Tiger Mom on a Down Day

Every since my post about the Diva's Up Day, I have been somewhat frightened for the other shoe to drop.

Well, today it dropped.

When I came downstairs this morning, I was greeted by a somewhat disheveled Diva. She was wearing a purple sports bra, which generally isn't a bad thing except today she was wearing it underneath a white t-shirt. She was also wearing a pair of blue jeans that were several sizes too big...because they were a pair of MY blue jeans! Of course, she didn't notice - or care - but she obediently trudged back upstairs for a wardrobe change.

These types of things don't both normal people. They certainly don't bother Husband. But they bug the hell out of me. Why? First, because I'm a Tiger Mom. I haven't read Amy Chua's book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" yet, but I read a review somewhere, and I still remember the moment I learned that my crazy, perfectionist parenting style had a name. According to Wikipedia, a "Tiger Mother" is a mother who is a strict disciplinarian, who adheres to traditional, strict child-rearing versus a more indulging, self-esteem-focused approach. In my case, take a crazy, perfectionist parent and add some obsessive compulsive tendencies - viola! You have a Tiger Mom on crack.

I tried to prepare myself that the Diva was having a Down day, so her soccer game would likely suffer a bit. But her lackluster kicks and lazy jogging was too much for her Tiger mom to handle, down day or not.

"DIVA, YOU GET GOING OUT THERE!" I heard myself yell. During warm-ups. A startled Diva added a little bit of effort for about thirty seconds, then reverted back to her amoeba movements. She looked lost. She was one of the captains in coin toss - how cool is that? - but she wasn't into it. After the coin toss, she sat way down on the end of the bench, away from her teammates. I hissed at Husband to tell her to sit with the rest of the team (my own Jed Rubenfeld). He complied in a nice, normal and pleasant tone of voice.

The first half of the game was agonizing for me. Daughter was back in her small three foot box. She wouldn't leave no matter how loud I yelled/pleaded/begged for her to RUN TO THE BALL! There was a moment where she chased the ball into the corner, and a large boy chasing the ball somehow slid and tripped underneath her, such that the untrained eye might think my little Diva shoved the boy over. I felt a wave of pride wash over me. But it soon passed as the boy ran away with the ball, probably to score yet another goal.

So there I was during the second half of the game, thinking to myself, how am I going to pull out some genuine mom approval here? Do I just plain lie and say she did a great job when it is apparent that she is playing far below her average performance? Do I praise her attitude and avoid the skills conversation? Do I tell her she looks great in her uniform? When all of a sudden, a big kid kicked the ball hard - directly into the Diva's gut.

Now, keep in mind the soccer ball is a nerf, sponge-like thing. There was no way the Diva could be seriously hurt, and besides, she basically blocked what was likely another goal. Like any good (Tiger) mom, I cheered as loud as I could, "GOOD JOB!!! WAY TO STOP THE BALL!!!"

The Diva just looked pissed.

She grabbed her side a few times, obviously annoyed that such a thing had happened to her. I yelled encouraging things like, "YOU'RE FINE! YOU'RE A TOUGH GIRL!" During a time out, when Diva was looking at me, I pantomimed holding my side and rubbing it, as if I had been hit by a soccer ball. She started giggling and said, "Mother! What are you doing?" Then I pantomimed to Husband to rub my tummy, and Daughter said, "NO! I'm fine!" We all laughed.

Wouldn't you know, it happened to her AGAIN! She got in the way of a goal-bound ball, I cheered as loud as I could, Daughter looked pissed. And when the coaches asked if she was alright, I held my breath...and sighed with relief when she nodded that she was fine. At the end of the game, I stormed the floor and gave her a big hug. I asked her if she was alright. She smiled, laughed, and said "Yes, I'm tough."

And they say Tiger parenting doesn't work...

An Up Day

Today was an Up Day.

Every so often, the Diva has a "Down" day. Husband and I made up the phraseology to get me through those mornings where no amount of prodding, pushing or threatening could get the Diva to move faster, follow directions better, or even generally comprehend what I was telling her. I'm sure we all have Down days here and there, but in a Diva the contrast is amazing. For 30 consecutive days she will independently dress herself, make herself breakfast, and be ready for the bus in 90 minutes tops. And then one morning, you will find she put her shirt on inside-out, she made herself a marshmallow based breakfast, and the bus is waiting at the end of the driveway while she tries to get her shoes on the correct feet. Those days are the worst.

But today is a happy day - today was an Up Day.

My first glimpse of Up-Day-Daughter was at her soccer game. Last week we had a little chat about keeping your eyes on the court, and not on your "fans" (a boy who graduated last year was at the game, and she was smiling at him 99% of the time she was on the court...I told her in the car that if she did that again, I would most certainly yell across the gym for her to "STOP LOOKING AT THAT BOY!" She promised me it wouldn't happen again). We also encouraged her to run to the ball. Thus far, her participation has been limited to a 3 foot square that she guards with her life, or until another player runs full-speed at her, then she gets out of the way.

But today, she was a lean, mean, Diva-machine.

We were playing last year's state champions (for context, last year we didn't win a single game). Their players were mostly huge boys, who kicked the ball so hard it would fly through the air and hit the end wall at least 10 feet above the ground. I was a little concerned about my sweet, passive Diva being on the floor. What if she was beaned in the head, or was run over by Big Foot?

I had nothing to worry about. Tonight, she was all about kicking that ball. She must have kicked the ball down the court at least a dozen times. She left her square and pursued the ball. She pursued the ball even when big boys were bearing down upon her. And at the end of the game, she actually seemed a little disappointed that it was over! As the girl who fouled-out of every basketball game her 8th grade year, I was ecstatic about her aggressive attitude, and praised her improvements in the car.

Then, as we were chatting about her day, Daughter told me the entire story that she read in school that day. It was about a family of bears with surprise seeds. Instead of flowers, squash grew. The brother bear made fun of the bear, and he was sad. But then then mother bear cooked the squash, and it was Yummy! For Daughter to be able to recall, and then retell, a story with that much detail - I was amazed. I gushed again at the great day she was having, and then she said, "I talked loud today," which is another skill we are working on...for her to offer that little tidbit made me want to cry.

And here's the kicker. Daughter had such an Up Day, such a super-steller day, but none of it really mattered to her. What she enjoyed the most was all my gushing over her. Her bedtime prayer was essentially, "Thank you for my mother. I love her so much. World's best mom."

There is a deeper lesson here - along the lines of, a mother's praise is the best prize of all, and that maybe I should be a little more generous with it. But I'm a Tiger Mom, and today is a day for reveling in my Diva's improvement and success. She's come a long way, and I'll need the memory of this day the next time we hit a Down spell.

Talking to God

It is a family joke that the Diva has supernatural powers to see the future - or at the very least, that her prayers are given extra weight. Tonight, I asked her whether we were going to end up getting the house we bid on earlier this evening. She said she didn't know. I asked her whether she had talked to God about it. She said yes.

Naturally, without missing a beat, I asked her what he said.

In her God voice, which sounds a lot like her Santa Claus voice, she said, "Yes, you should buy the house."

I stared and whispered, "Did God really say that?"

She smiled and said No.

Dang it. Maybe if I shake her a few times, like a Magic 8 ball...

Homecoming

It was a fairy tale weekend. Riding in the Homecoming Parade in a firetruck with the cheerleaders; going to the Homecoming Dance and slow-dancing with your brother-dad-guardian-person; and hangin' with your fellow divas late into the night...what more could a girl ask for her senior year?

The evening called to mind an "anniversary" of sorts. Last year, Homecoming represented a first for all three of us - not only had the Diva never been to a Homecoming dance, but Husband and I had never been to a social function with other HSS* parents. It was a new and intimidating event for all three of us.

I often tell people that HSS is great because the Diva has a larger, more "normal" peer group. The same group of girls are in Sparklers together, play in after-school soccer, and attend weekend social events. She had many beloved friends at Rural City School, but no group of similarly-situated kids that did life together. And it didn't occur to me until recently that Husband and I had been missing out on peer interaction as well! It has been a real treat to be part of such a fun and supportive network of Parents. It reminds me how important it is to stay connected as a parent of a diva or dude with special needs.

A hometown friend told me that she directed a special mom to the blog - the mom just learned that her baby girl is a Diva. I have thought and prayed for you, dear friend, and as I write today I feel compelled to dedicate this post to you. As someone who only recently learned the value of parent-peers, I strongly recommend you make it a priority to find a group that can celebrate (and commiserate!) with the unique job of raising a Diva. Readers (all 12 of you), join me in a short prayer for this special mom:

Lord, please remind this special mom that ALL things work together for good to those who love God, and are CALLED according to His purpose - let her know today that you have fully equipped her for this calling in her life, and that she is fulfilling a very special purpose. Give her the strength and joy to get up each morning, and a loving community of people to pray her to sleep at night. Amen.

And as a side-note, don't think that just because you aren't officially a member of the Diva-parent-club (we understand, the membership fee is pretty high) that you can't be an invaluable resource to your Diva-parent-friends. Diva-moms need breaks, adult conversation, and encouragement. I still remember the mom who walked the Diva to school every morning because I had to start work at 7:30 a.m.; the friend who took the Diva to basketball games so I could have a date night with my Husband,; or the meal lovingly brought to my home after I had a slight temper tantrum at church (a story for another day). Trust me, even the smallest gift of time is supernaturally multiplied into the biggest of blessings.

Thank you, all you special people out there, who make my life a little bit easier so I can be a little bit better of a mom to my Diva. I know I couldn't do this without God working through you.

* Huge Suburban School

Direct Line to Heaven

I've been sitting on "Abstract Concepts" for a few weeks. The first draft was written after Daughter told me about the conversation she had with the Professor - I was overwhelmed with emotion as I relived how Daughter first came into my life.

You will recall that when Daughter moved in, she was 11 years old. Her mother had died a few years prior, and she had spent the past few years living with her dad, and then her aunt and uncle. Her favorite movie at the time was Rugrats Go to Paris, and we watched it all summer long.



In that animated movie, baby Chuckie was looking for a new mom. Like the Diva, Chuckie's mom had died. Eventually, Chuckie finds his new mom...

And she is Asian.

I can still hear Daughter putting it all together in her head, and asking me if I was her new Mom. When I said yes, Daughter accepted it without question, we had the biggest most tearful hug, and for the next year she heartily introduced me to every random person as "My new mom!"

The second draft of Abstract Concepts occurred after Daughter asked a lot of questions about death and dieing. It was so hard to know how to answer her. How do you reassure someone that they shouldn't worry about death when she has already lost both of her parents?

I finally posted Abstract Concepts tonight. I have one more story about the Diva that pertains to death...after tonight, I'm hoping we can ease back into more light-hearted topics (it is Homecoming week here at Huge Suburban School, you know).

Last weekend, the family (Husband, me, Gopher and the Diva) traveled to the Great North for a wedding. The wedding happened to be at the church next to the cemetery where the Diva's mom is buried. We were early, as was the officiating pastor, so we all walked out to her grave, and Daughter began talking:

"Hi mom. It's me, Diva. I miss you. I'm doing well, you'd be so proud of me."

She then turned to the Gopher, as if she were handing off the telephone, and hissed, "It's your turn. Talk."

The Gopher turned red and mumbled, "I wasn't prepared to give a speech."

I giggled and told the Daughter she should just talk for him. So she proceeded.

"Brother is grown up, you'd be so proud of him. I'm a senior. We're here for a wedding. I love you!"

She paused for a minute, thinking about how to end a voicemail to Heaven. She settled with, "Amen."

My Diva inspires me. She has more reasons than anyone to be angry, depressed and despondent. Instead, she is the most optimistic, joyful and loving girl I know. I am so proud of her. What would I do without some Diva in my day?

Abstract Concepts

How do you explain abstract concepts to a Diva? For example, how does one go about reassuring the Diva that she shouldn't be afraid to die? How does one explain why people die? How does one allow time for Diva to grieve, while also teaching her the life skill of resiliency?

Unfortunately, these question have plagued me since the Diva and her brother, the Gopher, moved in with Husband and I in 2005. She was 11 years old. Her mother had died four years earlier, and her dad was sick. She would frequently ask why her mother died. Obviously, she wasn't searching for any deep, theological answers. For the most part, she was satisfied with explanations of the actual physical causes of her mother's death.

When her dad passed away in 2009, the Diva was 16. She understood her dad had been sick. But she wasn't content with the response that her dad died because he was sick. She would ask another Why. And another. My answers ranged from medical diagnoses, to the idea that Jesus needed her dad in heaven, and everything in between.

More recently, the Diva has expressed concern about her own death. Like all of us, she doesn't want to die. Many people tell their children, "Don't worry, you won't die, people die when they are old." But Daughter already knows that people can die unexpectedly. I remember asking my mom about death, and she told me it was like falling asleep - you wake up in Heaven! I tried that one on Daughter and I think she was afraid to close her eyes for a week.

The other night, Daughter and I were in the car, waiting outside Dairy Queen for Husband to return with our treats. That afternoon, the Diva had been picked up from soccer by Barney's Mom, the Professor.* I asked Daughter how it went. Daughter said good, and then she replayed the conversation for me:

(pretending to be the Professor) "Hi Diva, how are you?" (pause, now pretending to be herself) "Good. I miss my dad. He died."

I paused. What on earth would prompt her to say that? I asked Daughter what made her think of her dad, but she didn't understand the question, and eventually I gave up. I then asked Daughter what the Professor said, and she replied:

"She told me, 'I'm so sorry that you miss your dad.' "

The Diva had memorized the words, the emotion, and the intonation so perfectly that tears welled up in my eyes. They were beautiful, healing words; words that I had forgotten over the years during my search to find the Perfect Answer. The Professor's words had a big impact on Daughter. Empathy, compassion, love - also abstract concepts - were communicated very clearly to my Diva.

Maybe that's the key. Maybe my best weapon against Diva Anxiety isn't logical or theological explanations, but reassurance that when all other answers fail, she can always depend on God to love her through the actions of others.


* Barney and his mom are extra-special to our family. Barney's mom was a well-known law school Professor that I met - not during my three years of law school - but at Baccalaureate, just prior to graduation. Our little family plopped down next to her, and she noticed the Diva. Eventually she introduced herself, and shared that she had a Dude of her own (Dude = Male Diva). Husband and I were still living in Rural City, although we were planning to move that summer. We were debating which school district to move into, and were waiting for God to point us in the right direction. As the Professor told us about her Dude's experience in a district near the top of our list, the decision became clear. Over the past year, the Professor's family has ministered to us in extraordinary ways by simply loving us in ordinary ways. They are a friendly face at school events, they provide emergency child care, and they might even lend you a pair of black shoes for a firm Christmas party when you realize you left all your black heels at the office.

The Unfair Day at the Fair

Last week, we went to the state fair. A good friend had sent us complimentary tickets, the Gopher was working at one of the exhibit buildings, and we hadn't been in a few years. I imagined a storybook kind of day, full of laughter and memories and mountains of food. In a gesture of general happiness, and to her great delight, Daughter was allowed to leave her glasses and hearing aids at home.

Alas, it was not meant to be. If nothing more, you have to admire my persistence and the force of energy I exerted before giving up.

We left for the fairgrounds around 9 a.m. I texted the Gopher that we were on our way, and planning for at least 12 hours of continuous happiness. Along with the other 226,800 people attending the fair that day.

The sun was out as we parked, and I told the Diva to get the sunscreen out. We use the spray stuff. The Diva hates sunscreen, but she burns easily so she has learned to somewhat endure it. We all hop out of the car and assume the usual positions - Daughter holding out limbs, me spraying away. For whatever reason, we weren't on the same page, and as I sprayed away, Daughter and I became gradually more annoyed with each other. Maybe she was tired. Maybe I was over-excited to eat my first cheese curd. Whatever the case, after spraying down her arms and legs, I said "Close your eyes," and just as I pushed the button, she - of course - opens them.

Husband and I stare in horror, and Daughter grabs her eyes. Husband says helpfully, "You maced her."

As Daughter is rubbing her eyes, I'm trying to explain to her that I didn't purposefully do this. I said to her, "Would your mother do this if she didn't love you?"

OK. Obviously, the right answer is No. No mother, I know you love me, I know you tried to put sunscreen on me because you love you and don't want me to burn, and this was an unfortunate casualty that I assisted in bringing upon myself because I didn't trust you when you told me to close my eyes.

A mom can dream, right?

Instead, she says loudly (no hearing aids, remember), "I love you Mom!"

As gaggles of fairgoers walk by, Husband asks even louder, "DO YOU THINK YOUR MOTHER DOESN'T LOVE YOU?"

To which Daughter responds hoarsely, with tears, "I LOVE YOU MOM!"

This routine occurs one more time, and as it does I realize that people are observing this lovely Diva, with crazy red eyes and tears, having some kind of weird yelling match wherein we are forcing her to declare a love she clearly does not feel at the moment.

"Get in the car!" I hiss. We all get in the car. We have a pep talk. We model how we will apply the sunscreen once we get out of the car. We each take a turn role-playing the suncreen-ee. We get out of the car. We start over. We attempt to salvage the day.

We walk around the fair. The Gopher joins us. The sun beats down on us. Sure glad the Diva is sunscreened, I thought to myself...

Sometime around noon, the Diva starts getting a little irritable. She has a scowl on her face, she refuses to keep pace as we walk, and is generally the Diva of Derision. With each angry step she takes, I feel my perfect day cracking just a little bit more. And so my frustration begins to build.

It all comes to a head by the cow barn. We purchase some food and drink, and are trying to stay generally manure free. Daughter is sucking down lemonade as if she's been on a desert death march. As we share a rib sandwich, she continues (what I perceive as) her mini-acts of defiance... purposefully trying to stand as far away from me as possible; when I ask her to put down her drink for a minute she looks to Husband to see if she really has to; when I ask her point-blank to do something she stares at me blankly. Husband and Gopher have no idea what kind of female warfare is going on directly under their noses.

At some point, I passionately inform Daughter that her behavior is unacceptable. She pulls out her Ace: She bursts into loud sobs and starts a puddle of tears. We are miles from the car. Nothing can hide us from the public shame of making this poor Diva cry. The Gopher excuses himself with some quickly-thought-up excuse about having to get back, they sure must be missing him by now. Lucky duck.

Husband calms her down, and I have a new plan. We will go to the coliseum, sit down, and watch the cow show until Daughter feels better. Plus, I will have some time to calm down as well.

We sit for about five minutes. Husband asks Daughter if she feels sick, and Daughter nods yes. And then she starts the retching noises.

Abandon ship! Husband, Daughter and I make a beeline to the car. And I am so unjustifiably angry at Daughter. Even faced with pretty strong evidence that this is beyond the Diva being difficult, I can't help but resent her for "ruining" my day at the fair.

It wasn't until she started puking into a plastic shopko bag when we were halfway home that I opened myself up to other underlying causes of Daughter's behavior.

As I replayed the day's events in my mind, it suddenly became clear that Daughter had overheated. She didn't sweat, her face was flushed, she was tired and irritable, and she threw up. But to be honest, even if I hadn't been gunning for the "Perfect Day" of non-stop fair fun, I might not have noticed the early red flags. The Diva lacks awareness of subtle physical indicators (i.e. when she finally says she needs a bathroom, it is always an emergency), she doesn't proactively communicate, and even when she does, her vocabulary is quite limited. Most school-aged kids can tell you exactly what they feel and need, but Divas often can't. In short, being a Diva mom requires supernatural powers, and I'm still honing mine.

The point of this post is to make sure I don't sugar-coat what it means to be a Diva mom. Some days I cry because she is so amazing. Some days I cry because she is so amazingly difficult. And some days I cry because God is molding my heart into something new, and it really hurts.

On this particular day, I needed a break, and luckily Husband's sister was able to watch the Diva in a cool, climate-controlled environment for the rest of the day while Husband and I enjoyed a long-overdue date night. And when we were reunited later that weekend, the Diva and I were both recharged and back on the same wavelength. Many lessons learned, including what anhidrosis is, and that other Down syndrome kids have it. Until next time -

My Daughter's a Cheerleader...and I'm OK With It.

Apparently, your children can change you.

My lifelong dislike of cheerleaders was founded on an intense envy of their Barbie-like attributes, followed by an assumption that all cheerleaders were like the stereotypical ditzes on TV, and topped off with a self-comforting superiority complex that I was "beyond" cheering for the go-getters... I was the go-getter. But my disdain ended tonight, a direct result of The Sparkle Effect.

We are now beginning our second year at the Huge Suburban School. Last year, a HSS cheerleader heard about The Sparkle Effect, and decided to start a Sparkle cheerleading squad at HSS. Diva Moms who participated last year told me about it, and since all the other girls were doing it I figured my Diva should be too. Husband has been taking her to practices periodically, and other than doing her hair for pictures, I have had little to no involvement.

Tonight was the first night of cheering. I had not been to a high school football game since the Gopher was in ninth grade football, and I didn't know what to expect. For one, HSS enrolls about 3,000 students (9-12), compared to Rural City School's 800 students (7-12). I imagined it would be more like a college football game than any high school game I had ever been to. As I did Diva's hair, I reminded her that this was Not the time to be telling me how much she loves me, or blowing me kisses. I was a little nervous that the attention of hundreds of people, combined with the bright lights, might intoxicate her to the point of uncontrollable silliness, and I'd have to drag her off the "stage," never to be seen or heard from again...

As usual, we were running a bit late. Husband dropped us off at the gate, we meandered in, and I - having no idea how to get Daughter onto the track - simply began walking towards it. There were literally hundreds of people. I reached the bottom of the track, only to discover that Daughter needed to be on the opposite side. The gatekeeper had pity on us, and allowed Daughter and I to walk along the track instead of having us walk back up the hill and into the stands. I was somewhat unnerved with the thought of everyone watching me walk along the track. While I was slinking closer and closer to the edge, Daughter was practically skipping with excitement. At one point she even said, "Look! My fans!" (To which I hissed in exasperation, "Those are not your fans!")

Daughter actually asked to run towards the cheerleaders - for the first time EVER, I was going too slow for her! So off she went, yelling her friend's names, jumping and squealing and laughing. I eventually finished my Parental Walk of Shame, and found a seat in the stands with Husband. And as I looked down from my seat in the bleachers, I realized what a beautiful gift the Sparklers had given to Daughter.

There was Daughter, hanging out with fellow Divas and her mainstream peers, giggling and doing cheers and taking pictures. I was looking at the American Dream - the sun setting behind the football field, the marching band in the stands, the student section decked out in spirit gear and the athletes playing their hearts out - and my Diva was a part of it. I had nothing to fear - Daughter was quite the high school senior, and although we exchanged special smiles throughout the evening, she was careful to conduct herself like her fellow cheerleaders. The Sparklers cheered with their student coaches/buddies, did some pyramids, and after the game each Sparkler received a gift bag from her Buddy.

I have few complaints of peers who were truly mean to Diva. In the same vein, I have equally few stories of peers who were true friends to her. I don't begrudge the rarity, because before being Diva's Mom, I wasn't going out of my way to befriend the Divas of the world. But now that I'm on the other side, I can tell you that I will never forget those kids who took time to be friends with Diva - the pair of Rural City boys (one even let her wear his football jersey for Homecoming), the girls who came to Diva's twelfth birthday party, and now the darling cheerleader who is her cheer buddy.

So you see, maybe those cheerleaders aren't so bad afterall.

Nice try, Mom...Nice try

Today was senior picture day. I was my usual OCD-self, trying to control everything. For example, I drafted a three-page schedule, complete with illustrations and an explanation of the type of outfit, possible accessories, and suggested backdrops. My goal was simply for my Diva to have perfect senior pictures, and I had been planning, listing, charting, stressing, and yes, even yelling about this for the past month.

Perhaps I was my OCD-self on crack.

Although Daughter woke up with a huge zit on her chin (which I discovered as the song, "This is the stuff" is playing on the radio...google it and listen, you'll get the irony), I was somehow able to refrain from attacking her with acne medication and foundation because 1) I'm Asian, and she has the fairest skin ever, and 2) the miracle of PhotoShop. We got through church, stopped at Mastercuts to have a professional blow out her hair (best money I ever spent), and took a lunch breather where my Diva initiated a toast to her "senior year pictures."

The next 4.5 hours were exhausting. Granted, it wasn't all about the Diva. Husband is launching a new handyman business, Twin Cities Home Repair, so we took a few pictures for that purpose. The Gopher came home, so we spent considerable time taking family portraits. And for the first time ever, I'm thinking about the Christmas card ahead of time, so we took a picture for that. But, much of the day was spent behind the photographer waving my hands saying, "Look here!", in front of the Photo Diva fixing her hair, or cajoling her into a natural smile with songs, questions, and general hysteria. Tears were shed about three-quarters of the way through ("the tiara incident"), and the threats kicked in towards the final stretch ("the tree standoff"). At the end, I heard some frazzled, haggered woman offer Daughter the restaurant of her choice if she would just take a few more pictures - I, the woman who claimed she would never resort to bribery, who would never negotiate with terrorists, was broken.

But we made it. Our photographer and her assistant patiently worked with the crazy that is our family. We went out to dinner, enjoyed complimentary desserts (complimentary because I pretty much begged for a glass of wine, but I forgot my ID, so the server brought us a dessert tray on the house instead...complimentary dark chocolate mousse definitely has its own calming effect...

This evening, I brushed my teeth as the Diva was putting lotion on. I rinsed off the toothbrush and said with a sly smile, "Pictures tomorrow!"

Daughter looked uncertain. She tried to be agreeable, and nodded her head.

Not to be deterred, I tried again. "Tomorrow we'll go in, get your hair cut, then take more pictures."

Daughter, who hates hair cuts, gave me a look. "Hair-cut?"

I smiled extra big, and prodded, "Tomorrow pictures, Wednesday pictures, Thursday pictures, Friday pictures, Saturday pictures, Sunday pictures twice..."

Daughter stared in horror.

"And," I said, "No school. Just pictures."

And then Daughter knew this was just ridiculousness. She burst into a smile from ear to ear, and yelled, "Nice try Mom! Nice try!"

We laughed. Daughter and I have never had this type of interaction before, where she laughs at herself because of a friendly mom prank. I have never heard her say the phrase, "Nice try," and it was music to my ears as I walked out of the bathroom and I heard her mumble over and over to herself, "Nice try mom. Nice try."