Him: Yes.

Me: Did I ask you not to do that again?

Him: Yes. But. Don’t thwart me, Mommy.

Me: (a pause) Carry on. You deserve it.

* * * *

Him: Mommy, whatcha makin’?

Me: Chicken, blow, and cabbage.

Him: Yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyywait. I don’t want cabbage. You give me two blows, OK?

(STILL refers to mac & cheese as blow. Yet to correct him. What?)

* * * *

Him: Can I take my socks off?

Me: Uh huh

Him: Don’t say uh huh, Mommy, say no or yes. Or just yes.

* * * *

The post Conversations with a Three-Year-Old appeared first on What Now and Why.

I don’t think she understood.

I don’t particularly enjoy eavesdropping on their conversations. It’s pretty damned irritating to have her texts showing up when I’m expecting that buzz to be my husband saying he found a pair of shoes he knew I’d love and just had to get them for me. Shut up and let me dream.

Last weekend was hard. She was in straight up little sister mode which meant bother the older sister. The older sister wasn’t feeling well, though, so the nuisance of the younger sister was intensified. She kept staring at her sister, then saying she was looking at the wall beside her head, so technically, not staring at her. I asked her to find something else to do. Her face fell. I was choosing the other over her. I always do that. I never choose her. I know this is how she feels. She says it often, the always never.

Tell her you love her. Tell her you love her.

I pat the top of her head and continue making eggs.

Just say it, reassure her.

I am mute.

Later, as the older sister is rinsing a bowl, she pushes her aside with her smaller hip, jams her bowl under the water. I watch this unfold, see the older sister contemplate bopping her upside the head with her bowl, but opt to simply sigh and ask her to move over. She refuses, keeps rinsing. I shouldn’t have stepped in. I did. I asked her to wait. And again, there I go doing that. I never choose her. I know this is how she feels. She says it often, the always never.

This time, she cries.

Tell her you love her. Just say it, reassure her.

I am mute and let her walk away.

She goes downstairs and I hear her whisper to daddy, telling of all the meanness going on upstairs against her, how mommy and the older sister are being mean and she doesn’t know why. Oh, how this irks me. I love that she trusts him, but at the same time, you can’t tattle on me, let alone slant it to get more sympathy just because you don’t understand what you did wrong. I didn’t yell either time. I didn’t accuse or berate. I simply guided in another direction. To her, it was you do everything wrong and I’d rather you went away. To her, I dislike her. And that hurts more than she will ever be able to understand (until, of course, she has a 9 year old of her own.)

My phone buzzes. She has texted her friend: My mother hates me.

My stomach sinks to my feet. I want to go to her, upstairs in her bedroom where I’ve told her iPods aren’t allowed once it’s bedtime.

The friend, thankfully, says No, your mom loves you.

I hate her? She thinks I hate her? Because I asked her to move at the sink, wait until a person comes down before trying to go up the stairs, don’t let the door close on her brother, stop staring? Or is it a culmination of all the things she feels wronged over?

Go to her. Tell her you love her. Tell her her thoughts are not true. Go to her.

I sit still and cry a little. She thinks I hate her. The parenting scorecard is not in my favor between her thinking I hate her and the older sister hating me.

I am mute. I say nothing. I let her go to sleep. I find my way upstairs, hours later, after I’ve sat on the couch and daydreamed about easier times, looking at photos of when they were so much smaller, younger, understandable.

I lie in her bed, snuggled up tight, and whisper I love you into her hair. She doesn’t hear me; she’s asleep. The words have no meaning when they are unheard and tomorrow she will wake up with the same thought she cried herself to sleep with: my mother hates me.

The post Winning At Parenting: One Kid Hates Me, the Other Thinks I Hate HER appeared first on What Now and Why.

What time is the movie? Around 4. Dinner where? A Friday’s somewhere. Where does the girl live? I don’t know.

Um…what? My husband asked why I was entertaining her with questions anyway. The answer was a straight up no and it had nothing to do with the fact that I’d heard her mention this girl only once before, have never met her or her mom, or that “around 4″, “a Friday’s somewhere” and “I don’t know” aren’t answers that’re going to make us rush to say OK.

Oh, but she had the girl’s mom’s cell phone number. Right.

My daughter is on the verge of failing seventh grade. There. I said it. I love how friends think I’m such a wonderful parent. I cook every night, big, full, meat, starch, veggie dinners. I read to them, I play in the yard, I limit TV. You know, all the things to constitute and ensure the girls won’t be on the pole, the boy won’t be slingin’ rock. I don’t think my friends have ever actually seen me do these things, though, so I guess it pays to do your yelling and beating with extension cords in private.  I was supposed to be the one winning at parenting. Supposed to’s are hilarious!

This is about more than saying no this one time, though. This is about saying no constantly because she keeps asking for things even though she’s not holding up her end of the act right bargain. If I am expected to go to work to make the money to buy the shit she wants, the expectation is that she will go to school and do the work to make the grades that warrant me buying the shit she wants. And I don’t mean normal stuff like socks and underwear, paper and pencils. Not necessities. This girl keeps asking for shoes. And clothes. And accessories. And lip gloss. And money to play on StarDoll. And, just…y’all. I have been teaching her about education, I know I have. She’s seen me graduate twice! I’ve talked to her, I’ve explained: until your grades are brought up, until there is definite betterment in the comments section of your report cards, until teachers stop writing things like “does not care”, “shows no effort”, “is too social”, “could really be an A student if she just tried” , the shoes you have on will have to do. 

And then she admitted that some kids are teasing her about wearing the same shoes every day. I don’t want my kid to be embarrased, and I certainly don’t like feeling like other kids are dictating when I buy new things. I’ve been bullied. I know that feeling. I want to protect my kids from it as much as I can. But, at the same time, right now it’s the shoes. I buy new shoes and tomorrow it’ll be the socks, it’ll be her hair, her sweater, her nail color. Once a bully starts, he’ll find something else, anything else just because.

And then I think, even if we had more money, I wouldn’t buy everything she asks for.  I can’t help wondering if she thinks what I thought at her age about my parents: it’s not my fault you don’t have money. You should have thought about and prepared for the financial aspects of parenthood before you entered it…three times. I can tell she hates me, can feel it in her already perfected eye rolls, the foot stomps as she saunters away post NO, the closing of the bathroom door (not slamming, because some shit just ain’t tolerated). She goes into the bathroom and stares at herself, sure that she is being punished by the bitch downstairs, sure that there is some family searching for her, her rightful family, the family with money that is able (and willing) to buy real Uggs and send her to fashion camp. I was the same way is precisely why I know how she feels. I remember that feeling, wanting Aigner riding boots. But now, as the parent, I also see why my mother got the knock-offs.

I don’t know what to do at this point. She does homework every day. It’s checked every day. There isn’t much by way of studying that needs to be done. They work on a skill in class, then do homework for it and move on. She seems bored, which I took initially to mean she wasn’t being challenged. Now, it seems like the boredom is self made. And I have to admit, I don’t know how to handle this. I always loved school, still crave the ability to go back for a PhD (but Sallie Mae is the devil and I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT). So, for a child who loves learning, adores reading, I don’t know where the disconnect is. It seems like more than a phase. That goal of honor roll in elementary school is nonexistent in middle school.

And I’m floundering, trying to figure out what to do to motivate her, make sure she at least passes, then work on how we’ll address the even more important eighth grade. How do I get her to understand that this phase of her life is how she’ll become the fashion designer she aspires to be? How do I get her to see that she has to be 12 and 16 and in middle and high school before she can do anything else? It seems like she thinks she’s wasting time with all this tween nonsense, all this learning of percentages, main idea, and the location of Mesopotamia.

I’m just…floundering. And she hates me and I don’t blame her sometimes beause I remember that feeling. And this wasn’t supposed to happen because I play in the fucking yard with them and I let them use all my baking soda and food coloring to make goop and I let them have the last of the lemonade now. This reward for such hard work sucks.

The post My Daughter Hates Me appeared first on What Now and Why.

Please visit me there where I give a few tips and let me know if this is an issue in your life as well.

The post Guest Posting at Letters For Lucas appeared first on What Now and Why.

A couple of weeks ago, when Lara asked if I could go to New York midweek OOOOOOH, I said yes before I had a chance to think about whether I actually could. But I was determined to make it work. Chevy was introducing the all new 2014 Impala. And by all new, y’all, I mean it’s NEW. Forget what you thought about the old Impala. The new one is sleek. It is roomy. It is sexy. It has 3 USB ports (fan me). It has a hidden compartment right up front for easy storage of your phone or sunglasses, or at least two small bags of chips that you can hide fast from your kids even though they get in and ask if you have a snack for them. It has leg room and is wide enough to keep a 12-year-old from touching a 9-year-old and a 9-year-old from looking at, unnecessarily, of course, a 12-year-old, but still room enough for the 3-year-old’s car seat to be a barrier between them.

First, I talked to Crystal Windham, the first black woman to hold the role of Director of Interior Design for Chevrolet Cars and Small Crossovers. I don’t want to undermine her accomplishments by focusing on race. It’s not about race. But, actually, it kinda is. Why shouldn’t I be proud of her accomplishments? Why shouldn’t I specify that she is the first black woman to hold this position? It is important. It is worth noting. It is inspirational and I felt surrounded by people who were determined to create a car they could be proud of, people whose work meant everything to them. Crystal talked about college and falling into the automotive field accidentally, much like Kara Gordon, who I spoke with later. Kara is a lead acoustic noise engineer. When I say that I am floundering in my career, Kara is my absolute opposite. She was so animated, so excited, so thrilled about her role in the car’s design. That is what one should have when talking about her passion, her profession, her life. And if she has children, they likely have no chance of mumbling because with her special training she can probably hear eye rolls.

Next, I spoke to Rick Williams. Rick played a role in the interior design of the car. But. When Rick started talking, it wasn’t about just the Impala. It was about GM as a brand, as a family company. The passion with which he talked about his grandfather made me want to find a computer and say YOU TAKE THIS, BLANK PAGE; I AM WRITING. It made me want to get up, do something (outside of dance because COME ON, the music DJClarkKent was spinning? I mean seriously, when was the last time you went someplace with a live DJ who seemed to KNOW YOU? That man played the soundtrack to my life! I could barely sit though talking to Rick. And I couldn’t dance the way I wanted to because hello, not a party. Also, not that kind of party. I wonder if he can send me the playlist.)  Rick told stories of brand loyalty and commitment and showed us a tattoo in his grandfather’s honor on one side of his arm:

On the other side, a quote (Napoleon Hill?): Whatever the mind of man can conceive and believe, it can achieve. My middle daughter repeats this quote frequently as it’s used at her school a lot. It empowers her. It invigorates her and it is something to behold. Those few words, when said to her when she is struggling with a math problem (and I am not helping because seriously, decimals, fractions, percentages, what reason do you have in my life?) can transform her mind. It makes something click. Listening to Rick talk about GM and how the company is his family’s company, from his grandparents to his parents, to himself receiving a scholarship for college, it was the equivalent of how my daughter responds to that quote. And it inspired me

So, this trip was needed. It came at the right time, when my drive and my focus were being tested. And, better, we’re in the market for a new car. While I loved the Impala and it made me feel quite un-momlike, I think the Traverse, because of Amanda’s love for it, is more my speed. Because I have to be high. I should probably rephrase that. But I’m not.

The post Chevy Gave Me Back My Mojo appeared first on What Now and Why.

My 9-year-old asked me why. Why do tragedies happen, why do they seem to continue to happen, why’re they happening so often? I don’t know the answer to that. I tried to explain as best I could, something random about unhappy people, people with mental problems, people perfectly sane but without the ability to effect change to whatever it is they’re unhappy about. Who, she asked. It is pointless, I tell her, to attempt to figure out the who. The person doesn’t matter, at least to me. To me, it is the climate. The reason. The why. Abnormal new normal? No. There is nothing about this, this constant state of what’s next that I want to refer to as normal. I bet I wouldn’t have to search hard to find a woman, not unlike me, in Syria, who doesn’t want her life to be what’s known as normal either. The situations in background are different, yes, but the situations in result are the same. Death. Destruction. Unwanted change. Unfathomable sadness.

Boston marathon runners and spectators suffered horrific injuries. Boston marathon runners and spectators died. I did not tell my daughter how many people had limbs blown off in Iraq recently.

I did not show my daughter statistics on education in Africa, on atrocities done to women in other parts of the world. The Pentagon sent additional troops to Jordan recently.

Rape and the social sharing of the act is pervasive lately. It seems like no one has morals.

I don’t care about names or race or nationality. I don’t care about politics behind an action. I only care about those affected. Everything else is weightless upon the realization that lives are lost, limbs are lost, paths are altered, futures are changed. Fuck gun reform (at least for now, in this argument.) Fuck mental health awareness and access (at least for now, in this argument.) What matters most right is now is humanity. Where is our humanity? Where are our hearts? Oh, we give and give of ourselves upon each tragedy. But what are we really doing to foster consideration of others, love of others, understanding, communication, openness, acceptance, tolerance? I’m not trying to sit you down criss-cross applesauce in a field of flowers and sing songs of peace and harmony. I just want to…I don’t know what I want. I want this to stop. That’s what I want.

I don’t know why. All I know is that I do care. I care about what happens on American soil. But you know what, I care about what happens in other countries too. I care even for those who just might not give two shits about me, whether that person is American or not. I’m sorry for the bombers’ parents. It’s not always easy to show compassion, not always easy to understand our fellow men are hurting, confused, afraid, unsure, led astray onto dark paths. There have been times, I’ll admit. There have been times that I’ve been at that crossroads and a hand has been offered to follow an unlit path, a path that reeks of shame and hurt and pain and destruction. Another path may be rosy. Another path may be middle ground. I’ve so far not chosen the dark path but I’ve sometimes had to make a conscious decision not to. I’ve had to step back, farther into the light, away from a music so entrancing, so full body encompassing that I almost lost myself within its melodic notes. Not everyone has the ability or desire to resist. We wind up paying the price when we don’t provide enough reasons to resist.

I have no answers to why. All I know is that each event propels me to do something, change something, help someone. I don’t have much to give financially, but you know what? I can listen. Sometimes that’s enough. I can give up my seat on the bus. I can let someone ahead of me on the elevator, the escalator, the door. I can. And I will. I’m one of the good ones. We exist. I know because I see the others. In the light.

The post Abnormal New Normal appeared first on What Now and Why.

**

I have a tendency to give excellent advice to others but I seem unable to apply these same suggestions, admonitions, or gentle nudges to myself. When you feel overwhelmed, how do you climb out of it, what’s the first step? And by overwhelmed I mean by sheer ordinariness: dishes, laundry, groceries, mail, the sex you planned out so well in your mind four days ago and looked forward to but now it’s four days later and each night you’ve passed out soon after the kids because you are tired, so very tired. And probably tipsy.

**

Yoga has always helped me. I tend not to practice, though, because to practice I’d have to carve out time and purposely change out of my robe and into something more conducive to downward dog. It’s odd. I crave, genuinely crave the peace and mental stability and calm that yoga provides and yet I will opt for bed or a book. Or vodka. I care, I do. But how do I also act on doing the things I need to do? Regularly? Because telling myself what I should be doing doesn’t make me do it, even if I want to do it.

**

My robe. I went through a few pieces of clothes from the floor yesterday and determined most need to go to Goodwill. I put my robe in the bag. It’s only two years old and has been my best friend the entire time. But, it’s time for it to go. It is a hindrance, an eyesore, no matter how comfortable it is. It became my crutch. The signal that mommy is tired, wife is disinterested. It’s time to change the signal.

**

Lists. I like lists! I am awful at lists, both making them and crossing things off of them. But, I still feel like I need them. I need to list out what needs to be done in the extensive cleaning and reorganization of my bedroom. I will spend more time on the list than the actual cleaning, though. How do you get past the want of change and move into the effecting of the change? I’ve read about making a plan (aha! A list!) and simply sticking to it. I can see how that would work with a person who sticks to lists, but WHAT ABOUT PEOPLE LIKE ME?

**

I plan to at least try. I’m going to try to do the things that are good for me. I’m going to try to not do the things that are bad for me (but that might, at the time, also feel pretty damn good). I’m going to try to remind myself of how I want things to be: clean curtains, dishes done, clothes I don’t wear gone. And maybe buy some vitamins.

**

I am so fucking hormonal I could scream. There is a special place in hell for the person who thought that mother/daughter synchronized menstrual cycles was  a good idea. I am teary and sad because the girls are gone until Thursday but I am grateful and enjoying the semi-quiet that their absence produces (semi because the boy is, well, not quiet.) I cannot wait to hear about their trip and wash their hair and look into their faces and remind them that they have homework packets to complete BECAUSE I AM THE FUN MOM.

The post Doing Versus Thinking About Doing appeared first on What Now and Why.

I posted on Facebook today that our dining room table seats six but we will only fill five chairs. I don’t mean to make a parent who has lost a child or a parent who doesn’t want children, or only wanted one, or only wanted another number feel as though I am dissatisfied with my current children, that my desire to have another is in any way comparable to a devastating loss of decision unlike my own. On the contrary, I love my family as it is. I will simply always imagine and deeply desire it to be the way I originally expected it to be.

Ah, expectations. Assholes.

# # # #

Today, my 12-year-old called to say she wanted to take a different route home, a different bus, but one that would essentially get her where she needed to go. Initially, I balked. No! Go where you’re expected to be. And just as quickly, I thought, “She’s 12. Let her get lost if need be, but let her be in charge of that experience.” It felt good to just say “OK, pay attention.”

# # # #

Today, my 9-year-old is going to show me how she has perfected a back walkover. She expected to be able to do this far better than she can much earlier than she could. I told her expectations are notorious letdowns, but hard work trumps it every time. Last week, she asked if she could try to do it without using the mat, meaning potential head meeting hardwood. I balked. No! You need to protect yourself. And just as quickly, I thought, “Flip on.” It felt good to just say, “OK, be careful.”

# # # #

Today, my 3-year-old will want to watch Wreck-It-Ralph again. It’s only been on DVD a few weeks, but, if required, I could probably recite the entire movie already. He is going to ask for popcorn, and a bar, and juice, and an apple, and quite possibly, for a Krabby Patty. He expects these snacks now. Last week he’d had any number of these things and I was cooking dinner and knew he’d likely now not eat it. He asked if he could have grapes. No! Dinner’s almost ready. And then, I gave him a small bowl of grapes (because he danced for me and sang a song about nice mommies who had good days giving boys grapes.)

I am here with them, aware, and interacting, none of them babies.

The post Addendum appeared first on What Now and Why.

Zaid’s birth scared the hell out of us. I think that plays a role in why my husband doesn’t want more (well, that and that we’re old(er), there’d be a 13 year age gap between the first and fourth, there’s no money, there’s no time, and there’s no space (but I’m not even fully using that bottom dresser drawer so bam!, I gots a bed if that’s his only issue.)) This is not to say that if I truly wanted to have another I couldn’t simply commandeer his penis and make it happen. What? It means grab/seize, right? Not confiscate. That’d be Lorena Bobbittish. Why do I remember her name?

There’s also this.

It’s crazy. Sometimes, I can feel movement in my stomach. Sure, it’s only gas or hunger, but oh, if I let my thoughts go there, it is a baby. I am creating another small human with the appropriate number of limbs, fingers, and toes. I am creating another person born of the love that my husband and I have for one another, another person for his or her siblings to look forward to, to love, and to potentially detest, fight with, and attempt to set on fire. It is at times a palpable, breath stopping realization that I am not pregnant. The IUD is doing its job effectively. Bitch.

I see infants and I stare. That could be me. I could be that pregnant woman. Originally, I’d given my husband 35 as a cut-off for children. “I don’t want to be pregnant after 35.” Um, what the hell was I thinking when I said this? Now, at 39, I have never wanted anything so much in my life. I can taste the frozen pizza I was addicted to while pregnant with Z. If I close my eyes tightly enough and stretch my arms around my middle I can imagine a growing belly, a tiny person filling my arms yet again.

I look at pregnant women and vacillate between congratulations and get away from me, bitch. Congratulations on this new journey, this new life. Get away from me, bitch; I hate you and your beautifully extending belly, your waddle, your sheer happiness at looking forward to decorating a nursery. I’m not going to knock you out and remove the baby from your womb. Gosh; don’t be silly. Yes, I’ve thought about it YOU ARE SO JUDGEMENTAL.

If only. If only there was money for a fourth. If only there was space for a fourth. If only there were time for a fourth.

It amazes me, this realization that the world keeps on going. In the midst of my paralyzing depression when I fully, truly, gave in to my third being my last, there was an overwhelming emptiness, an open space that I cannot, will not fill. Yet, the world continues. People all around me will continue to parent and have babies. Technology will continue to make things like the awesome Dropcam. I’ll never need a Dropcam. Some friends’ children will start to have babies soon. I will forever be left as the woman with three, of which none is a baby any longer.

Z is a big boy. He tells me so all the time. He doesn’t “need” me to do things for him. He is not a baby. My last baby is no longer a baby.

I will never sniff a newborn’s head again.

I will never soothe an infant to sleep again.

I will never bathe a baby and fear that I am going to drop it upside down on the hard tile floor again.

I will never buy tiny clothes, socks, or shoes again.

I will never need the newest gadget, toy, walker, stroller, car seat, sleep aid again.

I will never hold out my arms as a child learns to walk again.

I will never have breasts as abundant as when I was breastfeeding again.

I will never feed a baby mashed avocado again.

I will never need to think of creative ways to notify of a pregnancy again.

I will never need to send thank you cards for baby shower gifts again.

I will never confidently decipher toddlerspeak again.

I will never feel a baby move inside me again.

I will never look like this again.

And yet.

I get to watch my children learn new things, read new books, master new skills. Fuck you, decimals.

I get to have real conversations, not those borne of unintelligible words. Or Dora.

I get to watch something that is not animated.

I will never have a human exit my body again, in a way that requires stitches ANYWHERE.

I will never have to carry a diaper bag everywhere again.

I get to paint nails, read Judy Blume, and play with monster trucks in the mud.

I get to run in the rain and convince all three to do it with me.

I get to listen to music that is not included on the favorite nursery rhymes CD.

I will never run into a child’s room in the  middle of the night afraid that he/she has been abducted, is not breathing, or has been placed in the washing machine. I will still go to just watch them sleep, though.

I have three perfectly healthy children.

I am going to enjoy them.

But. If only.

The post The Finality of If Only appeared first on What Now and Why.

Surely you were stumped by which person in the photo was me? Ta-da! Brutally difficult, I know!

I’ve been through kindergarten with children twice now. My youngest, at 3, is still two years shy of entering kindergarten, but I can’t help wondering how the experience will differ from what I remember about my own early years and what I experienced, as a parent, with his sisters. When the girls started school there was no sadness, no lamenting the loss of the baby years. I doubt I’ll feel that way with the boy either since he’s already at the elementary school in full time pre-K3. I hope they remember the playground and sunny days and nice teachers and field trips and toys in the classroom. (I hope my oldest does not recall being hit upside the head with a wooden block by another child though. Some things deserve to be repressed.)

I remember my own first day of kindergarten. A little girl who is my friend to this day – one of those friends who you may not talk to for years but when you do, time melts away like you spoke just the day before — told me I was sitting incorrectly. I hadn’t smoothed my skirt down under my butt first so I was sitting underwear directly on the chair. This seemed to bother her. Later, when we went to the restroom she saw my skirt on the floor and asked why I didn’t just pull the skirt up and hold it around my stomach. Clearly her mother had way more time on her hands than mine did with the whole proper way to do things crap.

I remember a little boy named Vincent falling headfirst onto an uncovered, jagged pipe. The hole at the top of his head that gushed blood all over his green polo shirt was so perfect. I just remember staring at his head and watching him walk sideways like we’d do after we spun around in circles too fast too long. I didn’t call the teacher. I didn’t tell anyone. I was amazed at how perfect the hole was (we’d been drawing them earlier that day and I couldn’t get mine to not be an oval) and I wanted to pick him up, turn him upside down and put his head back onto the pipe because look, a perfect circle. Soon a small group of us was examining him and that made a teacher investigate. Good thing, too. Vincent had passed out. I also remember a little girl with a pencil stuck in her eye. I still recall wondering whether she could see through all the blood and just what was holding it in there so straight? What can I say, we played hard.

Outside of those few instances, though, I got nothin’. I have no further specific memories until perhaps fourth grade.  (What I do remember, though, are the clothes. I would become attached to a particular item and refuse to remove it. This, husband, is why I totally get the boy’s love of his Spiderman shirt. Yes, it needs to be washed, because there’s crusted ketchup around the neck and some unidentifiable glob of, well, something else, on the sleeve, but unless there is an alternative Spiderman shirt while that one is being cleaned, we may just have to take it off while he sleeps.) Although I can’t remember much, I remember being happy and sometimes I can jog a name from my memory banks when I look at pictures. (Interestingly, it’s not just school I don’t remember. I was well into adulthood before I realized that my assumption that my sisters and I didn’t spend much time together as children was incorrect. I came upon album after album of us, together, always together. I can’t remember these instances, but the pictures tell  the stories I can’t recall.)

Pictures say so much, right? Right! So, I got together with a fabulous bunch of bloggers (there are 23 of us!) to do something fun for you, our readers, regarding kindergarten pictures. We present to you:

Name That Kindergartner!

It’s very simple – just match the picture (with the assigned alphabet) to the blogger whose blog is listed below. What’s in it for you? Other than some fun (and it’s fun, promise!), you can win an awesome $300 Amazon gift card. You can also get to know some of the bloggers listed here, if you don’t already. You can have a laugh at our expense. Don’t worry, we did. Now, go forth and play!

Enter your answers on this form.

Participating #kinderbloggers, in alphabetical order:

Angela of Angela Amman

Angie of Angie Kinghorn

Deborah of Ask Doctor G

Robin of Farewell Stranger

Poppy of Funny or Snot

Leigh Ann of Genie in a Blog

Greta of Gfunkified

Jennifer of Jennifer P. Williams

Tonya of Letters for Lucas

Kiran of Masala Chica

Laura of Mommy Miracles

Natalie of Mommy of a Monster (and Twins)

Brittany of Mommy Words

Jessica of My Time as Mom

Kimberly of Reflections of Now

Tracy of Sellabit Mum

Elaine of The Miss Elaine-ous Life

Sarah of The Sunday Spill

Galit of These Little Waves

Kristin of Two Cannoli

Arnebya of What Now and Why

Kristin of What She Said

Alison of Writing, Wishing

Terms and conditions apply:

• You must be 18 years or older to enter.
• This contest is only open to residents of USA and Canada.
• This contest is open from March 11 – 15, 2013 (closes at 9pm Eastern).
• Visit the link above, where you will be able to enter your guess for each blogger pictured. (All information will be kept private.)
• The person to correctly match all the faces with their blog will win a $300 Amazon gift card. The two other closest guesses will each win one $80 Amazon gift card.
• If more than one person correctly matches all the faces with their blogs, we will randomly pick a winner via random.org.
• If no one guesses all the faces correctly, the winner will be the person who made the most correct guesses.
• This is not a sponsored post. Prizes are paid for out of the participating bloggers’ own pockets.
• You CAN enter more than once!
• Winners will be announced week of March 18.

“Name That Kindergartner” was inspired by the “Name That DIY Blogger” contest at My Blessed Life .

The post What Do You Remember From Kindergarten? (Updated with winners!) appeared first on What Now and Why.