Winter Break February 22 - March 16, 2008 Snow in California? In the mountains, of course! It's going to be spring in the Valley

	Kids ran on the surface of the deep snow like legendary elves -- while an adult would sink in.

We had gotten used to the pleasant, warm climate of the desert in no time; our return to our rainy Silicon valley was a thermal shock. Fortunately, the juniors had been sufficiently outdoored, and they did not fuss much. Thus we headed under the safe roof of the Hiller Aviation Museum. Tommy and my Hippo would quite enjoy it, but I'm not too sure about Lisa. The greatest attraction for her was pulling down window shades in a retired airliner.

	Although our princess did not whimper much on cold snow this year, still she was glad to return to our warm house.

We, mothers in our neighborhood, wanted to make this year's round of group photographs of our little girls. It worked out as one can expect. Julianna fussed and Lisa cried. Finally I had managed to cajole Lizzy into letting them take her picture, on the condition that Tom would go along. The result looks funny -- an exemplary, stiffly smiling Tom in the midst of mutinous girls who are making faces. Eventually I tried to have a picture taken of only my two kids. Lisa quieted down and more or less cooperated; in the end she threw a tantrum that she won't leave and that she'd want to continue to be photographed (for a change). To top it off, my juniors finalized the whole procedure by running away into the depths of the shopping mall while I was signing the order. I thought I would rip them into thousand tiny pieces, and I swore that I shall never again volunteer for such adrenaline-soaked sport (i.e. photographing children).

Yet, I was bound to go and pick those pictures up in two weeks' time. I had hoped that the whole affair would commence swiftly and without excitement. Lisa started crying in the car that she cannot possibly go to a photographer as she was not wearing that beautiful dress. I was unable to explain to her that this time we were only picking finished pictures up. I have no idea where she came to the conviction that she can only be a model whilst properly attired. Eventually she agreed to forego clothes of a princess, as long as she would be allowed into the studio, which I promptly disallowed. Hence again, we were leaving the place accompanied by a crazy wail of an unfairly treated child.

	Where is it written that winter fun is limited to minors? (Note. Carol is completely sober here)

We borrowed Frank's cottage in Truckee for one weekend, to show our kids some snow. Temperatures in the Valley were meanwhile climbing into upper seventies, and I was a bit worried that all but a few snowdrifts would have melted before we get there. In the end we had encountered more than enough snow. High piled frosty heaps would give way under Sid, who kept sinking in to his thighs, while our young featherweights frolicked on the surface with an elfish grace. Our original plan was to take the kids onto some slope, but then a thirty foot meadow right behind the house turned out as the most gratifying location. We got permission to try skis belonging to Frank's little girls, but we never got as far as using them -- even the largest boots (normally worn by approx. six-year old miss) were about two sizes smaller than Tommy's foot.

	Yet in our Valley, spring makes it possible to wear a fashionable hat.

I think we had spent serious time outdoors, although my seven years in California made me noticeably spoiled. My only thought, in the midst of bucolic snowdrifts, was looking forward to be able to finally strip off all those layers of clothing. I got terminally used to wearing comfortable, lightweight attire; winter dress-up bothers me.

Back home I got literally fired up -- when looking for a pre-school. First, I wanted an institution ready to accept both my children, optimally on same days and hours, which all by itself represents a problem. Many schools alternate -- they care for three-year old kids on Tuesdays and Thursdays, while supporting preschooler on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Secondly, I needed a location somewhere nearby; thirdly, it had to be for a reasonable price. Thus I began running around, checking out suitable options. I found that St. Timothy (the school where Tom had failed to meet their admission requirements) was not the only one obsessed with academic achievements.

	When the ocean is wild and the wind furious, we crawl in the shelter of coastal cliffs

I would hardly oppose having a child learn to read and write at her pre-school age. At the same time, I do not join the camp of thought proliferated by local pre-schools that these skills are absolutely required for the child to later succeed in a real school. They normally start with alphabet in first grade, and children learn to read only in the second half of the first year. A pre-school should thus teach a future student how to concentrate, prepare her fine motor skills, enrich her vocabulary and practice her pronunciation. It should instruct how to cope with a larger collective, and with an authority other than parental one. A solid base in the most important start for a preschooler, who then builds upon it, when she learns to read and write -- and accelerating through or skipping this base altogether is bound to fail. Moreover, I have become rather irritated by the expectation that a four- or five-year-old ought to think about how SUCCESSFUL she has become. If I might wish something here -- I'd like my kids to be essentially HAPPY. I shall prefer offspring running outdoors, over neurotic monkeys obediently copying letters of their home work at age of four.

Another gem presented to me by a pre-school, was a recommendation that I -- if I want Tom to be SUCCESSFUL (just the sound of this word make me see red circles) -- stop speaking Czech at him and focus on English. This advice was rooted in some logic and was certainly meant well. However, it negates everything I had ever read about raising multilingual children, and thus raises my doubts regarding how qualified this specific teacher was to give it. We live in an area where practically everybody comes from "somewhere else" -- I would expect it natural that employees of a school in this region have at least basic knowledge of the matter.

	We had found an entrance to a deep (apparently artificial) cave, but lacking a torchlight, we did not dare to explore it.

Eventually I succeeded in finding a school, which does not promise us trained Einsteins. It's rather ORDINARY. Kids can play on a small playground there, and I spotted many toys in their classrooms; play-time alternates with organized program. I can choose when and how my juniors would attend. And on top of it, this school is considerably less expensive than the one we had been using. So hope with us that the kids manage to accommodate all changes, and that there is no unpleasant surprise in store for us again.

Searching for the school wore me out. It's not the only thing -- I have been having another one of the phases when I permanently fail to cope. It feels like I have been doing laundry for a subliminal UFO squadron -- I keep stumbling up and down our hallway with basketfuls of laundry, to various degrees (un)washed, (un)folded, and (un)shelved. Indeed, it's partially my fault. I keep trying to use times, when kids already don't take their naps after lunch, but still don't attend a school; often our morning program extends into the evening. For example, we had a get-together with other mothers in the Shoreline park. It was rather drizzly, and so we rejected the idea of a picnic and instead headed to Fresh Choice (a salad buffet restaurant chain). On the way there I yanked Gabka out of her English class. After lunch, the kids and I gave her a lift home, and I used the opportunity to invite myself for a coffee. It was four o'clock before we got home, and I issued the kids some scooters and we briskly circled our block. We had entered our house back at five, which was about right for me to start cooking dinner (and kick-off a new UFO squadron laundry cycle).

	Tom enjoys collecting shells and colorful pebbles; Lisa likes to arrange them

All this is under the pressure of my bourgeoning social life. Bara had moved in the area, Zuzka who has had enough of the rainy northwest, plans to move back. The other day I chatted a bit with Gabka in a locker room at the climbing gym, and soon I had learned that I had been attending yoga for about a year together with another Czech woman, but we did not know each other. I put the blame on my extreme busy schedule that I FORGOT a ladies' night at our neighbors'. Only a year ago, such event would have been entered in my calendar with an extra fat, red marker -- this year's whirlwind of occasions caused me to ended up relaxing at home on this Saturday night -- and only after the fact I have discovered I had made a promise to join the party.

The other possible explanation is that my pregnancy-motherhood-induced demency had smoothly transformed into geriatric senility.

Copyright © 2008 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.