The Unofficial School Supply List for First Graders

I've heard the horror stories about new math, inventive spelling, and lattice multiplication, but I thought I had a few years before my children's schooling left me dazed and confused. After all, my oldest is only going into first grade- how hard can it be?

Then along came glue dots.  

I remember glue pots, glue bottles, glue jars, and that awful gluey rubber cement stuff we would inhale and then use to make fake boogers (admit it- you did too). I'm familiar with glue guns and glue sticks, but glue dots? What are they and why are they on the first grade school supply list? 

Even Target couldn't answer my question, and in my book, if they don't sell it at Target, you just don't need it. Unfortunately, St. Patrick School does not feel the same way, because glue dots are apparently very necessary to first grade success. 2 packs of them, to be exact.

So what to do about this important but elusive supply so critical my child's academic future? I couldn't very well send him off to face first grade lacking in the appropriate adhesive, now could I? I searched the other big box stores and was still glue dotless until finally I turned to the one source I knew would not let me down: Facebook.

My trusty friends were quick to the rescue, and although the answer was slightly terrifying, for the sake of my oldest child I put on my big girl pants, stepped boldly where I usually fear to tread, and purchased 2 packs of glue dots from the craft store.

Once the dust settled on Operation Glue Dots, I got to thinking about the supply list. As comprehensive (and expensive) as it was, it still seemed so incomplete compared to what was ahead. How I wished I could arm my son with everything he'll need to tackle the challenges of the next 12+ years of formal schooling. But there's no Trapper Keeper (do they even still make those?) big enough for that. If I could I'd fill a 5-subject notebook (single ruled) with the mistakes I made and make him memorize them every night with a quiz each Friday, but I know he needs to find his own way. So instead, the best I can do is pray I've prepared him to do just that.

Still, there are a few tweaks I'd like to make to the official supply list.... 

Washable markers are great, but sometimes life's most meaningful projects are the messiest ones, the ones that leave our fingers stained, our shirts a streaky mess, and our minds a blur. While some marks are permanent, I'll always be there to help with the clean-up. Or better yet, to pass on the tools he needs to clean up on his own. 

64 crayons sounds like a fantastic deal, but more isn't always better. I pray he won't be dazzled by metallics or mesmerized by glitter. It takes years to figure out your own true colors, much less anyone else's, but when you surround yourself with the colors that bring out your best and you can't go wrong. I don't care if no one else likes Burnt Sienna. What I do care is that he becomes the kind of kid who sees that no one is eating lunch... I mean coloring...with Burnt Sienna and he reaches out to Burnt Sienna to give it a chance. Because sometimes the most beautiful colors are left sitting in the box.

What's with all the No. 2 pencils? Why not a No. 1 pencil, or a No. 3, or a No. 658? I hope this dear child never stops asking questions, never loses his curiosity. May he fill his pencil box with it and always keep it sharpened.

And I completely agree with the fine folks at St. Patrick School. Adhesive will be necessary. Life is sticky, and he'll need to be even stickier to get through it. He'll need to stick true to what he believes, to stick by his friends, to stick up for those who need a hand, to stick with his goals and his hopes and his dreams. And we'll need to stick together through it all, especially since the path to becoming a trapeze artist/astronaut/garbage collector/doctor isn't an easy one.

So for my sweet boy as he enters first grade I wish endless supplies of whatever sticky substance will keep his gentle spirit grounded, his innocence intact, and his heart and mind open.

Even glue dots.  

Move Over, Cronuts- It's Time For Something Leaner....Monuts

Those who know me well would probably agree that "Mona" and "donut" and are not exactly words that go together. But believe it or not, I've been on a major donut kick this summer! No, my brain hasn't been taken over by aliens (unless you count my children) But I have discovered, thanks to a $2 garage sale find, that I can make my own, healthy, baked donuts for special treats. We've made chocolate, blueberry, cranberry, strawberry, and you-name-it-berry donuts, but so far the reigning favorite (as declared by my trusted band of taste testers) is this whole wheat baked cinnamon version. It's not the kind of thing we eat every day, but for a treat- absolutely.

So yes, you CAN put Mona and donut together without compromising your health goals and ideals. Behold, the Monut.

Ingredients:

2 cups whole wheat flour
3/4 cup sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 large egg, lightly beaten
1 1/4 cups almond or soy milk
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

For the topping:
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Directions

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Coat donut pan with baking spray.

Into a large bowl, sift together the flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt. In a small bowl, whisk together the egg, milk, melted butter, and vanilla. Stir the wet mixture into the dry ingredients until just combined.
 

Spoon the batter into the baking pans, filling each one a little more than three-quarters full. Bake for 17 minutes, until a toothpick comes out clean.

For the topping, combine the sugar and cinnamon in a small bowl. Dip each donut in the cinnamon sugar, either on one side or both sides.

The Accident

I knew it would probably happen at some point, which is why we were prepared.

And then I knew it did happen, because one day I picked up a child from camp who was wearing a pair of green and orange neon plaid shorts with a bright red Angry Birds t-shirt.

"Ummm, that's an interesting outfit," I said as nonchalantly as I could as he climbed into the car.

"Yeah, I had to change because I had an accident," he mumbled under his breath before excitedly launching into a detailed retelling of the conversation that he and his friend had on their banana phones at snack time.

But all I heard was the accident part.

In the past when this had happened, I'd tried different approaches. I'd most often been Comforting Mom (hugs and kisses will fix this!). Occasionally, I was Scientific Mom (nope, no bladder infection but you haven't really lived until you've taken 3 children into a bathroom at the doctor's office and asked one of them to pee in cup while the others cheered him on excitedly). And once or twice, though it pains me to admit it, I'd been Angry Mom.

Because even though Rational Mom knows that this is TOTALLY normal, that this happens to ALL kids, that he is just FINE, every once in a while Crazy Mom swoops in. And Crazy Mom is convinced that she must fix this immediately lest he end up the only freshman in his college dorm who needs Pull-ups in size 18T because Crazy Mom is well, crazy.

So this time, I thought to myself, pushing the Crazy down as far as I could, I'd be Cool Mom. Easy, Breezy Mom. Relatable Mom. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Of course, it helps to actually BE cool if you're going to take this tactic.

But this was no time to get bogged down by details. I'd just have to wing it with my limited understanding of coolness. Let's see... Cool Moms definitely don't overreact. Cool Moms probably bake cookies. Cool Moms probably tell funny stories. Cool Moms exude a Cool Vibe that is so irresistible to children that they can not help but be swept up down the Cool River of Understanding.

So I whipped up a batch of my famous quinoa cranberry protein bars (so Cool, right?), poured two icy glasses of lemonade (literally Cool!), and invited my sweet boy over to the couch, a normally crumb-free zone (how Cool is that?).

"So, you want to hear something funny that happened to Mom?"

"Yo mean the time you got sprayed by the skunk and then you had to go to the store to get the stuff that makes you not smell like skunk and everyone was saying 'Oooh, it smells like a skunk in here!"

"Umm, no."

"How about the time you fell down in a mud puddle when you were out running and ripped your shorts..."

"NO!" I interrupted, feeling a little warm under my Cool Collar. Deep breath....

"A different story," I replied gently, regaining my Cool Composure. And I proceeded to tell, in great detail, the story of how when Mom was working in TV news there were often times when we were out in the field for many hours away with no bathroom in sight, and how on one of these occasions when Mom was 6 months pregnant with a future Broadway star tap dancing on her bladder, Mom had been holding it ALL freaking day in the back of a live truck while staking out a house in the middle of nowhere, and Mom had even briefly considered asking the cops if it might be OK to cross the yellow crime scene tape just for the briefest of moments to use the suspected meth lab's toilet since there is no real way for a giant pregnant woman in a maternity suit to discretely squat down in a field without having Mom end up the unwilling star of someone's viral YouTube video, and there was no field to squat down in anyway, so when the police finally came out of the house for a press conference and Mom stood up that's when gravity reared its ugly head so if your'e wondering why Mom's blazer was tied around her waist during those live shots, there's your answer.

We shared a good laugh and I gave my Cool Self a mental high-five.

"And so you see," I continued Cooly, "Everyone has accidents. Even Mom! I just want you to know that it is totally OK that you peed in your pants today. It happens!"

He furrowed his little brow and looked at me with utter confusion in his green eyes.

"Mom! I didn't pee in my pants. I was washing my hands after art and got water all over my shorts. It was an accident." He grabbed a bar, downed the rest of his lemonade, and headed toward the basement to play.

"But cool story!"

Yup.

Soooooo Cool.

Peanut butter oatmeal banana energy bars

I recently came across an article listing the 10 Worst Foods To Feed Your Children (or yourself in my opinion!) and it may surprise many parents to see granola bars on that list. While they might seem like a healthy snack option, packaged granola bars are highly processed and usually loaded with sugar. So what can you grab-and-go for energy on the run? I have several easy, homemade solutions.

Here's one that we're loving right now that takes all of 5 minutes to prepare- peanut butter (and you can substitute any nut butter or sunflower butter) oatmeal banana energy bars.

There's very little added sugar, no flour, no oil, and no butter. They freeze well and make great lunchbox treats or a simple breakfast alongside a bowl of fruit.
 

1 1/2 cups oats
1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup almond or soy milk
1 large egg, lightly beaten
1-2 large mashed bananas
1/4 cup creamy peanut butter

Directions:

1. Mix together the oats, light brown sugar, baking powder, kosher salt and ground cinnamon.
2. Add in the vanilla extract, milk and egg. Mix the ingredients together.
3. Then add in the mashed banana and peanut butter. Combine all of the ingredients.
4. Pour the mixture into a lightly greased 8 by 8 inch metal baking pan. Bake at 350 F degrees for 20-25 minutes.
5. Cut into squares and enjoy!

Rollercoasters vs. Merry-go-rounds

I've never been one for rollercoasters. They go too fast, too high, then too low. The twists and turns are stomach-dropping and vomit-inducing with names like "The Mega Beast" or the "The Death Spiral." Not to mention those little tiny bars that come down to allegedly hold you into place while you are hurtling through space at tops speeds in a supersized slinky... upside down. No thank you, no rollercoasters for me. They are just too scary.

I'm sure I inherited the anti-thrill seeker gene from my dad, who also chose to keep both feet firmly planted on Terra Amusement Parka Firma. While my brother and my cousins soared into the stratosphere on the Blue Demon's Revenge or some other equally terrifying contraption, my dad and I would make our way over to safer ground. Past the spinning tea cups (vertigo, anyone?) and the Ferris wheel (if wheels were meant to be this big then I'd like to see the cars that go with them) to our happy place: the merry-go-round. Dad would stick to the big bench seat but since I was such a wild child, I'd pick a nice, tame looking horse somewhere in the middle row- enough room to roam but still pinned in by his pals in case he got any funny ideas. 

That tinny, canned music (which did well to drown out the screams from the coaster around the corner) would come on and off we'd go. Up (just a little) and down (gently), around and around (not too fast), I'd hold onto the pole and feel the wind in my hair. After a few rotations I might even feel bold enough to let go, turn around, and wave to Dad in his seat behind me. But mostly I kept my eyes closed and tried to will that ride to keep going. One more time around, I'd think to myself, and smile when my silent prayer was answered. I never wanted it to end. 

Once when I was about 8 years old, my dad and I were wandering through a festival of some sort when we came upon what we thought was a gentle boat ride and decided to hop on. Little did we know it was the Pirate Ship Of Doom that may have started out gently but picked up steam (and height, and velocity) with every SWOOP to the right which was followed by a WHOOSH to the left, leaving us briefly suspended and staring perilously at the ground at each terminus before it plunged back into action. "GET ME OFFFFFFFF!" I screamed. But he couldn't- we were both helpless until the ride ended. 

Lately life's been feeling too much like that ride. We've been traveling far too fast, crashing down way too hard. Feeling so helpless as one too many giant hills left my my stomach in a permanent state of drop as we hurtled through a dark tunnel with no end in sight. Illnesses, injuries, work stress, family stress, home stress, it's all felt like a rollercoaster and I wanted to get off. 

And then I saw a merry-go-round and I wanted to get on. 

My husband and I were celebrating our 10th anniversary in New York City and taking a morning stroll in Central Park. The weekend had been lovely, albeit somewhat weighed down by the mental baggage I had stowed in the overhead bin and under the seat in front of me. We had reservations for brunch and I knew we might be late but there was just something about that music, something about the carefree smiles and the little girl holding her daddy's hand as they stepped off the carousel.

"Please can we ride it?" I asked him a little too desperately, trying to keep my voice steady.  

And so we did. 

Middle horse for me. 

Up and down, around and around. 

Tears streamed down my face as I closed my eyes and prayed it would never end. 

But of course it did and when the music ended and the merry-go-round slowed to a stop, I knew it was going to be OK. 

I knew that somehow, whatever came next, we'd make it through the ride. 

The Evolution of a Runner

"I can't do it."

Her voice is loud and insistent, and I recognize it immediately. She may be a child, but she knows how to get her point across, so I do everything I can to drown her out. Headphones in, music blaring. Come on, Adam Levine- don't fail me now. But no matter how high I crank the tunes and how much inner ear damage I do, I can still hear her. 

"I can't do it."

So I choose to ignore her and go about the business at hand. I make my way to the starting line, check that the number is securely pinned to my shirt and give one last tug at the shoelaces. One final hamstring stretch, set the stopwatch, and take my position at the back of the pack. The gun goes off and though her voice is blaring and my legs are shaking, I'm carried forward by the momentum of the group. 

"I can't do it!"

 She yells this time, and as the faster runners zoom past it's almost enough to bring me to a halt. But I keep going because I know that voice all too well, and I know that eventually, she'll stop. I know that it's just a matter of pushing her aside, of pushing forward, of pushing through. I know that because she's me. 

She's me at 8 years old, an awkward, uncoordinated, overweight elementary schooler in gym class, trying to negotiate a way out of the Presidential Fitness Test. You remember the annual ritual: how many situps can you do in one minute? How long can you hang from this bar? How many pull-ups can you do? How far can you jump? How fast can you run one mile? Top finishers got certificates, medals, and bragging rights on the playground. Those who came in last... didn't. 

As a consolation prize, I got a lifetime of negative self talk. I'm not blaming the Presidential Fitness Test or whichever founding father created it- it was simply the annual showcase of my fitness-o-phobia. Gym class became the elementary school equivalent of waterboarding, and that week of testing in particular was to be avoided at all costs. Ear infection, stomachache, sore ankle- you name it. Anything to stop the voice which grew louder each year: "I can't do it." 

A few decades later, I decided to makeover myself and become a runner. It was a move sparked mainly out of frustration- I had accomplished many things on many levels, but fitness still eluded me. Overweight, overworked, and underpaid, running seemed to be the cheapest option for a grad student. I grabbed my shoes and hit the path near my apartment, hoping no one would see me and call my bluff. "I can't do it," she'd say as we started to jog. But I thought as long as no one was looking, or timing, or keeping score, maybe I could try. 

For months I ran nearly every day, not very far, and slowly at first... oh who am I kidding, slowly at the end, too... stopping to walk each time a "real" runner came by so as not to insult him/her with my inferior efforts. I thought about subscribing to Runner's World magazine, but feared I might be arrested for mail fraud. So instead I'd discretely grab a copy from the grocery store checkout lane and stuff it under my cereal box on the conveyor belt. 

I entered my first 5K in 1998 in scenic Big Sur, California. I had never run with a watch and had no concept of whether it would take me an hour or a day to traverse 3.1 miles. Turned out it took about 35 minutes. And for every one of those, until the very moment my feet crossed the finish line, I heard that voice inside my head yelling "I can't do it!" But I did. 

Since then I've logged tens of thousands of miles, lost dozens of pounds, gained plenty of muscle, and crossed finish lines of every variety from 5K to marathons, but I still hesitate to call myself a "real" runner. Oh, I just like to go out jogging, I'll say in that self deprecating way so many women have of downplaying their own accomplishments. No, I'm not a "real" writer, I just have a little blog about family life. 

And every time I show up for a race I find I am not alone- that voice is right there with me, telling me that I can't do it. As the faster runners leave me in the dust, she yells. As the woman pushing the double jogging stroller passes me, she yells louder. As the local sensation in his 70s who runs while juggling three basketballs passes me, for a second I start to believe her.

Then something happens. At some point I settle into my own breath, I settle into myself, and the voice begins to fade. The pounding of shoes on pavement begins to take on a familiar and comfortable rhythm. I might even pass one or two of the early sprinters (Team Tortoise in the house!) but I barely notice. I just know that it has finally gotten quiet in my mind and the relief is palpable. 

So why do I do it? 

I do it because I need to prove that girl wrong. 

I do it for my own little girl who needs to know that she can do it. For all my kids who need to know that success doesn't always mean being the best, the fastest, or the strongest. That there is value in competing even when you don't stand a chance of coming in first. That sometimes to lose, really is to win. 

I do it because I work hard every day to train and live a healthy life, and crossing the finish line is a celebration of that effort. 

I do it because it is incredibly humbling for a type-A overachiever to work so hard at something and still not rise to the top.  

I do it because I really AM a runner.

I do it because this is my life... and I will run my own race. 

Chicago, Oct. 1999: My first marathon

Milestones- are they just for kids?

When our first son was 6 days old, I called my husband at his office in a panic.

"I've....Made....A....HUGE....Mistake!" I managed to blurt out between ginormous, postpartum hormone-fueled sobs. Fearing our newborn baby boy's very life was hanging in the balance, I explained that in my sleep-deprived fog, I had scheduled the all important 1-month well baby checkup for the wrong day, and that our precious cargo would in fact be 33 days old at the time of his visit. I didn't know how this could have happened, because I had taken my planner (this was the pre-smart phone era, back when a pad was still made of paper and had no "i.") with me to the 2-day visit and carefully scheduled out the next 6 months worth of checkups, each one clearly noted and annotated on my calendar. And now... this.

What about all the critical development that would take place in that span? What about all the milestones? The all-important MILESTONES! You know the ones you read about in What to Expect When You Don't Know What the *&^% to Expect So You Cling Onto Those Books For Dear Life?

Less than one week into baby ownership and I had failed to stick to the recommended maintenance program. Did this void the warranty? Would child protective services come after me and take the baby away?

Three phone calls, a lot of pacing, and half a jar of jelly beans later, the very kind staff at the pediatrician's office had talked me down off the ledge. I called my husband back with the good news- those 3 days would not be the determining factor in our child's future.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully.
"Hmm," I agreed.

Fast forward nearly six years and two babies, and the conversation was a little different.

"The pediatrician's office just called and it looks like we're three months late for Eli's 18-month check up. Did you know we were supposed to take him in for an 18-month checkup?" I asked my husband in a remarkably calm voice.

"Did you know he's 21 months old?" he asked.

"Hmm," I said thoughtfully.

"Hmm," he agreed.

Now trust me when I say I'm not exactly proud of my Slacker Mom tendencies with baby #3 and I did get that appointment in right away (much to Eli's dismay, since even his advanced age was not enough to get him out of the shots required at the 18-month appointment). And while I am confident in his development I still sat there and filled out the detailed surveys checking each and every last milestone. Yes, the MILESTONES.

There are the large motor milestones: Can your child walk up the stairs while holding on to only one of your hands? Only if you can catch him. Can your child climb onto a chair, a stool, or a bench, or stack pillows on top of each other in order to reach things in higher places? Yes, and I'd appreciate if you'd stop giving him so many ideas.

And the fine motor milestones: Does your child pick up a marker or crayon and imitate writing/scribbling? Your Honor, I submit the dining room wall as Exhibit A (I think it's an A. It might be a dog). Does your child eat independently using a spoon or a fork to feed himself? Uh-huh, and I can't wait for him to be able to pronounce the "r" in "fork" because it's a bit embarrassing when Mr. Independent Eater screams out for his desired utensil in the middle of a restaurant.

There are cognitive milestones, communication milestones, creative milestones, social milestones, sleeping milestones, waking milestones. 4 full pages, front and back, of questions about milestones.

Contrast that with my own recent annual appointment, which was all of 3 minutes long and most of that was devoted to an ill-fated battle between a very full bladder and a very small container. Let's just say there are certain milestones that a woman who has birthed 3 babies should not have to meet.

But you see, there was no discussion of milestones at all, and considering I have a very big birthday (the kind that ends in a 0) looming in a few months, I think I could have used a little milestone check-up.

Sure I've hit the traditional societal marks: college? Done. Grad school? Got it. Career? 4 and counting. Marriage? Check. Kids? Check, check, and check. But what about the more subtle milestones? The things we feel we "should" be able to do by a certain age?

If only there was some sort of roadmap for being an adult, a handy chart or list of milestones to check off to make sure we're staying on track, or an easy prescription to fill when we fall behind. But I guess that's just for kids.

Because part of growing up means that you're now in charge of your own milestones, of deciding for yourself what is important and what isn't, what constitutes success and how to measure growth.

So even though I'm approaching age 40--or 480 months, if you prefer--my large motor milestones might be slightly lacking (I can't fold a fitted sheet and if you can, you just might be a witch), my fine motor skills could use some work (I can't apply eye makeup without looking like a victim of domestic abuse), and my social development might be a bit off the mark (giving a speech to hundreds of people = cake. Making new female friends = brutal), it's taken me nearly 4 decades to realize I am who I am for a reason. And that's one heck of a milestone.

On the way back from my doctor's appointment I called my husband.

"So what did the doctor say?"

"Not much, but I'm right on track," I told him.

"On track for what?" he asked.

"Me." I said with a smile.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully.

"Hmm," I agreed.

Eli demonstrates the all-important self feeding milestone.