High Five!

Cora made the funeral march with me out to the recycle bin and watched as our vacuum cleaner was chucked.  "Wait, what are you doing? Don't throw it away!"  I give her a logical explanation as to why the vacuum cleaner needs trashing and yet...

"I'm sensitive to old things"

I can't help but smile big.  Yes, Cora!

I remember sitting in my parent's garage, staring deep into the unblinking headlights of our blue volkswagon van crying because my parents were going to sell her.  We talked for a long time, me mostly sobbing out thank yous and her saying nothing as most vans do.  She faithfully hauled our family west on the I-40 when we moved from Oklahoma.  She protected me and my sister while we slept in the early morning hours, as we took daddy to work.  We laid without seat belts and pressed ourselves against the heater as her engine lulled us back to sleep.

  I remember too, lady.  The vacuum used to be my sister in laws and she gave it to us when it seemed all we could afford was hand me downs.  It was the first to show me Ender's acute dexterity and focus at the crawling age.  It was the horsey that the kids rode around while it sucked up cheerios, dog hair and the sacrificial lego.  And it taught the kids one of their first hard lessons in cause and effect.  Push this button and the cord whips to attention and winds back up inside the machine.  One of their favorite games.

I wouldn't be surprised if I find a place in heaven for old machines.  OR I have been thoroughly brainwashed by "The Brave Little Toaster".  (highly likely)

If Cora views you as more vulnerable than her (Sam, Gunther, even me in a stressful situation) she has your back.
No spanking for Sam, no scolding for Gunther and "please Sam, you need to be more generous to mom.  She's the one doing everything and you're just sitting there eating."

If I am complaining about something, she will unapologetically remind me, "Life is life mom, get over it"

Wild and free, the ne ne bird is yet to be extinct in our house.   No clothes, no problem.

Pint Size Sensei

Boy #1:

He was excited to try out his little rocket in the backyard.  We had to rummage through our very top secret supplies that N.A.S.A air dropped onto our front door when word got out that one of their next champions of space exploration was born.

"Let's see Ender.... ah, yes! here they are."  I looked down at him in all seriousness, then with a knowing smile,   "You're old enough now"

He was beaming.

"Thanks mom!"  He handled the baking soda and vinegar very carefully, minding where Sam was at all times.  Such volatile components could absolutely not fall into the wrong hands.  What a blunder and embarrassment that would be!

I and his tag-a-long siblings followed him out to the launch pad super excited and confused (Sam).

I unfolded the instructions and read aloud the complicated mathematical procedure.
I poured.  I shook.  We waited.

Fizzle. Fizzle.  Nothing.

So Ender had the audacity to pipe up and say "Let me try!"

(Wait, you try your own rocket that was given to you and not me?!  You're bold, boy.)

"Let's put in more baking soda!"

"No, Ender, you have to use a perfect ratio of baking soda and vinegar or the chemical reaction will not work!"

"Just do it mom."

"No, it won't work"

He clenched his fist and strained his neck...."I DON'T CARE!  I'm experimenting!  It's an experiment!"

I look up at him, blinking incredulously.

"Forgive me teacher.  I forgot my humble position."

  Of course I didn't say that.  But of course it's true once again.

I apologize and hand over his toy.  The fun ensues as the rocket "fails" over and over again.  He's having a blast.

Later that evening.....

Boy #2

Sam and I are assembling his tracks so his little battery operated car can meander through ramps, bridges and circles of paper flames.  I read the instructions and make sure to copy them verbatim.  Meanwhile, Sam is working himself into a frenzy as I am linking all the parts together.

"No, no, no, no"  He chants.  His points and grunts to the bridge.  "Bridge, bridge!"  Then he takes his car and tries to shove it under the bridge.

"Oh you helpless 2 year old.  The car does not go under the bridge.  You poop your own pants.  Clearly, you still need me."

His face deepens to a crimson, (quite a chameleon, he is) and begins to wind up for another epic tantrum.

Well, you learn to read the signs quick and try to head off the monster.  Okay, he won't listen to my words, I'll just have to  prove it to him.

"Oh.  Well look at that.  Huh."  So the car and tracks actually do fit under the bridge.  Sam is giddy with satisfaction watching his car go under the bridge instead over the bridge.   His simple desire created another level of entertainment that the box didn't intend.  Well, if they just included Step #11: Allow your child creative freedom and don' let our box confine them,   then we wouldn't have any issues to begin with.  So there!  Strike 2 for the wanna be perfectionist rule follower, who has always been too lazy to emulate her Type A heroes, anyway.

And my "can do" girl.  Determined to do all things by herself except wipe after using the restroom.  I'm pretty sure that is the mark of a genius.