Forget it

I love the post-PreK pick-up (like that alliteration?) conversations. It is one of the things I will most miss next year when Small Fry and Big Stuff burst Kramer-like into the house together, talking at once and fighting for my attention after school. Last week, the thoughtful conversation topic was the phenomenon of diverted attention. Small Fry said she was really happy that her sister helped her the other day when she was crying. Big Stuff told her she was sorry that she felt bad (Go empathy!), and said "Let's read a book together." Small Fry said, "I took that part of my brain that was thinking about crying and threw it away. And then I put the book into the place where the crying was." Utterly impressed with her self-analysis, I asked, "Who told you about the brain thing?" She said dreamily, "Oh, I just thought about it myself."

Today our conversation began with Small Fry declaring that she really, actually thinks that we should move to another house, in Florida, where we can raise racoons and squirrels (raise??) and some other animals. I said, "Oh, well Big Stuff says she's going to have a farm of her own when she grows up. Maybe we can go visit her racoons and squirrels and horses and dogs." To which Small Fry asks, startled, "You mean Big Stuff isn't going to live in our house anymore when she grows up?" Right, says I. She is silent for a few minutes, ruminating. Then she says, "Mama, can we just forget that thing you said about Big Stuff living in another house? I love her, and I want her to live with us always." Consider it forgotten, sweet girl. Consider it forgotten.

Little Princesses

Reading this today, reminded me that I did something horrifying on Saturday. It just goes to show I'll do anything for my kids. We had Small Fry's birthday party at the theater (say it like this ...theeahtah...but picture a teeny hole-in-the-wall overrun with adorable child actors and stage-moms-turned-face-paint-artists). Part of the deal was that Small Fry got to get up on stage and have the audience sing Happy Birthday to her. I was seated next to a loquacious 5-year-old by the name of Talky McTalkerson. Talky is just about the cutest little thing you've ever seen in your life - long dark ponytails, a delightful, bubbly personality and an amazing conversationalist, let me tell you. After the birthday song, during which Small Fry stood in the spotlight with a peaceful and satisfied look on her face as if to say, Yes. Yes. Now, this is living....the master of ceremonies informed us that they were holding auditions for a new play called A Little Princess. He tells us that the lead character is a spoiled little girl who frequently throws tantrums. To which my sweet Talky whispers, what's a tantrum? Obviously she is much too sweet and angelic to have ever thrown one so of course she doesn't recognize the word. I mime to her, you know... a tantrum...and I clench my fists and stomp my feet a little to demonstrate. The gentleman on stage continues to talk and then asks, Now who out there knows how to throw a tantrum? To which my sweet, darling, precious Talky shouts out - SHE DOES! and points at me. I am called up on stage and asked to throw a tantrum. For everyone. With a spotlight on me. It's strangely like every nightmare I've ever had. Except I am wearing my clothes. And as for dear, sweet Talky? Well, that girl is dead to me now.

Wow

One of the most beautiful blog entries I've read lately....

News Flash

Did you know that there is a cruel and appalling thing that happens to mothers called mylastbabyisgoingtokindergarten? The ogres in the school system actually force this information down your throat in FEBRUARY, for pete's sake, even though you've been studiously avoiding thinking about it since last August. This really is happening, and apparently there is nothing I can do to stop it. When the ogres informed me of this completely unfair and unwarranted eventuality, I cried for a day and a half. I actually could not keep from crying any time I thought about it. I don't remember the last time I couldn't keep from crying....I'm thinking the year was 1985, and it involved some unfortunate 15-year-old failed romance. Since then, I have stopped crying but there is a lump in my throat the size of Texas that I cannot seem to swallow. Every time I look at her (oh the chubby cheeks, oh the eyelashes to die for, oh those sweet fingers and toes), the lump grows little bigger. Every First with Big Stuff feels like a great adventure, but every First with Small Fry is also a Last that I know will never pass my way again. I guess it is very unfortunate for her, to have the burden of all her mama's lasts. I think I do a good job of faking my enthusiasm....Oh what a big girl you are, how wonderful it will be to get on the bus and go to school, yippee.... but I wonder if she has any inkling of just how much the thought of all this is twisting my heart inside out. Thankfully, the Lord has given her the kind of compassion that astonishes sometimes. So perhaps she will forgive me. We have long established a conversation about growing up...I tell her she's growing up too fast, and it really must stop. I threaten to put a brick on her head. She tells me she's not a baby, but she will always be my baby....This has sufficed well in the past, but I think the next few months are going to call for more. Drastic Measures, I'm thinking. Such as Avoidance of the Truth, Living in a Dream and Pretending Kindergarten Doesn't Exist. Wish me well.

Snow Day

Snow days are a rarity in the South. Just when we think we've happily left winter in our collective dust...And we begin to obsess over the idea of sitting by the pool, lake, ocean or some other body of water...with our toes on the deck, dangling off the side of a boat or buried in the sand....And we are exploring vacation spots on the internet and sighing deeply at the sight of palm trees and water parks...Well, that's when March sneaks up behind us and shouts, Surprise! You're not done with with me yet! And before you know it, children are newly obsessed with finding two gloves, the art of layering and the making of the perfect snowman. No matter that the snowman's body consists mostly of wet clay, dead grass and pine needles. This is fun, fun, fun!
And yet soon our personalities, quirks and genetics begin to show. It's too cold, mama. I'm wet, mama. My hands are stinging, mama. But I don't waaannnna to come in, Mama...wails one. While the other happily persists in making the clay-grass-snowman, tasting the enormous snowflakes and crafting perfectly spherical snowballs.... until finally she looks up and realizes her thin-blooded, warmth-loving family has flat-out deserted her. Puzzled, she stands at the door and says, What are you doing? Come out and play. But alas, the moment has passed, and we are all back in our places by the fire and space heaters observing, from a distance and from the inside out. As it should be if you live in the Deep South, and it insists on snowing one fine March day.

Funky Town

I woke up today in ...well, it was nothing short of a funk. I don't know what it was. It may have been the dream I was having right before I woke up. It was one of those dreams where you kind of think God is trying to tell you something, but you are thinking....no, no, no sir. I don't want to do that. Sorry. Know you are Creator of the Universe and all but that thing You want me to do is not happening. My reticence made me grouchy. Also, there is something about coming out of a really, really fantastic weekend featuring unbelievable guacamole and margaritas that makes Monday morning's bowl of granola seem really drab. Plus the cloudy morning skies. And the tangly hair. And a friend's devastating and completely unfair loss. And the bad news. There is an unease in the air that keeps picking at me...You could be next. All good things must come to an end.

Three things cheered my mind: The Miracle on the Hudson interview on GMA....what better story to remind us that life is fleeting and yet what a difference we can make in one another's lives. And there was Small Fry...the compassionate girl that she is, putting her head against my chest and listening intently to what was going on in there after I told her my heart felt sad today. The wee doctor then came up with various diagnoses and suggested cures that were sweet and on-target and also made me laugh. Finally, an impulsive lunch with Big Stuff where she jumped out of her seat when she saw me and ran into my arms. In front of the whole lunchroom. Without reservation. I thought my formerly sad heart might burst with happiness then.

Hello from Sunny Florida

It happens every year. It never fails to surprise me when it is 78 degrees on Christmas Eve. I know, I know... I lived my whole life here until a few short years ago, and I've returned here every Christmas since...but still! 78 degrees??! In December??! What the what? This year, instead of mentally fighting it, I'm trying to fully embrace it. For instance, I actually packed a pair of shorts and two pairs of flip flops this year. Whereas in the past, I have suffered in silence in my jeans and oh-so-cool (NOT) urbanite black sweaters and boots. Nope, I've gotten on the crazy train this time. And I'm so much less irritable. Go figure. Maybe the Snowbirds have something here after all. It is really quite a scene. We've already been to the beach, collected shells, watched children splash and turn blue in the waves (hey, I haven't completely lost it - the Atlantic is COLD in December) and adopted a mostly-bare-feet policy for the week. Big Stuff and Small Fry, although consumed with Christmas-is-coming ADD madness, are taking to long hours in the backyard, lots of satellite TV and wearing their bathing suits once daily. Thank goodness I don't have to put on my bathing suit. Because I just can't stop eating. My people are amazing cooks, and they just don't stop the cooking and the eating, they don't care how big your butt gets. BTW, Small Fry asked me yesterday if "ass" is a bad word. New Year's Resolution #1: Stop eating every two hours. You are not a newborn. Resolution #2: Stop saying ass in front of the children. Now have a merry Christmas, people...and if you are a non-Floridian, don't hate me because I'm sweating.