Sweet Spot Summer

It struck me while perusing the Buy Buy Baby registry for Greg's cousin.  I don't have wee ones any more.  Bottle-drying racks?  No need.  Crib sheets?  Breast milk bags?  All done.  (Apparently, not all done with Baby Signs, though.  The phrases "all done" and "more" still trigger hand motions I'll probably be using to wave away the nursing home aides.)


It's odd: this blog was born a couple of days before I became a mom.  I think I was trying to process my new identity... first a mom of an infant, then a toddler, then a mother of two little ones.  Always little ones.  I kept Goldfish in my purse; I could fold and load a double stroller in record time.  Eventually, I stopped writing my own mother's name on the forms asking for "Mother's Name".  Once I hit my stride, I milked their young childhoods as long as possible.  We kept Buzzy in a private Kindergarten associated with her preschool, so I didn't even have to send her off on a bus last fall.  But the gig's up.  She's off to first grade in September, and even Rosie is finally out of diapers and headed to pre-K (unless she ends up in juvie first--a distinct possibility and one she might even prefer).


Parenting a four- and a six- year old is right up my ally.  I can usually hold someone's hand.  We can read picture books.  But I've stopped carrying Goldfish in my bag and they can get the food from their plates into their own mouths, usually.  I can leave them in the shower for three fifteen minutes while I check Twitter dinner.  They're still not crazy busy with too many activities, so we have some flexibility and the ability to take advantage of it.  It's a good place, albeit fleeting.  Narrowing in are discussions about cliques, technology, and safety issues that go far beyond the tornado drills of my elementary school years.  Ducking and covering the backs of their necks with a Social Studies book isn't going to get either of my girls very far.  So, I'm going to try to savor this summer with my little big girls while they enjoy buckets, pails, bubbles, story hour at the library, and even the once-dreaded princesses.


Just remind me I said that in August.

Happy Birthday Baby

Rosie turns FOUR today.  Impossibly fast, yet it seems she's always been part of my life.  She's the sweetest, cuddliest, most generous contrarian in the world.  Unfailingly polite, she says "thank you, mommy" in her tiny voice whenever I bring her anything, but she's unfailingly and infuriatingly stubborn, too.  Her little body is so tightly wound.  She springs and jumps and dances like a bolt of electricity runs through her body.  She cannot fall asleep at night, and asks me to sit with her 'for five minutes', then grabs my hand and won't let go when her time is up.  She still twirls her hair and sucks her thumb to relax, and she still grabs me around the neck in a forwards full-Nelson and brings my check down to press against her cheek when I tuck her in.

Her memory stuns and confuses me.  If I ask her what she did in school, she'll brush me off with an airy, "I don't remember" but then she'll recite a scene from two years ago, from our old DC life, accurate down to describing the floor boards.  She's resistant to change: her school installed a brand-new playground over the summer, but she still pouts, "I like the old one" that she played on when we picked up Buzzy. 

Animals and babies are her friends.  The cousins closest to her age are all big sisters now, and she asks me why I'm not getting "a 'nudder one baby in my tummy?"  She wants to be big and masterful, often pretending to be the big sister or mommy.  I still get to be the queen, though.  "Thank you, your minus" she says to be silly. 

She's always had a gleam in her eye.  Lately she's been leaning into it with an eagerness to explore that wasn't there even a couple of months ago.  Rosie started school this fall, and is growing more independent every day.  She loves to dress up, put on her 'lipstick' -- Chapstick, sunscreen or marker, whatever she can find.  The more jewelry the better.  She's a bit of a dare devil (so long as slides aren't involved--she isn't a big fan of slides, mostly because of the static electricity shock that accompanied most of her earliest experiences on them).  She defiantly tells me, "I like bad guys, mama."  Oh, dear one.  No, no, no!  Please stay far away from all bad boys, bad guys, bad everything.  She always wants a hit of Motrin, enjoys caviar, loves fizzy water, and generally has me worried about her adolescence already.

Last night, I tucked her in and said, "Good night, baby.  I guess I can't call you that anymore.  You're four!  You're getting so big!"  And she said, "You can still call me baby." 

She has my heart.  Happy Birthday, baby.
 

Higher Math

On the first day of school, I inquired about volunteering in Buzzy's kindergarten class.  Her teacher informed me that the class parent spots were already filled.  What?  It was the first day of school.  Did the other mothers procure the coveted spots when I was helping Buzzy locate her new cubby, or was it that conversation in the lobby with the principal that doomed my chances?  I grumbled to myself about open and transparent elections and helicopter parents who usurped the Rule of Law in kindergarten parent politics. 

Despite my frustrations at being an unsuccessful helicopter parent myself, I totally understand why the mommies lined up to volunteer.  Daily life at home with small children can be soul sucking.  But, at school, kindergartners are sunshine and rainbows when they see their parents.  Buzzy's guileless little face lights right up if I pop into her classroom to drop something off.  Sometimes, she'll still hold my hand in the parking lot--although, more and more often, I have to make the first move and hold on tightly.  I remember my superstar mommy volunteering at my first grade Halloween party--she and Mrs. P dressed like witches and served us a brew steaming with magic that I only later learned was dry ice.  I also remember my mother volunteering at my sixth grade dance.  I hid behind a post and didn't make eye contact.  The other moms and I--we know where this is headed. Sign us up for cupcake duty and field trips to the cranberry bog now.

The email requesting volunteers at the kindergarten Halloween party sat in my inbox for over an hour before I saw it.  Late to the game again.  My heart dropped when I saw the one spot that was left: Ghost Math.  I find even the non-haunted variety of math pretty frightening.  I'd ordered my academic and professional life around avoiding it at all costs.  But there it was, laid out in some sort of equation.  Access to the Halloween party = overcoming fear of kindergarten math.

Her teacher assured me that I only had to know how to add up to five, so I signed up, with some trepidation.  Buzzy glowed during the Halloween parade.  She took my hand and showed me her classroom: the pencil sharpener, the book nook.  The golden morning got even better when I met the other mother at the Ghost Math station--she was a physician!  Music to this English major's ears.  She did the heavy math lifting, and Buzzy kindly helped me out a bit, too, before scampering off to bedazzle a pumpkin.  Mostly, I focused on reminding the kids to write their names on their worksheets.  I still don't quite understand the point of Ghost Math.  But I know things get trickier above five.