my fingers and reached eagerly with both hands, stable on her own and ignorant of the expected-but-missing support.

I have no doubt the colorful, flashing, light-up toy in question (which Peach is enamored with and not eager to share) will be all the motivation Pimento needs to start walking.  Which leads to running.    

Oh, God.

Culinations

Peach helped me whip up our first pumpkin pie of the season this afternoon, while Pimento supervised from her perch in the Baby Bjorn.

This was less than four hours ago, and the pie is already half gone.  I'll admit to doing the most damage, but I count pumpkin as a veggie, so it's practically health food... Right?

Inspired by our collaborative efforts, Peach invented her first original recipe.

"Whatever you make, you have to try," I sagely advised.
"No, you can just try it for me and tell me what it tastes like."

Eventually she conceded to trying it, as long as we did it at the same time.  And then the creation commenced.

She carefully mixed sugar, cinnamon, Reddi-Wip, and shredded cheddar and then lovingly pressed the mixture into a mini-muffin tin and handed it off for a round in the already-hot oven.  A few minutes later, they were brown and bubbly.

She dubbed them Daffodil Daisies. They tasted like Candied Cheese.

Little Pimento had a taste, too.  And was the only one who wanted more.

Milestones Apart

Little Pimento (we also regularly call her "The Bird") is piling on the milestones, and Peach will not be outdone.

 

The small one is about a week and a half into her crawling masters class, and has seemingly developed the ability to materialize across the room in mere seconds, pulling up on anything that she can get her hands on.

What's that noise?!  Oh, look at that, the baby is introducing the floor lamp to the TV.

Her little legs seem to be spring-loaded, instinctively refusing a seated position for the better option of being upright.  Now that she has crawling figured out, she's fixated on walking. 

Shaking things is nothing terribly new, but today she turned it up a notch and got busy with the maracas, cracking us all up and prompting Peach to imitate ("Look! I taught her that!") a full-body rock.  Her accompanying ape-like expression puts it over the top.  She also might be using her new move to facilitate a hello/goodbye wave.  We'll have to present more opportunities to practice those burgeoning communications.

Topping off all of this obsessive development, there seems to be a tooth-pocalypse going down in Pimento's mouth.  The drool hasn't stopped for four days, and I've got her popping teething tablets like an addict.  Upon inspection, it looks like there are no fewer than five teeth laying siege to her defenseless gums.  It's incredibly pathetic.  And it's turning my normally easy-going baby into a clingy, restless retread of her big sister.  

Speaking of whom, Peach is blowing us away with her grown-up-ness, spouting vocabulary and creative story-telling that instantly turns us to putty.  We want to encourage her without rushing her, mainly because her sudden language prowess serves as proof that she'll soon be too grown-up for the nightly snuggles, laps to sit on, and "hold me!"s she currently demands.

When Daddy was putting her to sleep last night, he facetiously asked if she would still want to come snuggle in our bed when she was married.  

She answered, "Only if my husband doesn't snuggle me." 

And she was quite serious.