"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. Until he made me take the MCAS."

Yesterday, my 9-year-old took the math portion of the MCAS test. We are supposed to help her prepare for this test. And I know I should be more of a proponent of this standardized testing system. But I’m not (and this page best summarizes why).

I know the rubric that dictates how schools receive their funding. I know how important it is to keep our scores high, to keep our good teachers, to justify our expenses by showing THE DATA — that our kids are acquiring knowledge and education in this public school system. And because we live in a state and a town where the schools are good and highly rated (because, in part, of those high MCAS scores), our neighborhoods are desirable, our home values are high, and our tax revenue goes toward maintaining and improving those schools and all those good things that keep our neighborhoods safe and tidy and such.

*sigh* I know all this. I’m trying to be supportive. Really. But I fucking hate your tests.

I hate that my kid comes home feeling disappointed because she doesn’t have the math facts drilled into her head enough to enjoy total perfect recall of every damn math fact.

I hate that she is filling in those stupid fucking ovals with her #2 pencil already. And that her teacher has to spend class time toward teaching for the test.  I wish the MCAS would die a very painful death. A Ticonderoga stab to the gut.

There is already so much to dislike about the way public schools are run. I know it’s for the good of the majority. And I know I’m a crazy hippie, but I want my child to be playing on the playground for longer periods of time. I want her to have an entire hour–not the 15 minutes she is given–to eat lunch with her peers, so that she can make friends. I wish there were more music and art, more time for child-led reading, free time to explore or invent as her creative brain demands. I could go on.

I support public schooling in many ways, but mostly because it’s economically the best choice for our family. I know that if I had a spare $40k or so I could spend per year on education, I would be sending my kids to Friends School in Cambridge. Or, for about half that, I would send my kids to Sudbury Valley for un-schooling. In a heartbeat. I talk a big game about supporting public education in the US. But I’m secretly wanting better for my own kids.

So, here I am, feeling like such a hypocrite with my shiny smile and cheery “I hope you do GREAT on your MCAS today, sweetie” chant. Rah rah rah. When I don’t care for the way we run this imperfect system of accountability and academic success measurement.

And this isn’t intended to imply that her teachers aren’t completely awesome. They are. I just wish they had the reins. You know. To do their job and teach what is interesting and fascinating, to their hearts’ content. I don’t care for the system. But I love the school. And I respect and admire the teachers.

Kelsey comes away from school lately as if a swarm of zombies were chasing her out the door, gnawing on her sun-starved limbs. She runs out the door, a frowning thing, into my arms. Wanting to go home. Or to play. To do anything that is NOT school. School shouldn’t be a bad word. Lately, it is an expletive. Fucking MCAS.

This post is dedicated, in part, to Helen. Who agrees that MCAS suck. And who uses her expletives appropriately.

My clone, overlooking Marblehead harbor

Dear Kelsey

You turned 9 just the other day, and I have to admit that the baffling confluence of conflicting energies that comprise your essence sometimes leaves me wanting to hide in the linen closet with a bottle of vodka.

But I don’t have a walk-in linen closet.

Some days, you are a a wisp of a pre-teen, thinking of boys, worrying about your interaction with peers. Other days, you are a tomboy, in your ripped jeans and soccer shirts, your hair untameable, your smile hiding behind a stoic facade of stubbornness. You are a ray of sunshine some days, when all the pieces of your life fall into place as they should. And on those other days, when the homework is unrelenting, the household responsibilities too heavy to bear, the clouds hide most of your brilliance.

In a word, you are inconsistent. Even your teachers agree that they never know which Kelsey will be attending school. The exuberant helpful Kelsey who does her work and is eager to help, or the cloudy grumpy Kelsey, the one who loses her class work and tries to hide during class participation.

Looking for periwinkles

I think that you’re taking the time to figure things out. Third grade seems a little cruel, somehow. It’s the first time I’ve noticed that your peers are segregating themselves by gender. I’ve watched the playground dynamic, and I know how you yearn to jump into that game of tag with the boys. Or be asked to play soccer. But there you are, on the swing, a solitary long-legged pensive thing, your hair flying, your shoelaces always untied. You aren’t a solitary soul. I know this. And I also know that you are still adjusting to the new school. The other kids don’t get you yet. They don’t understand the prize hiding under your shy smile. They can’t feel the warmth of your beautiful soul yet. But you’re also not allowing them to.

If I could give you one thing, it would be the wisdom to know that you won’t always fit in, and that it’s OK. That you and your peers and friends are like fantastic clocks. Your pendulum is swinging in a different rhythm as many of them. Sometimes, you will find yourself swinging in synch with one or two others, and you will feel it in your heart. A rightness. But every one of you is changing and moving at different paces. And when those rhythms are off, you will feel that discord. But it is so fleeting. I advised you bring a book to school, for those times when you are feeling like no one wants to play with you. You always have the imaginative worlds of books to wander, the halls of Hogwarts, the fecund forests of Narnia, the dragon’s lair–universes so colorful and wondrous that you won’t feel so alone. I found this a comfort when I was the new girl, when I left the Coffin Elementary School in Marblehead, Massachusetts for the humid, strange playgrounds of Warrington Elementary School in Pensacola, Florida when I was 10. I always had books, even when I had no friends.

I know you are struggling to figure out who you are. You are pushing boundaries. You are pushing me away. You are seeing how much you can get away with. I am an impatient person, and I will try harder to give you space. It’s hard, though. I want to smooth your crazy hair, infuse you with positive energy to take away all that’s troubling you.

Today, you were the delay fish. You know. One of those fish that causes delays. Five minutes before you’re supposed to be at school, you are shirtless and shoeless, listening to music on your mp3 player in your bed. Your hair isn’t brushed. Your backpack is unpacked. You can’t find THE shirt that defines you this day. You are like this sometimes at age 9. Not quite put together. Not invested. You still got to school, and there were smiles for me when you got out of school. When you saw me, and you made a bee-line to me. And you hugged me. If you knew how delighted I was that you still hug me, still want to be affectionate with me, you would probably hug me less often! Because you seem to like being contrary girl lately. So I’ll keep hiding my delight. But I’m secretly melting.

The kid with the dark soul

Because no matter how hard it is to get you to eat anything that is not made of cheese or yogurt or Cliff Bars. No matter how much attitude you give me, I still adore every fiber of your being. You like to say that you have a dark soul, and it’s a running joke that I say “No you don’t. You are fluffy bunnies.” And then you smirk and give me the evil eye. But you really do have a soul that smells like spring flowers. You are fluffy bunnies and unicorns, and sunny days with birds chirping.

I know we have a lot of years ahead of us where we’re going to have trouble getting along. I’m not looking forward to those years, but I know they’re coming, and that there will inevitably be some disconnect in our relationship. Every day is a gradual pulling away, every hour a small step toward being your own person. You are 9, going on 13. I hope you will slow down and enjoy the flowers with me for just a little longer.

They make me eat these.

Dear every other parent out there.

First, you probably aren’t reading this anyway. You are taking your kids to Chuck E. Cheese right now. Or you are in Disney World. Or on African safari. Bermuda. YOU are doing all the amazing things ever with your kids. You certainly aren’t taking your kids to the grocery store to get milk. Or to the doctor to get flu shots. But on the off chance that you have the Internets, I would like to say a few things on behalf of my 8 year old.

OMG, you are SO much cooler than I am. Apparently you let your kids eat pounds of candy at EVERY meal. You don’t insist on apples and grapes for the school snack. You give your kids Snickers bars. And the drinks you provide for your children are, likewise, sugary treats. You give your kids Kool Aid, the RED kind.

Obviously you don’t make your children do homework. As soon as your children return from school, which you only send them to when they are in the mood, there are non-stop kid parties until all hours of the night with video-game playing, computers that play inappropriate YouTube videos with bad words and adult concepts, and wrestling competitions that take place in huge vats filled with every conceivable candy known to humans.

Your children never have to bathe or comb their hair or brush their teeth. All siblings share all their toys nicely, and your house is filled to the top with Legos, robots, Barbies, TVs, Nintendo DS players, Power Wheel ride-ons, full-size riding horses, real-life ninjas, and gold-plated stegasauruses.

In short, I think my 8-year-old daughter would like you to adopt her. If you are looking for a good deal on a really great but deluded kid, please reply in comments. Thank you.

A face full of happy!

Kelsey hasn’t played soccer since she was 5, when she played in the city league in Greensboro, North Carolina. The players were encouraged to, basically, run after the ball and perhaps get a foot on it. There wasn’t a lot of technique. Run to the ball. Try to kick it in the correct direction. Yay! I likened to the level of play I witnessed back then to a flock of flamingoes, all chasing after the same fish.

Even back then, watching Kelsey happily playing soccer was flocking wonderful. (sorry–couldn’t resist)

Anyway, soccer has changed! Kelsey joined a 3rd grade established team in our town, and the coach is COMPLETELY AWESOME! They have technique! They have a plan! There are terms used, and the girls are actually playing together as a team! *boggles!*

Now our family calendar is filling up with obligations this Fall. Our Friday nights are taken up with practice until dusk. Our Saturday morning games start just past bleary o’clock. There are workshops to work on technique, tournaments…. I hope she falls in love with soccer as I did as a kid. I wish I could be out there with her. I loved soccer almost as much as swimming when I was a kid. But I’m happy to be cheering her on from the sidelines, yelling encouraging things, learning when to shut up. Taking photos. Trying to catch little glimpses of her face as she flashes by, gauging the level of fun she’s having by her smile and focus. I live for those moments when my kids are happy, doing something they really dig.

I am SO a soccer mom. *gleeee!*

Art by Laurel

What does the Tooth Fairy do with all those teeth?

Laurel, age 6: (speaking in a lisp, as she just lost a front tooth this morning) I think that the Tooth Fairy umm, when we lose our tooth, she takes our tooth and gives us a tip for the tooth. And she takes the tooth home and puts it on her pile of teeth so she can make a teeth castle. So she will have a castle, and she gives us tips, of course. Today, I lost a tooth. I don’t know where it is. I was going to write a note to her saying that I lost my tooth, and I am very happy that I lost my tooth. The End.

Oh, wait. What I wanted to say was that the Tooth Fairy collects all those teeth, and she gets money for them, and with the money she BUYS a castle. Yeah. That’s what I meant to say.

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Kelsey, age 8: I think that the Tooth Fairy uses human teeth for making new human teeth, since in the morning sometimes the mouths of human babies have more teeth because the Tooth Fairy saves all the teeth in a humongous jar and at just the right time she comes at night and gives teeth to babies!

P.S. I think there are a bunch of Tooth Fairies. A group of fairies, and they all work together to get all the teeth up to the giant jar, because for one tooth fairy, it’s really hard to lift even one tooth, because tooth fairies are tiny, like pixies.

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PLEASE go check out the comments on this post to read the imaginative tales spun by my friends–Carolyn, Tom, and Sarah–about the Tooth Fairy. I can’t wait to read these stories to my kids!

Thanks for reading!

Christmas 2006, Kelsey with her new bike!

I’ve been carrying a 15/16″ wrench in my back pocket for 3.5 years now.

It’s just this thing I do, whenever I take the kids for a bike ride. Most times, Kelsey and Laurel will get on their training-wheel-equipped bicycles, and I’ll tag along behind them on foot (my bike is QUITE BROKEN). And when we get to a perfect space for safe biking, I’ll ask if either child wants me to take off the training wheels. It’s always been a no-go, and that’s OK

Last Thursday, I finally got a positive response.

I’m not sure if I’m old-fashioned or cutting-edge when it comes to many parenting decisions. Probably the former. I like to respond to my kids’ needs in ways that feel natural to me. Maybe I’m just lazy. But I believe, for the most part, in reaching developmental milestones in a child-led fashion. Because, honestly, if they aren’t invested in succeeding, what’s the point? Potty training Kelsey at 29 months happened the same way. Laurel weaning at 26 months happened likewise. When they are ready–that’s the time to TRY. Right? If I pushed my kids to achieve bike riding or reading early or tight-rope walking before they are developmentally and psychologically ready, am I doing that for bragging rights? Because I haven’t noticed any awards being given out to kids for early milestone achievement.

Kelsey got her bike right before her 5th birthday. And she has enjoyed riding it with training wheels ever since. But last week, she was ready. She took a deep breath, looked me in the eye, and said with her most I’m-being-courageous voice, “You can take off my training wheels.”

Kelsey with her bike minus training wheels, July 29, 2010

So, I did what every parent does. I pushed her a few times, never letting go. I ran alongside her, balancing her on the bike while she got the feel of balancing. She knew I wouldn’t let go. And then she tried taking off a few times by herself. Finally, she felt ready to go solo, so she asked me to give her a push. And I did. And she rode her bike about 30 yards before putting down her feet and stopping, all flushed with pride, looking back at me with surprise and excitement in her face.

To say she was ready is such an understatement. She is 8.5 years old. She’s been riding her scooter for 2 years with poise and balance. She did brilliantly on the bike, pedaling and balancing, feeling more confident with each revolution of her wheels.

And when she was tired, she asked me to put the training wheels back on so that she could bike home safely. And I did. I’m hoping that the next time we go biking, she’ll want to keep the training wheels off. Because it’s so much more fun! If she doesn’t, if she wants to keep them on, that’s fine too.

The weight of that steel wrench in my back left pocket feels rather like an old friend anyway.

We got our library cards today!

Also today, we…

• Checked out Kelsey’s 2nd grade classroom, and I got to meet her teacher.
• Toured Laurel’s Kindergarten classroom.
• Turned in our summer reading worksheets at the library, where both kids were supposed to read (or be read to) a minimum of 10 hours.

And here I brag a bit. Sorry. Hey, this is my job, so think of this as my jawing on and on about that big promotion I just got.

Kelsey read probably at least twice that much so far this summer, including The Tale of Desperaux and James and the Giant Peach, and about 10 of the Magic Treehouse series. I had her report to me after each book, and she is retaining characters and plot details (unlike earlier in the year, when she would “speed read” and forget everything by the end of the book).  Kelsey’s reading list, if you’re interested, is HERE. As for Laurel, half of the books on her reading list were books she read by herself, at Level C-F (A being easiest), with little-to-no help.

• Painted our toenails

• AND… I managed to sneakily finish off the last of the frosting left over from the cupcakes I made for my mother’s birthday. Go me!

Sometimes, I’m completely blindsided by something new one of my children does. Like when the 5 year old, who is going through a picky phase, voluntarily tries tuna fish and declares that she loves it. Or when the seven year old gives me an oral report on the differences between the movie version of James and the Giant Peach and the book. I seem to find myself surprised often by the things they are saying, the questions they’re asking. Their fears, their little and big steps.

Today, my big kid swam across the pool at our friends’ house. I had been giving her lessons, slowly building her confidence. But today, she just did it by herself. And kept doing it. I kept myself on the very verge of freaking the fuck out every time I caught her in the deep end without anything to hang on to. She made it to the side every time, without gasping or seeming winded at all. I, of course, was hovering nearby, ready to dive in and save her life. Yep. I’m on the paranoid side. I blame pregnancy.

But soon, Kelsey even got up the courage to jump into the deep end from the side of the pool in a float, going completely underwater.

And I wonder: was I like her when I was young? Did I have these days of courage, of bounding past milestones? It’s hard to remember being new to these experiences. I remember things like learning how to dive, how to ride a bike. There’s a fraction of a lifetime of little steps that I’ve forgotten, that I haven’t given a lot of thought to. Not until recently, when I’m trying to dig through my childhood memories to get a glimpse of the little freckled Terry and her fears, her ways of dealing with new challenges, and the ways her parents helped her. I miss that little kid. Sometimes I feel so very far away from her. And sometimes I do recall a big step. Sometimes she reminds me of what it’s like to get over that fear of the dark, of the monster under my bed. It makes me a better parent, to get into those little shoes once again.

At times, I look at my two little girls, and I see a little bit of her. Shy, sweet, happy, neat. And I see a little bit of the boy their father used to be. Cautious, brilliant, focused, quiet. It makes me wonder who this little guy kicking the hell out of my uterus is going to be. A little bit like me, a little like him?

It’s not narcissism, necessarily, to want to see yourself in your children. It’s a recognition, a familiarity. It’s comforting. It’s the statement that *I* have been through these things and lived. They didn’t break me. I am not STILL that little girl who was terribly constipated and afraid of the abominable snowman from the Rudolph movie. I finally DID learn to get over my fear of swimming in the ocean after watching Jaws.

What will they do tomorrow, these little kids who amuse me, who challenge my patience and make me a better person. I’m both anxious to find out, and EXHAUSTED with the thought that I have to keep keeping up with them and being present so that I don’t miss something, another thing, that is so amazing that I have to remember to write about it late at night, after books and goodnights, when they’ve slipped off into dreams I’ll never see.

Apparently, she is the same in school. Most of the time, her teachers rave about her level of participation, the speed with which she acquires new skills or learning, and her exuberance. And then there are the times when she’s had a bad day, when she gets a red flag for behavior, when she cries when I pick her up, broken-hearted at some perceived slight or criticism, and I have a sad little bundle of girl to carry to the car, wrapped up in my arms. But the sad never lasts long. It’s turned around with a popsicle, a hug, or talking it out, or dancing. And then she’s back to herself.

Her storytelling follows the same emotional patterns. To illustrate, here’s a story she wrote about Rapunzel:

In Kelsey’s version of a beloved classic, we have what appears to be our storyteller, wearing green. I have no idea what the monster with the crazy eyeball is doing in that scene. Maybe it is listening to the story? And then a joyous Rapunzel, walking with her grandmother in the park. The grandmother doesn’t get screen time apparently, but a dog does. Then, the smiling witch uses some magic to cut off Rapunzel’s hair. And, apparently, bring about a change in Rapunzel’s costume and pet. Those witches, they always get such a bad rap. But then, you’ll notice, in the final scene, Rapunzel is SMILING! I think she likes her haircut. She’s also wearing a green dress. Maybe we are to assume that the storyteller is actually Rapunzel, telling her own story. Maybe I’m reading too much into 7-year-old art?

This art is representational of the way my child approaches her world. Sometimes bad things happen, but then things work out GREAT in the end! And there’s very little in the middle. Lots of black and white, with very little gray. She moves through emotions with such speed that there’s little time to process and reflect. She is down and depressed about something. We talk or do something positive. She rebounds.

Last week, Kelsey played a game at recess where she was the puppy, and one of her friends was her owner. The owner told the puppy that she wasn’t being a good puppy and wouldn’t get a bone.  When I picked her up from school, she was crying so hard, I figured someone must have eviscerated a unicorn in her presence. So, she told me the story of the puppy who didn’t get a bone, with tears flowing freely down her face. And I listened and dried her tears and tried not to laugh. By the time we got home, 5 minutes later, she was jumping out of the car, excited to be playing puppies with her very sympathetic sister. Hell, *I* was still sad about the poor little puppy. She, however, had moved on. And this is the way she approaches everything. She bounces back.

And it’s not that I want her to change! How simple would life be if we could all just take the sadness, the tragedy in such easy strides, jumping over all the bad feelings and the depression, the lasting anger and need for closure. It’s just that with Kelsey, the lows are so very low, and the highs are so very high. The tears come easily, and the smiles glows so brightly it’s almost blinding.

In the story arc of Kelsey’s life,  I hope she’s always able to overcome the tragedy of bad haircuts and mean witches, and end up smiling and victorious at the end. But I also hope these years are just the joyous beginnings of a person who figures out how to rule these conflicting energies and bend them to her will so that there is more time in those interstitial places for emotions, more time for contemplation and deeper understanding.  I know that I’ll miss these years when she is a teenager, and instead of imaginary puppies and doggie bones, there’s a boy or girl who breaks her heart, or a contest or competition she doesn’t win, a loss that can’t be fixed with such easy currency. Until then, I fully intend to share with her the simple joys of popsicles and warm sunny days in the park, for long snuggles and hours-long art projects, and for dancing around like a giraffe on acid to the music inside her head.

You were afraid of the Nothing, and of G’mork, the wolf-like antagonist. I thought you might run or cry at the part when he attacks the hero, Atreyu. But we talked about the machine that makes the creature move and talk, and although you said you were scared, you were so brave.

And I flashed back to your first frightened cries, when you were naked and crying and writhing on the scale at the hospital, and how desperately I wanted to save you and wrap myself around you to comfort you. And of your first bath, when you stared in wild-eyed terror as I bathed your head and shoulders in warm water, giving up after a short time to scoop you up in a towel and put you to my breast. You comfort so easily. You never hold a grudge. The terror flees from your body so quickly.

Even today, you are quick to tears, yet can go from tears to laughing uproariously with a tickle or a joke. I love that a cuddle can still change your mood from bad to good.

It’s amazing to see how gently you treat the world around you. You have a smile for everyone. Babies and dogs fascinate you, and younger children follow you around. You are a born nurturer. It makes me fear for you a little. I know I have to continue to prepare you for this world. I can’t  trust that it will treat you justly and gently in return.

You tend more toward whimsy and silly than serious and studious, yet your grades couldn’t be higher. Your teachers consistently have only positive comments about how hard you work and how much you participate in class. You love reading and art and physical education, and you tolerate math. Bugs and slimy amphibians and reptiles fascinate you, and you aren’t afraid to dig in the dirt and get filthy.

Right now, with your adult-sized ears, long slender legs, and lack of front teeth, you are awkward! But you pull it off. Your self esteem is positively infectious. You like the way you look, and it’s reflected in your smile and body language. More than that, though, you like WHO you are. Sometimes I watch while you try on other behaviors or follow the crowd, but you always come back to yourself.

Your rebellions sometimes test my limits, but I know you’re continually recalibrating your relationship with me and gaining confidence and autonomy. We clash sometimes because we are a lot alike. I think you are trying to separate from me, and I admit that it hurts me. But I’m also so proud of you for trying to find your own path.

Happy 7th Birthday, Kelsey Grace.