We are only in our third week of school, yet I have already learned quite a few things being the PTA President. Here are a few.

1. You cannot please everyone. If you try, everyone will end up being frustrated and no one wins.

2. Organization is the key! All of those “I will file these later” papers really do need to be filed as soon as you get them. Who knew?

3. To delegate is to succeed. Jumping out of the “I can do it since no one else will” mindset not only keeps you (ME!) from an early burnout, but lets other people actually volunteer.

I am not an idiot.

I mean, I may have some bouts of momnesia every now and then, and my math skills may be a little questionable sometimes, and, admittedly, my geography kinda sucks…but still, with almost 41 years under my belt, a bachelor’s degree, and a thriving writing career, I assure you, I’m no dummy.

Now can someone please tell this to my 10-year-old? Because my Mari’s under the impression that she’s actually smarter than me.

Mari

You turned one today. That's one entire year of being compared to your brother, something I know I'm not supposed to do, but can't help doing every single minute of every single day. It's what you get for arriving second, I think. There's not much I can do about it. I mean, the both of you are just THERE and he's not so much older than you that I've forgotten what he was like when he was your age. He took his first real steps at his first birthday party, for example, while you didn't even want to bum-scoot. You probably could have used a morning nap today (though you're refusing them at all, so I don't even bother) and that meant you refused to leave your perch on my right hip. It's your preferred method of transportation even when you're in a good mood, so it'll probably be a while before you deign to plant your feet on the floor.

When Dan and I got married, we each had about 150 CDs and not a single one in common. The only two artists we had in common were Beethoven and Frank Sinatra. Other than that, he was all jazz and classical and I was all over the map, with a strong pop/rock bias. In some ways this has been great. We’ve introduced each other to all different kinds of music. But to be honest, we each mostly stick to what we know.

I thought our kids would be super well-rounded musically, being open to all kinds of things -- and for the most part they are -- but they spend most of their time with me and my MP3 player, so they’re already finding their musical niches. Laylee loves Gwen Stefani and 80’s music and Magoo is all about classic rock, taking a dip into the 80s.

Some days I rue the fact that I’m raising children in the digital age, with a seemingly endless range of cyber-dangers looming on the horizon. It overwhelms me, sometimes, and I’d like to herd them into a remote cave where they can only encounter well-mannered unicorns and butterflies who do not have Internet access. It’s a nice dream.

At the same time, though, there are plenty of days when I feel thankful that I can Facebook with my kids’ teachers, check the school lunch menu online, and send a cell phone with a kid on a sleepover. It’s a trade-off, I suppose. The digital age may be introducing new parenting challenges, but it’s also introducing new tools.

Long long ago, before I had kids, before I was even entertaining the IDEA of kids, I went clothes shopping with my sister-in-law. SIL is the kind of person who can talk you into spending your mortgage payment on a skirt you'll wear maybe once, or maybe not even once. So ordinarily a shopping trip with SIL is a super fun time. Except we were shopping for kids' clothes. Specifically, t-shirts with pictures of bugs on the front, the uglier the better. "Conner is into bugs right now," she informed me, whipping through the clearance rack at the GAP.

I took this to be her explanation even though I had no idea what she was talking about. Bugs? REALISTIC bugs? SIL is cute and stylish and she was looking for pictures of insects in size 3T? I didn't get it.

I’m not much for cleaning these days. I’m much for eating and sleeping and going to water aerobics with elderly women. Because I don’t feel like cleaning, I rarely make the kids do it either. When they clean, it basically means I have to clean and coax and supervise them while they whine about the difficulties inherent in being born a Thompson.

Cleaning with young kids in many ways requires more energy and time than cleaning alone. But it’s good for them and right now it does help to have those with lower centers of gravity doing the bending and picking up. I walk around pointing out things for them to put away, cheering them on and dealing with the higher items. It works out okay, keeps them off the streets…that kind of thing.

Every year, the milestone comes. Yes, I am referring to the first day of school. The mourning of summer’s passing brings us a slight feeling of dread. However, the excitement of new beginnings and starting with a clean slate wins out for those first few days.

This is the first year I did not cry since the year I dropped off my oldest child at preschool so many years ago. Initially, I thought it was because I was so busy, I simply had my mind on the many things I had to accomplish. My brain just would not let me go on the sentimental journey it always takes this time of year.

(Part 1 can be found here)

Dear Summer,

Well THAT was fast.

You blew in here three months ago in the bright eyes of my kids. You brought many high expectations with you -- some of them we exceeded, others we missed by a mile. We had some togetherness that ended in rollicking good laughs, and we had some togetherness that ended in imaginary lines being drawn the backseat. We saw an ocean, a canyon and a wizard. Your humid, healthy air fertilized both my hydrangea and my twelve year old -- both of them seemed to grow a foot.

At five-thirty I had dinner in the oven, a set table, two happy children, and a head start on the dishes. Molly, who can't bear to be out of my sight, bum-scooted herself into the kitchen and attached herself to my ankles. I looked down to cheerfully acknowledge my sweet little daughter, to take pride in my housewifely and stay-at-home-mom-ly accomplishments that evening, and saw that she was picking something up off the floor. From the section of the kitchen floor that hides under the edges of the cupboards, Molly produced what looked like a blueberry that had, I assumed, fallen off the lunch dishes I'd washed earlier. (It was a banner day for prompt clean up in the Cheung household.) But when I bent down to fish it out of her mouth (she's quick) I saw it was a purple jellybean. Covered in dust.