July 2008 Archives

Will holding your 5-year-old back a year lead to success in kindergarten, and later, in life?

A study says not really.

But my husband and I did give Firstborn Son an extra year of preschool. Joseph entered kinder at his Arcadia school when he was 5 but he turned 6 three months later. All but 5 of his classmates also turned 6 before the year ended, and his kindergarten teacher said the difference in maturity is noticeable.

I think we made the right decision. When Firstborn Son was one of the youngest in his preschool class, he was easily swayed by the "older boys," who were markedly more assertive and confident. Everything they said was gospel to Joseph. ("Mama, Eric said he saw a sea monster!" and nothing I said could convince him otherwise.)

Firstborn Son is thrilled to have survived the first earthquake he remembers. (He slept through the two other times.)

We were on the carousel at Westfield Santa Anita and had just gone round once when the lights flickered, the merry-go-round shuddered and I actually saw the display window of Urban Street on the second floor of the mall bulge out, once, before the shaking stopped.

I got both boys and my niece off the ride and met a shaken carousel operator, who, despite being totally unnerved by the experience, kindly told us to come back later to finish our ride. Then I almost bumped strollers with another mom who was smilingly reassuring her little ones that all was well.

Was it? I had a moment of panic when I realized I didn't know what to do at a crowded place during an earthquake.

Yesterday we went to Bolsa Chica Beach and Firstborn Son got a sunburn. We applied sunscreen before leaving and once after his first swim, but I forgot after the second dip, even though the sunscreen was just in my huge purse. So Joseph is now proudly sporting reddish cheeks and a red V-mark across his shoulders.

"I just can't wind my arms like this," Joseph says, forgivingly.

Bad Mommy moments come regularly in this house.

The Last Lecture professor died today.

Randy Pausch battled pancreatic cancer for almost a year, giving a sensational lecture, writing a book and showing us all how to die well. He was 47.

Pausch seems like a really laidback, friendly sort, a self-proclaimed computer nerd who dreamed of working for Disney and winning those huge stuffed toys at fairs. At the time of his diagnosis, he seemingly had it all: a great job teaching, a wonderful wife and three young children.

That's what hurts.

Firstborn Son completed a one-week basketball camp a couple of days ago and he came away with a souvenir program, a camp T-shirt and lasting inspiration from some pretty cool role models.

We paid $150 for the one-week b'ball camp, held at Glendora High and run by the men's basketball staff at Citrus College. Hubby was impressed that they are the reigning 2008 California state champions and 2008 Western State Conference champs too and we liked that Coach Rick Croy had coralled some of his players to help coach the camp.

There were about 100 or so kids, ages 6-14 and most of the kids had a pretty good foundation in basketball. My little one had none, save for occasional drills with his Papa out in the backyard. So Firstborn Son spent most of the time checking out the gym, talking Pokemon with other kids, and generally not breaking a sweat.
 
The Fighting Owls changed that. (Below, Coach Croy runs Joseph and company through some defensive drills.)

Do you yell at your kids?

I do. At least once a week, I think. Heaven knows I try not to. I don't remember my parents yelling at me at all (but then again, they both worked and they had help.) I do remember Dad spanking me with his slipper once. But that's it.

My friend M. told me once what her 12-year-old daughter suggested her mother give up for Lent: yelling at her kids. M said that was the only way she could get them to clean their rooms or do their homework.

I thought I'd be different. I would be the Zen mama, calm and loving, Cosby-esque in my wisdom, imparting only peace to my children. Right.

I do notice that I yell usually at the end of the day, when I am run ragged or worried about one thing or another. Does my yelling damage my boys? I hope not. Although when it's Hubby yelling I want to stop it right away.

At one of my favorite Web sites, ParentCenter (sibling to BabyCenter), 31,427 readers polled about yelling admitted to doing it several times a week (28 percent) and that yelling only sometimes made their children behave better (63 percent). Most of us had our parents yell at us when we were children, although only sometimes. And a whopping 53 percent said they regret yelling at their kids.

I know it scares Firstborn Son. Once I yell, he will do what it is I have been asking him to do ("Come here, ""Get dressed," or "Stop tackling your brother!") and once he told me, "Mama, I don't like it when you're angry because it makes me sad."

That stopped me. I know I'm modeling behavior to my boys and I don't want them to be yellers. Will yoga calm me down? Another piece of chocolate, maybe?

I don't know. I do know I want to keep the lines of communication open with my boys, so that they know if I'm tired or stressed, that Mama still loves them. I feel I can conquer this whole yelling thing soon.

Or at least until they turn into teen-agers.

We managed a day off on Friday and decided to go to Newport Beach (mainly because Grandma needed a ride there.) We didn't pack much, just a beach towel and extra clothes, but came back with lots more.



Firstborn collected sea shells (he's not too picky, any ol' seashell will do). In this picture, he's burying the plastic monkey ninjas he got in his kids' meal. Wonder Boy ran around, mimicking brother in picking up shells and finally showing off an intact mussel shell with pride.

The boys all ran to the surf, and spent most of the time running away from the waves or throwing sand into the water (which explains why their heads had the most sand at the end of the day.) Hubby shepherded the boys in the shore while I prepared our feast: from Jack in the Box. But any hot day I don't have to cook is a good day, so we enjoyed our chicken nuggets, burgers and fries.

I gave thanks for the time to just sit on the sand, watch my boys play, watch Hubby hang with them, look at the people around us, breathe in the air, stare at the clouds and later, watch the sun set. Didn't worry too much about anything at that beach.

Stuff of life.

More, please. And thank you.

Witness my escape artist days: Sundays when we would pile into Dad's little cream, two-door Toyota, Mom playing navigator in front while us six girls (yes, you're reading right), would do our best sardine impressions in the back. We were hot, we were cramped, we invariably sat for hours in traffic, and during one summer, Dad's eight-tracks consisted of nothing but Abba tunes.

One time we went to the mountains to beat the heat, another Dad fished from a nearby polluted river. Of course, he didn't catch a thing. But those were the days.