Have a holly, jolly...

Well, we dreamed of a white Christmas, and that's exactly what we got. We're sitting here, the day after, surrounded by cardboard boxes, wrapping paper piles, princess gowns and tiaras strewn over every surface, dollhouses filled with party animals (literally, animals having a party). It's snowy and cold outside, but in that comforting, nostalgic sort of way.

I'd love to say the long break between posts was due to my glamorous and busy life. While busy might apply, the very unglamorous truth is I forgot my password for a bit and remembered it today. I also forgot my debit card PIN, which never happens. I just completely blanked one day, and it stayed gone until one it just wandered back into my memory, along with my password. Mysterious thing, the mind.

Thanksgiving was very calm and lovely. Lilah Rose and I went to visit some of my cousins the week before and had such a nice time. We're always surrounded by Dano's family. It's lovely because we always feel like we belong to people. Much less frequently, Lilah gets to feel what it's like to belong to my family. It makes me happy to be able to share that with her. Despite the long car trip, she was well-behaved and on her most enchanting behavior - the mood that makes strangers want to have kids, as long as they're adorable, well-spoken, and practically curtsy with cuteness. I smile wearily when complimented about this mood. The wrinkles above my smile read very clearly, "Run! It's an act to lure you in!" I know I have a great kid, but she's crafty. She knows exactly when to pull those moods out of her back pocket.

Anyway, our visit went by too quickly. We just hung out, went to dinner, saw my aunt for about 15 minutes before she had to go, but we see her so rarely it was still really great. I kicked myself on the way home for not making it out that way more often. The drive seems longer than it is, and while I might be lacking more immediate family, my extended family is lovely and large. Almost makes up the difference, really.

The first week of December, I had some of the Drayton children over to make Christmas cookies and watch the Grinch. You know those magical holiday experiences you picture in your head that turn out to be something different entirely, but not bad? Yeah, it was one of those things. I'm so used to Lilah, who is calm and meticulous and curious but cautious. It's waaay different being around other kids. Among the many eye-opening experiences, one included the conversation at the table comparing tablets (Lilah being the only tablet-less child, it appeared) and another included the shock/horror that accompanied me pulling down our well-loved and dusty Grinch VHS and fielding an onslaught of questions about what it was, how it worked, and whether or not there were still games and special features after the movie. The kids were fun and adorable and really helped launch December into the true spirit of Christmas.

Normally, the month seems to careen impossibly fast to the 25th, then screech suddenly and horribly to a disappointing stop. This month, we meandered leisurely to Christmas. The preschool made care packages for the homeless, Lilah went toy shopping for needy children, she made homemade marshmallows with her cousins and baked cookies with her Auntie. We hosted an impromptu board game and cocktail night that proved to be an accidentally smashing success. We watched everything that could possibly count as a "Christmas movie". Lilah celebrated Hanukkah at the preschool with joy and vigor, as always. Every year, I joke she'll convert when she's old enough to decide what she wants to be. She decided this year, she'd let Santa come in the house as long as his reindeer waited outside. "I'm not having reindeer in this house!" I solemnly agreed to pass it along. Papa took Lilah and Sophia to see Frozen the day before Christmas Eve. Dano went along as another set of hands. I stayed home, baked, took a bath, and read a book. It tickled me to think of the two of them with the girls at a "princess movie" but I was told afterward it was heartwarming, funny, and "even though they still had tiny waistlines, it wasn't your typical princess movie", quoth my husband.

On Christmas Eve, we took snacks and drinks over to the Ball's and had our Christmas with them. Gifts were exchanged for the children and grandparents (no adults this year, and let me tell you what a blessed relief it was!). We ate, we drank, we watched the worst Christmas film on Earth (Santa Buddies). Papa presented Lilah with an actual trunk filled with all manner of dress-up paraphernalia from Frozen and a movie poster. Mellisa gave Lilah her first Barbie doll, looking sheepish and saying she was never sure about Barbies, but that one looked all right. We're very anti-Barbie, but this one was an astronaut and clothed head to toe, so we're good with it and Lilah adored it. The Balls gave Lilah the coveted item of the year, the only thing she really wanted for Christmas - a fluffy purple bathrobe. They also gave her a Letter Factory toy to help with phonics and things. Decked in flannel nightgown to match her baby doll and new robe, Kim commented that Lilah looked a little like my sister. Lilah gave her a wide-eyed stare of death and held her gaze for at least 90 seconds. We still can't figure out why.

On the way out the door, arms filled with Eloise and her new Barbie, I instructed a very sleepy Lilah in rain boots to carefully descend the two stairs to the landing, and not fall. She not only slipped and fell down the two stairs, she continued rolling down all of the basement stairs. Her shriek of surprise turned into genuine screams and I was down the stairs as fast as I could move, feeling sick and afraid when I saw her roll onto the floor. I did take the time to register that she'd curled all her limbs in and tucked her head down (she told me later it was to protect the dolls), and had simply tumbled down on her side. I hugged her for a second before laying her down on the basement floor to check bones and joints and head. I was so surprised and thankful that everything was in working order and she had only a slight scrape over the prominence of her spine to show for the experience. She was laughing again in minutes.  She didn't even bruise.

On Christmas morning, Lilah got out of bed around 8 and I was thankful yet again for a child who loved sleep as much as I did, remembering conspiring with my brothers every year to get up earlier and earlier. Dano handed out the presents as Lilah inspected the contents of her stocking. She got to opening, as did we. Dano didn't have many surprises, since his big gift was a drill set he wanted and I gave it to him early so he could do a few projects he wanted to get started on. I got some little things for the kitchen and house - placemats, candles, a new hand-mixer - the domestic things that excite me because I'm lame. I got incredible gray boots with buckles that can be knee-high or thigh-high depending on the way you wear them. Lilah spent the rest of the day slipping in and out of her new dress up items, playing with her new Town home and furniture for her animal families, playing Hi Ho Cherrio and Candyland, doing her new LaLaLoopsy puzzle, and just generally having an excellent day.

The day after Christmas, Lilah and I went to see Frozen again, for several reasons. 1) I wanted an excuse to wear my new boots. 2) Lilah wanted to see it again in character, choosing Elsa the Ice Queen with her white-blonde braid and pale skin instead of her fair, freckled, auburn-haired sister Princess Anna. 3) Lilah had been singing the songs from the movie, and I'd found out the royal sisters were played by Idina Menzel and Kristen Bell and I really wanted to see it. We went and had a marvelous time. Lilah covered her ears a bit during the singing (you can imagine the powerful voices, and Lilah has a little head cold) and shrieked in feigned terror during the scary bits as if she hadn't just seen it 48 hours before. The general public continually smiled warmly at her strutting around in costume, head held high, complete with blonde French braid and queenly nose in the air. She earned lots of nice compliments, some from delighted children who had seen the movie as well.

All in all, Christmas was and is lovely. I don't feel disappointed or let down. Just ready for the New Year, whatever that has to offer.

So put your little hand in mine...

As sort of a follow up from the last post, Lilah Rose went to her second week at dance class confident and excited to show "Miss Amanda" all the things she'd practised so hard and was now (somewhat) able to do. We got there and she was the opposite of the week before. She was excited and impatient to get into the studio. A little one from her class named Genevieve sidled hesitantly up to Lilah and admired her French braids (I'd tried two small ones on the sides pulled into a pony tail to keep the wisps at bay. Again, no luck). Then something happened I've been noticing more and more with these little 4 year old girls. Genevieve smiled at Lilah shyly and reached out, putting her small hand in Lilah's. Lilah burst into a sunshiny smile and they walked hand in hand into the studio when called. I see it at the preschool as well. It's such a small thing, reaching for the hand of a friend. But in watching it, these children sometimes barely know one another. They find some small common ground - a love of the color purple, a passion for playing dress up, both being the somewhat more uncoordinated members of a dance class - and they put themselves out there to be accepted or rejected. I've seen a hand get jerked away and the devastation on the child's face. Lilah has been the extender more than once to a new girl in class. The two now are inseparable, walking hand in hand down the halls until separated to form a single file line. But to see this little angel at dance class, having known Lilah an entire 45 minutes of her life, be brave enough to reach down and hold her hand, I'm not ashamed to say I had a misty-eyed moment. I wonder how many adults would show the same bravery to a near-stranger, showing empathy in such a way that one would make physical contact.

When in the studio, I could see Lilah excited to show off. To her very obvious dismay, they worked on another totally new dance that involved no jazz hands, dinosaurs, or tumbling, but lots of footwork and French terms. I had brought my knitting to occupy my mind and am ashamed to say I completed exactly 12 stitches (I can knit over 100 in several short minutes while watching television). The little ones were placed at the barre and given a routine, the instructor calling out the position names in French. The words are beautiful and I could see Lilah mouthing them. They were told to keep their eyes on an imaginary picture on the wall in front of them.

"Your picture can be your mom, your dad, your sister, your dog, whatever you like."

"My picture is of my baby brother. I don't have one yet but I will soon!" chirped my lying little daughter. Miss Amanda told her how nice that was, and the other mothers clucked their wordless congratulations to me while I turned scarlet and knitted exactly one stitch.

All in all, the class went well. I did mention to Miss Amanda (who had several times gently chided Lilah for not paying attention or not listening to instructions) that the preschool teacher, pediatricians, and I were all aware of some gross motor areas Lilah hadn't mastered, such as sitting "criss cross applesauce" as was required in ballet. Drayton Avenue always lets the children modify as ability dictates to sitting with their legs tucked neatly to one side, or sitting ankles crossed. Keenly aware that dance routines required uniformity, I didn't want them to think Lilah wasn't paying attention. She had spent the whole week practising only to find that her class was doing something totally different that week. Miss Amanda thanked us for telling her and encouraged lots of home practice until little legs learned to bend the way they should.

Again, I expected Lilah to rebel or say she didn't want to go back. If I'm being totally honest, I almost wished for it. It put my teeth on edge and stomach in knots to watch the girls get chosen in order of "Who can be the best at _____" and watch Lilah picked last every time. But my child was grinning and showing off her stamp. She was thrilled they'd practiced a dance that involved tiptoes (she walks on her tiptoes primarily when barefoot, as do I) and had gotten to wear glittery butterflies on her wrists. 

"And Mama, Genevieve held my hand. She's my friend." 

I know Lilah's shortcomings as well as her strengths. I'm not the mother blind to them or thinking my kid's the best at everything. I don't want her to be a champion dancer; I want her to exercise, broaden her horizons, meet different kinds of people, learn new things, have fun, perhaps not trip over her own feet while standing still. I know she crawled later than most babies, and walked at 18 months. She's clumsy and bruised all over from falling or tripping. She can't coordinate her body as fast as her brain goes, struggling to pedal but coordinating fine movements like threading and beading, following cooking directions perfectly or cutting ingredients as needed. She shows zero desire to learn by memorizing or flashcards, still refusing to name colors or shapes but correctly choosing when asked to grab a crayon of whatever color. She won't write or draw anything that looks like anything except (on a good day) her name, but she's pointing letters out of words in the books we read because she thinks it's a game and knows their sounds.

Dano and I have talked about it at length. The fact is, in some areas she excels and in some she's behind most children her age. But he pointed out the kids in her class who had a harder time separating from their moms but were incredible creative minds, or the kids who could print their names beautifully but had a hard time using nice words or sharing toys, or the kids who were awesome little people but still had days they refused or cried when chosen to be the "Helping Hand" of the day. 

"They're only 4 and I don't think Lilah has any more to work on than any of them." He's great like that, and we want to give her until she's 5 to let her body catch up to her brain before we worry too much.

I'm a nurse so words like "hypotonic" and "dyspraxic" are worrying into my brain. After lots of pep talks with myself, I've come to the conclusion that I can trust Lilah. I can trust her to tell me if dance class isn't fun, if she feels pressured too much, or like an outsider because all the other girls can do what she can't. Her doctors and teachers all assure me that she won't graduate from high school unable to  spell, write, read, or do math. I have a child who asks to go to the pet stores on adoption days. She's afraid of dogs, but she likes to sit in front of their crates and talk to them, tell them someone will come along to bring them home soon, that soon they'll have a family and a yard. She holds hands with the new kids in class and tells us she wants to be their friend. Lilah Rose can spot a bad day on someone's face from across a room. I see her face in the window when I pull up in the driveway and she knows what kind of day I've had as soon as our eyes meet. She befriended the sweet autistic boy next door.

"It's okay if he doesn't talk a lot. We can still play, and he smiles at me. I know what he wants." She's inviting him to trick or treat with her because the thought that he might not be able to say "Trick or treat" worried her that he might not get candy. In turn, his parents said he's more responsive and verbal to Lilah than any other child he's been around. She was so thankful for going trick or treating downtown today that she did a bunch of chores without being asked, saying things like, "It's my pleasure," or "I'd be honored to take care of that," (I don't even know where she gets these phrases). She's polite, compassionate, and sweet tempered. If she never gets any better at dance than she is today, but makes friends and has a wonderful time, I don't care. It's hard for me to the point of physical pain sometimes, but whatever she's doing, she's obviously doing it right.

Oh, and Dano told me dance class today went even better than the last two, with Lilah finally able to sit criss cross applesauce without help. She told me all about it and said she was a good listener and didn't need to ask for help. "I did a good job, but the bourrée turns were quite difficult. I'll need to practice them for next week."

The arm of the starfish

Seemingly overnight, our lives lately have been plunged into this bizarre world of having a kid. I know I've had one for 4 years, but up until now her life was just a tiny extension of ours. She went where we went, ate what we ate, and wore whatever we dressed her in. Now we have her in preschool, dance, we're in a babysitting co-op with other members or former members of her school, and in a few short months she begins violin lessons.

The weekend alone she's had 5 playdates and dance class. I'm overjoyed that she's so social, but it's left her dad and I a little bewildered. The babysitting co-op is a fantastic invention. Each family has a pool of hours that they trade back and forth as they watch other sets of kids or trade away their own so the parents can have lives. They do home visits and each family is vetted before joining. Lilah is always really good at other people's houses. It's at our house she struggles sometimes, in her space with her toys she has a harder time sharing and wants it all to go her own way. I like watching her work things out and it's good for the occasional disappointment to flicker across her face when she doesn't get her own way.

Dance class was interesting. I felt this choking feeling in the back of my throat seeing her dressed in her little costume, identical to all the other little girls in black leather shoes and black tights and leotards. Her hair was braided into a crown pinned to her head in an (unsuccessful) attempt to keep the blonde wisps out of her eyes. Before we went in, her teacher Miss Amanda introduced herself and talked a bit to her. Lilah was uncharacteristically shy and quiet, not leaving my lap and taking deep yoga breaths to keep calm. She told me under her breath that she was very nervous. Once in the classroom, she barely spoke, keenly observing the teacher and the other little girls doing their moves and stretches. About half-way through she started to follow along. She was wooden and unsure, but smiley by the end and starting to get into it more. I really like the class. It's a combination class, ballet/jazz/tumbling. They're learning a Dinosaur Dance, starting like baby dinosaurs in eggs on the floor and ending with walking giant invisible dinosaurs around the room. There's some sort of butterfly dance as well. They walked like bears, slithered like snakes, and did somersaults. Lilah hadn't done any of it before and didn't know how to get her body to listen to her mind (this is a major issue for her in her daily life as it is). In addition to movement, they were taught to greet their teacher by name, and end class with saying goodbye to her formally in a line of tiny black-clad bodies. Accepting compliments and awards graciously and being a polite observer of other performers are also parts of the lessons. For performances, the girls wear the exact same outfits they practice in with the addition of a simple peacock blue skirt. It's very low key and while they do perform twice a year, there aren't any show-costumes or makeup put on the girls.

I was afraid Lilah would refuse to go back. I caught her looking vexed several times during class, or dropping her head to her hands to breathe deeply if she was overwhelmed. I wanted to go to her, encourage her, but the parents aren't allowed to interact with the students. In the studio, the instructors rule alone. No cell phones, food, talking, or other children are allowed. Surprisingly, at the end of the class when they were formally dismissed (each girl receiving a stamp on their hands for attending and participating), she ran to me and hugged me, eyes bright and big smile, begging to come back next week. As soon as we got home, she dragged out my yoga mat and has been practicing all of the things she saw but couldn't do. In under 24 hours, she's already able to do almost everything they went over in class. I couldn't believe how excited she was. From watching her, I'd have thought she was just intimidated and overwhelmed, but I can see now she was observing and cataloguing everything that was being done so she could try them on her own.

It's so strange for me, transporting her to preschool, dance, a friend's house for a movie night. She has a life of her own that has absolutely nothing to do with me. I felt like a starfish before, several branches from my body that were a part of me but moved independently - my life, Dano's, Lilah's. But now hers feels severed somehow. She dresses herself, has her own opinions about food, activities, and friends. It isn't a bad feeling. In fact, I'm overjoyed that somehow we've managed to equip her well for her own life out in the world. She handles new situations without separation anxiety and she has several tools for  dealing with her anxieties, observing quietly and yoga breathing, using her words when friends make her mad or don't play "her" way. Everything I worry about for her - kindergarten, her first overnight at a friend's house - she's proving herself everyday to be such a capable little one. She feels safe enough to act out with Dano and I because she knows we'll love her always and she can try out new or naughty things and gauge our reactions. Around other children and adults she handles herself like the sweet, polite, smart girl I know she is.

I caught her and hugged her the other day, telling her with a kiss on the head that she looked and behaved like a grown-up lady these days. She kissed me back.
"Yeah, but I'll always your little baby."

A hard week

The goal: to complete this entry without crying. This past week has been...trying. I'm only going to recount the ending of it, since some of the beginning is more personal in nature. Suffice it to say that my nerves were worn to a thread by about...Wednesday. I was just taking it one hour at a time until 5pm Friday rolled around. The office is undergoing some major renovations, the nurses moving from one part of the suite into the new space. I was excited about the change (especially because I got my very own space, not shared with a soul) but it also meant upheval. No phones, lots of dust and workers, confused or inconvenienced patients, and at one point I even threw my computer mouse into a bin in frustration, only to have to retrieve it again when I couldn't find another (and falling into the bin in the process).

Thursday afternoon seemed to crawl. I arranged and rearranged my new desk, trying to find which position I liked best for my computer monitor. That was difficult since it powered down every time I moved it slightly. I got a text from Dano around 3pm that threw my entire afternoon into disarray.

"Lilah wrecked two of the library books you got." Rewind two weeks. After a nap she'd been reluctant to take, I went to wake her only to find a pile of confetti where a book Max gave her had been, and a daughter in bed with an uneasy smile on her face. Of course I was horrified. Whatever look was on my face said something to her, since the smirk faded and tears filled her eyes.

"Lilah! What have you done?" She started sobbing that she'd torn up the book. I could not even fathom why. I was more stern then I ever have been. This wasn't talking back, or striking out in impulse. This was destroying a book. I honestly couldn't think of anything worse she could do. It wasn't in her to be malicious or destructive. I couldn't understand. I marched her out of bed and made her call her uncle and tell him what she'd done. She barely could, choking on her own tears. I heard him say through the phone that it was all right. I knew he was being nice to her, but I wished he'd been a little harsher. She hung up the phone and cried in my arms. We talked about how special books were, how important they were, even ones we didn't like, even ones we didn't agree with. Books deserved respect and care, and she promised she'd never hurt another book again.

"Lilah wrecked two of the library books you got." After getting the entire story, Lilah had torn the pages out of two of the gardening books we'd gotten. We spent awhile every night looking through them and making plans for Spring. She hadn't colored in them or torn a favorite page out to take to bed with her (that's happened before). She shredded them. Her reasoning was that the cat had been scratching at her things again. She'd been furious at the cat all day, and had apparently reached her limit while she'd been perusing the books in the basement (the cat has been unusually mischievous lately). We asked her a hundred different ways and her story was the same. Dano had been afraid of how mad he felt. He'd sent her to her room because he couldn't even look at her. When I got home, she tentatively peeked around the corner. I saw the look on her face: shame and curiosity. I started to cry. I sat on the couch and just cried and cried. I couldn't wrap my head around it. My daughter had destroyed someone else's property, a library book, ones she and I had spent hours cuddling and reading together. It wasn't because she'd been screamed at or beaten. It was because she was frustrated with the cat. Lilah cried, I cried, Dano just fumed and went to work.

Her punishments were harsh. Every book was removed from her room while she cried over them. She took all the money from her piggy bank (she'd been working extra hard lately for a family of pigs for her doll house) and put it in a bag. She had a meeting with the Head of Circulation at the library the next day. She would have to tell her what she'd done and pay for the books. She wasn't allowed in the playroom unsupervised (this for a child who values independent play) and she wasn't allowed to be behind any closed doors. She played listlessly when at all. She spent the hour it took me to prepare dinner sitting at the kitchen table placing the pages, including the tiny pieces, back in the book covers. She did it without complaining, only remarked a few times how hard it was. I fed her dinner and pushed mine around my plate. I felt sick, disappointed, angry. Lilah tried to make gentle conversation and I responded in a monotone. I couldn't even look at her. When I did, she'd smile. When I couldn't smile back, worry flickered across her face and she'd drop her gaze to her food again.

"I wish you'd smile, Mama."
"Baby, I can't smile. I just feel so sick."
"You could eat your noodles. You could take medicine to feel better."
"Medicine won't help this time. I'm just so sad about those books, and so confused why you'd hurt them. It'll take time for me to feel better again." She sighed and replied in barely a whisper.
"I understand." After dinner, she asked to watch Peppa Pig. I told her absolutely not. She asked to read a book. I told her she'd lost her books. She asked to play in her kitchen. I told her I had to clean up after dinner and I didn't trust her on her own downstairs. She sighed again and sat down on the kitchen floor, comforting her doll. After I cleaned up dinner, I put her in the bath. It was a pretty quiet bath. Body and teeth cleaned, hair brushed, in pajamas, and wrapped up in her blanket, she tentatively approached me on the couch. Tears still slipped out of my eyes. She patted my cheek and climbed into my lap. She asked me to tell her a story instead. I told her the first one that came to mind - the Japanese folktale of the Crane Wife. She liked it, but not the ending. I sang her the Crane Wife 1, 2, and 3 by Colin Meloy. She got sleepy and I put her to bed.

Desperate for some guidance, I'd asked one of the doctors to call me. She did, even though I had totally forgotten it was Yom Kippur. She still took the time, which I appreciated more than she knew. I poured out the whole story, asking after I'd finished, "Is she a sociopath? Who destroys books?" She scoffed at me and hushed me, saying she was testing us and pushing for control. She'd wanted drama, and had gotten drama. "We didn't scream at her or hit her or anything. I'm just so unbelievably disappointed."
"That's good. It can actually have a harder hitting effect if they see your disappointment rather than hearing a bunch of yelling. They just tune that out after awhile. It sounds like you handled it perfectly, and she is not a sociopath. She's a 4 year old. She's seeing lots of new situations and personalities at school. She'll try some out, or some will just confuse her and she'll act out. Who knows the real reason she did it. But don't draw it out. After the library tomorrow, let it be done. If you keep on punishing her, it will lose it's effect. I tell parents to start a ticket jar. Either tickets for every bad thing, or tickets for every good one. You make it very visible, and you could make each ticket equal a book. Every time she does something good, she gets a ticket back. Make her earn them back and work hard for them. She'll value them more that way. And my son's kindergarten teacher is teaching them all about books. Not about content, but how to take care of them, why to respect them. That will come, and this is a lesson that will stick with her. Trust me, she's not a sociopath. Actually, I'm glad this is your problem. You had me worried. Your problem is just that you have a perfect kid. When our amazing, well-behaved firstborns act out, it's devastating. If my younger one did the same thing, I'd shrug it off. So relax. Have a glass of wine. Have two. She's going to be all right."

I slipped into Lilah's room before going to bed as I often do, to kiss her forehead and arrange her covers. Only this time, her sheets were in an angry tangle over her head (they never had been before). I uncovered her and her eyes were wide open underneath.
"What are you doing, little bird?" She wouldn't look at me.
"Hiding." I pulled her sheets down. "Mama, I'm cold." I pulled her knitted blankets and comforter off the floor and tucked her in. "Mama, will you smile tomorrow?" I kissed her.
"Maybe tomorrow, love. Goodnight."

I had a glass of wine. I had two. It didn't stop the tears that night. I couldn't help but feel if I'd had some more guidance, some more training, a better example, this wouldn't have happened. There was this incredible ache and empty feeling in my chest. I had my phone in my hand, poised to dial a number I didn't have. I needed to lay my head in someone's lap and cry my heart out while they stroked my hair, the way I'd stroked Lilah's that night. But there wasn't anybody. And that aching feeling throbbed until I fell asleep. That feeling didn't come often. During labor was the last time I remembered feeling it that strongly. But I felt it then, and I felt it hard. Still, it didn't matter how painful or insistent the feeling. I fell asleep and woke up with it still there, although it's lessened every day, like it always does.

Lilah went to the library the next day with Dano. Kelly, the Head of Circulation, solemnly took her money the way she'd promised me she would, then sneaked it back into Dano's backpack without her seeing. Dano slipped her a check, since the cost of the books was far greater than the contents of a small pink piggy bank. Lilah thinks she paid for them, and that's all that mattered. Kelly told Lilah about the importance of taking care of books and protecting them, and thanked Lilah for taking responsibility for what she did. Lilah recounted the trip back to me that night at dinner, and I told her I was proud of her as well. She said she'd never hurt another book. I hope she won't. We've had nothing but sunshiny days since then. Lilah's earned back five or so books, and she's been overjoyed about each one. She keeps the tickets under her pillow and arranges each book carefully on her naked shelf. The head nurse at work assures me these are the lessons that stick and we did the right thing. I'm sure that's true. It just doesn't make it any easier.

Kingsblood, Jeanne d'Arc, War Chief, and other friends

The past weeks we have kept busy here at the Bird Nest. The interior being free of major projects, I've been spending my time in the many gardens and knitting things for winter. Lilah Rose has kept busy as well, checking gardening books out from the library and plotting out all the beds she'd like to see in the yard. She's had multiple playdates and picnics. School starts Tuesday. I'm not at all nervous this year since she did so well last year. She missed her little friends and teachers desperately all summer and can't wait to get back in the swing of things.

With the beginnings of the 4 year preschool class looming, I'm swallowing my kindergarten fears for now and focussing on all the lovely things happening at the moment.

The housewarming was successful and wonderful. I got to spend the afternoon with some of my favorite people in the world. It was nice to show off our hard work to people who haven't been there every step of the way. All the effort is worth it now that we have a house and yard to enjoy.

This weekend, our goal was to put in our fire pit. We went to Home Depot before Dano had to work and looked at the bricks and pavers we plan to use. The most expensive pieces happened to be half off, so that was a plus. Husband fussed over the weight of the items in the Versa and went on about snapped axels, so we only got some of the materials and will pick up the rest when he's done with his shift.

After we left him, Lilah and I went over to Old Navy. I'd promised Lilah a new dress for her first day of school. They were having some sort of safety awareness day, so there were police cars, fire trucks, and an ambulance outside. Lilah spotted balloons inside and asked for one. I told her it would depend on if she were a good listener and well behaved while shopping (we've had a few fits and bad listening episodes while shopping lately). She promised she would be both (she always does). We went immediately to the little girl dress section and I pulled a few styles out and held them up to her, debating between 4T and 5T. She looked from dress to dress and heaved a sigh.

"What's wrong?"
"Well, those aren't my choice." She's very into choices right now.
"I didn't say you had to choose these dresses. I'm just looking at sizes. But you honestly don't like either one of these?" I'd thought they were both very cute. One was magenta and one was navy, both polka dotted with little belts at the waist.
"No thank you." I put them back. She darted over to another section, and I pulled down a few more to hold up. "Um, no, no, and no." Oh, shopping with opinions. We moved on and I pulled down one dress absent-mindedly, then reached for a few more. Lilah grabbed the one I was holding and held it up to herself. "Yes, this is the one. This is my choice."
"Well, it is very nice. I like the colors and the flowers. But don't you want to keep that as a maybe and look at more dresses? This one is very nice." I held up a pink one with eyelet lace.
"That one is, well..."
"What? I think it's lovely."
"It's a bit boring." A catchphrase learned from Peppa Pig, may she be roasted in a pan with an apple in her mouth. The dress was simple, but it was pretty. The one she was holding was silky and deep purple with splashy bright flowers in pink and orange. She had snatched up a pair of shiny gold sandals to match. The outfit was very stylish. Nothing I'd have ever chosen, but all the colors worked well together.
"Okay, sweetheart. You can choose that dress." After a few ill-fated attempts at tempting her with dresses I liked better, we checked out with the dress and the shoes.
"May I have a balloon? I was a good listener." I asked the cashier for a balloon. She laughed.
"Yes of course. Orange or purple?"
"Purple, please." She was handed a purple balloon. "Thank you very much." Someone commented about her polite behavior and she beamed.
"Would you like your receipt with you, or in the bag?" The question was directed at me, but Lilah answered for me.
"Bag please. May I hold my new dress?"
"Of course. What lovely manners."
"Thank you very much." I could see the fear of having her balloon taken away etched between the lines of her good behavior. Being safety awareness day, she also left with a sticker and a Reese's cup. She was very happy.

We moved on to English Gardens to buy our Spring bulbs. We'd gotten a gift card for our housewarming and someone was itching to spend it. We traipsed through the rain, me pausing in the deluge to gaze wistfully at pricey hydrangeas while Lilah tugged at me and said those weren't for us, and that she didn't love shrubs.

We made our way to the bulb section, and everything was labeled with large pictures. There were bags of multiple bulbs as well as bins of individual bulbs. Lilah insisted we get a basket and started asking the names of things she liked the look of. She spotted something before I did.
"ALLIUM!!!" She snatched a bag of Allium bulbs, each one as big as a softball. Nearly 3 feet high when full grown, I tried to talk her out of them. Just like the school dress, she had her own opinions about this garden. She had a gift card in her purse and she was doing it her way. She wavered between white and yellow Narcissus, finally choosing a delicate yellow variety. She asked to see all the different crocus colors, having trouble deciding. She found one that was tricolor - yellow, white, and purple. Problem solved. I offered a few suggestions but Lilah Rose Marie had garden visions I couldn't interfere with.

She popped in some different colored single bulbs, then chose some tall, blood-red bearded irises called War Chiefs and a variety of tulips in matching color called Kingsblood. Looking at the photos on the packages, she worried there wasn't enough white in the tricolor crocuses, so chose a bright white called Jeanne d'Arc. Last, she swooned over delicate, frilly pink tulips called Angelique. I looked over the names of all the bulbs, laughing to myself that it sounded like a a war between fine French ladies and Game of Thrones villains. But again, just like the dress, together they made a unique blend of colors, heights, and textures in the best taste imaginable.

We stopped Sonic for hotdogs and slushes on the way home and I let Lilah sit up front with me. We chatted about all sorts of things, and I reveled in this sweet time of our lives where we could shop, talk, work, and laugh. On the way home (and safely back in her booster), she chattered happily about how we'd plant the flowers when we got home. I told her that if the rain had turned the soil too muddy, it would be a bad idea. I could see her start to fuss, but she swallowed a protest and nodded.

"I wouldn't want to hurt my bulbs. We should wait until the soil is better." She was growing up so much every day, maturing before my eyes into such a little lady. At home, the soil was in great shape after all. Loose and moist, but not muddy. I was looking at the packages and arranging them in my head. Lilah tore open the packages and dumped them into a large wicker basket. Even then, I started to sort the large bulbs from the small crocuses and Narcissus. Lilah gently took them out of my hands and shook the basket up, taking one at a time, hopping to a random place in the garden, and digging a hole for the bulb. I consoled myself with the fact that the entire front yard was full-sun, and that I had taught her to place them the right way in the hole, cover them with soil, and that she was digging deeper holes for the larger bulbs (I had to do the Allium). She talked to the bulbs as she planted them, making sure each was comfortable before burying it and singing sweetly,
"See you in the Springtime!" We went inside covered in mud, but happy. After a warm shower and some tequila lime chicken, we snuggled and watched some TV. I even conceded an episode of Peppa after the great day we'd had.

Just taking a breather

I don't have anything too earth-shattering to report lately. Since my last post (as most people know) we bought a cute little house in Ferndale. We've spent the better part of the last two months on our sweet little abode. I haven't been the most hands-on mother this summer. I'm sure Lilah's watched more than one movie or show a day some days, and we ate out way more than we normally do. I let guilt eat at me at first, before realizing how huge it was that we were trying to make our first family home together. It took sacrifices from everyone. Lilah didn't get as much playtime with us. I didn't get relaxing evenings to knit and watch Downton Abbey reruns. Dano didn't get quiet hours to write. There was always one more wall to paint, one more light fixture to put up, one more surface to caulk.

Slowly it's coming together. Our bedroom still isn't painted because this wretched heat wave set in while the beadboard in the bathroom was only half done and our bedroom was still in the baby planning stages of choosing colors (peacock blue). One major revelation during this time was the discovery and inevitable renouncement of Pinterest. Some girls at work turned me on to the site. During the long weeks of waiting and hoping during the home-buying process, I would spend long hours at night on Pinterest, keeping my anxieties at bay by designing the perfect space using photos I had of the home and pins I found. I was super organized, one board for each room of the house. I couldn't wait to get keys. I had grand fantasies of a house that looked like it had been featured on an episode of Extreme Home Makeover. Getting into the house was another story entirely.

I went pin by pin, pulling up things I'd pinned for later, never having really looked too closely at them. Just pinning and moving on to more domestic porn. Slowly I found that, pin by pin, none of them were working out the way I wanted. Dano and I painted and detailed the bones of the house from waking to sleeping between jobs. Barely resting, hardly eating some days. When the time came to activate a pin into reality, pin by pin they failed me. The beautiful birch wall pin I'd swooned over? One click took me to a site where I could purchase the decals for over 70 dollars a tree. The trees you see on my wall now were angrily painted on by hand, me cursing Pinterest all the while. The rolling hills and jaunty tree in Lilah's room - same story. No instructions, no tips for the actual execution. Just a pin and hundreds of comments about how adorable the picture was. I was left to wing it, and while I have quite the eye for the details of life, I am no artist. At times, the process was so frustrating to me I would just sit down and cry. Lilah would cry next to me (out of sympathy, or maybe just jealousy someone else was getting attention), and Dano would about lose his damn mind calming the two of us down (he usually just went out and bought us ice cream or chocolate. Wise man). The pegboard wall I'd fallen in love with had no instructions for putting it up, so Dano had to buy it, build and mount a frame for it, and spend almost a week finding the right hooks for the thing. My beautiful Pinterest kitchen fell into ruin and from the proverbial ashes rose my adorable kitchen in its place. The bathroom pins proved to be a disaster as well. None of the pins worked for the space and the ones that did didn't have instructions. We took to winging it. I would go to work with plans for a certain room for the evening and come home to find that Dano had worked off a different vision and finished the room another way entirely. The plastic rain-gutter bookshelves for Lilah's bedroom were supposed to be one of the easiest projects on my list. 4 days of effort and frustration had them mounted to the wall, but so flimsy even a single book fell out of them as soon as it was placed inside. I was heartbroken but I took them down and chose a sturdy blue bookcase that used to belong to Uncle Max instead. While not as adorable as books in a rain-gutter, much more practical and easy to bring to fruition.

All our mistakes and modifications made 700 Farmdale into our home. Our sweet little Bird's Nest isn't a Pinterest House or an Extreme Home Makeover House. It's ours. I can point out every flaw, but with the same affection I'd point out a freckle on Lilah's cheek. The flaws ended up making the home. I'm still bitter with Pinterest. American mothers have enough competition and judgement to deal with these days. Breast or bottle fed? Natural childbirth or C-section? Organic or not? Homemade or takeout? Whose kid learned their letters and numbers the fastest? Tiger parenting or attachment? Cry it out or not? Maybe it's like this everywhere, but anywhere I go as a mother, I feel the eyes of the other mothers judging me. I'm winging it the best I know how, but raising Lilah has been exactly like every Pinterest fail I've tried. What makes sense on paper proves to be wildly ineffective in practice. I never anticipated loving a little girl so much who would sit on my lap for half an hour stroking my cheek and telling me how happy she was that I was her mom, and how she thought I was wonderful. That same child says things like, "I'll always be your child, you know," and helps me pick herbs from outside for dinner. She asks for triple helpings of baba ghanoush. She might be color blind from the lack of interest she's shown in flashcards. She quotes entire monologues from books or films; she knows the Doctor Who canon by heart and puts off bedtime for an hour asking me how a tesseract works. There wasn't a book or website or parenting "style" in the world that could have prepared me for how much I'd actually love her, or how hard it would be to raise her. The house is like that too, and it just makes me love it more for all that.

Even hard ones

So this weekend marked the asking of the question I've been dreading since the day I gave birth. Dano and I had talked, argued, and cried (well, I did anyway) over the right way to answer it. I mostly lived in denial it would even occur before Lilah was at least 5 or 6. True to form, she did it at her own pace.

Lilah's been fascinated with her origin lately. Asking hundreds of questions and cross-examining every answer. She was being funny while grocery shopping the other day and I said, "Where did you come from?"
"Oh, my daddy made me. He did something with his wife and made me." I let it go at that. If she wasn't asking for details, I wasn't offering. She knows it takes a mommy and a daddy to make a new baby, and that they come home from the hospital with it.

One evening this weekend while Dano was at work, she was grilling me on past generations. She had asked my father-in-law the previous weekend about who his parents were and where they were now (both dead). She grasps only that when something or someone dies, it goes away and never comes back. She asked me about my mother-in-law's parents while we were having dinner on the porch.

"Who is my Grannie's daddy?"
"His name was Leo. He was a chef. He died before you were born, when Daddy was just a little boy."
"And Grannie's mother?"
"It's Grandma Shirley. Auntie Kate's mother."
"Married to Grandpa Rodger. Grandpa Rodger's wife." I nodded. She fretted. "But is Grandpa Rodger Grannie's daddy now?" I groaned inwardly.
"He is her step-daddy." She was confused. "He acts like her daddy and loves her like a daddy, but he wasn't the one who made her. You only get one mother and one daddy." She nodded slowly.
"So Grandpa Rodger is her pretend daddy."
"Well, he loves her. Love isn't pretend."
"But she's not his real daughter."
"No, love, she isn't." Silence. Tiny wheels turning in her mind and more questions written on her face.
"Her real daddy died. That's why he's gone." I nodded. "Did your mommy die?" I felt color drain out of my cheeks and I dropped my eyes. I couldn't meet her clear, innocent blue ones. She'd just touched a raw nerve.
"Look, Lilah." I pointed out some bird in the yard (we had been bird-watching before the conversation had turned existential). I pitied Queen Esther at the feet of Xerxes, courage failing her, inviting him to a banquet rather than begging for her life and the life of her people. I blinked and my mind traveled back to Christmas. Tia had emailed asking permission to purchase Christmas gifts for Lilah, telling me we could just give them to her without telling her where they came from. I had taken a long time to contemplate my response, and had chosen to reply to the email candidly.

"It isn't appropriate to leapfrog over broken relationships in order to attempt a good one." It was difficult for me to be open and vulnerable when speaking to someone who specialized in hiding her own emotions, never showing weakness and coveting control. Shame was a tool used to achieve that control. By openly and proudly displaying how I felt, it was control I took back. "I was terrified when I found out I was having a daughter. I was terrified I wouldn't be able to love her, be there for her, or be the mother she needed me to be...It makes me sad for you that you might be feeling the weight of what you're missing. Even if you gave her things anonymously, I'd have to lie to her about where they came from and I won't do that. She's too clever and I have a responsibility to always tell her the truth, even hard ones. I know I'll yell at her, say things I don't mean, make big mistakes, and mess up. But I know that at the root of our relationship is healthy, unconditional love. I want better for her than I had. I want her to be better, prettier, more successful, more confident than me. I want you to be happy too....I'm not angry or bitter. I want you to be as healthy and happy as I am and I hope you can be."

"Did she die?" I swallowed hard.
"No. No, she didn't die."
"Then where is she?" Tell the truth. You have to tell the truth.
"She...when I was younger...she decided she didn't want to be my mother anymore." She sidled up to me and put her hand on my knee. "Some parents have children they don't know how to take care of. They don't know how to love them. Sometimes, parents leave and decide not to be parents anymore."
"She left you? She stopped being your mother?"
"Yes, she did stop. She stopped a long time ago, little one."
"And you left?" I nodded. "Where did you go?"
"Out into the world. I went looking for people who did want me, and did love me. And I found a new family who will never stop loving me."
"Me and Daddy?" She went from sober to cheerful. I tapped her nose.
"Yes, my love. You and Daddy. And Grannie and Grandpa, Auntie Kim and Uncle Adam, your cousins, Uncle Max, Uncle Nick, our friends. They won't leave. They'll never stop being family."
"Did you find another mother?" I smiled sadly at her.
"No, sweetheart. You only get one mother in this life. And only one daddy. The important part, love, is that I will never leave. I will never stop loving you. I will never stop being your mother. I'll never leave you alone." She kissed me and moved on to questions about how boys pee if they don't have vaginas.

I thought it was done. But every day since then, Lilah has gotten up 5-10 minutes before my alarm. I wake up to the familiar thud-swish-thud of her coming down the stairs, dragging her blanket behind her. She crawls over her dad and into my arms. She covers her body and part of mine with her blanket and snuggles close. When she's right up next to my ear, she whispers some version of the same thing, every morning.
"You'll never stop loving me. You'll never leave me alone." When I get home from work. Same thing. "Your mother didn't want to be your mama anymore. But you'll never leave me alone." This morning I was getting dressed and trying to get out the door. "Wait, wait! I need to tell you something!" I tried not to feel impatient but she's an expert at stalling me.
"Okay sweetheart. One more thing."
"I have to tell you a story."
"Only if it's a fast one."
"Okay, okay. Once, there was a little bird. The little bird's mother bird didn't know how to be a good mama. So the little bird left and went out to find another mother. And the little bird was happy, but the mother bird was sad. Because the little bird was gone. The end." I just stared at her. "The end."

The preoccupation seems cruel and unhealthy to me. I've second-guessed myself every day since I told her. I introduced into her universe a concept that, if it were up to me, I'd have hidden from her forever - sometimes people we love leave. Sometimes the people you want to love you more than anyone else aren't capable of giving you the love you need. Dano says that if nothing else, my relationship with Lilah will be stronger because she'll see that I chose to stay and I chose to love her, no matter what. She'll know that I told her the truth, even hard ones. Sometimes little birds do have to go out into the world to find someone to love them. Just not my little bird. She'll always find love at home. She might not always want it. She might not even always need it. But it will be here, nonetheless. Always.

Rocky Road

Life has been ambling along. Mostly good, sometime not so good. Lots of stressful things we've been trying to take in stride. Lilah wavers between angel and demon on any given day. I could go on about her good points for days. Her bad points are few and far between; it's just hard to remember that when they're happening. Those times, it seems like her personal mission is to drive us to early graves. She can wake up feeling crabby "just because" and swat our hands away when we stroke her hair or snap at us when we say good morning. I try to remind myself that there are days I wake up mad at Dano for things he did in a dream, or days of the month where my attitude is way out of line, and I shouldn't hold Lilah to a higher standard than I hold myself.

I have noticed two things though. One, she reacts strongly to the emotional atmosphere of the house. Two, she always has a reason (in her mind) for the way she feels. Today was no exception.

Dano had left the house upset over something last night. As soon as he closed the door behind him, Lilah ran to me and burst into tears, burying her head in my lap. He hadn't left shouting or breaking dishes against the wall. He was just clearly frustrated and had a lot of restrained anger in his voice when he said good-bye. There was nothing particularly dramatic going on. It didn't stop Lilah from wailing for a full ten minutes, asking what was wrong with her daddy and when he would be back. We always try to explain things to her as best we can in terms she can understand.

"Sweetheart, sometimes the hardest things for grown-ups to do is to talk about how they feel and tell the truth. It's especially hard for Daddy to just say what's bothering him instead of keeping it inside his body. If he keeps it inside, it hurts him and he gets angry."

"He should just say that he's feeling upset. He should take yoga breaths."

"Yoga breaths don't help everyone, little bird."

"They help me."

Today we were still sorting out the leftovers from the night before. By no means are Dano and I the ideal couple, and we get in plenty of fights where one or both of us don't play fair. I can say, though, that for the most part our disagreements are pretty civil and above-board. Those types we sort out in front of Lilah. I want her to see adults fight, hash it out, disagree, and still love each other at the end of the day. There are too many conflicts that go on loudly behind closed doors. There are too many "No, there's nothing wrong," conversations. I want her to learn to be frank and open, not sneaky and passive aggressive. It's a tall order in a house full of sarcasm and a world full of backbiting. 

We were at Panera eating lunch before Dano went to work, still discussing things from last night. Emotions were escalating (as much as they can in Panera). He was saying something and I was tuning out, looking around at a 2 year old slapping his mother because she took her Pepsi away from him (she promptly gave it back when he slapped her). There was an enormous black man having lunch with a petite woman that could have been his daughter (by enormous, I mean towering, broad-shouldered, and wearing a beret. Somehow that made him seem even larger. Or maybe it was the fact he was hunched comically over a tiny bowl of salad). I looked back at Dano as he scowled and accused me of not listening to what he was saying.

"No, I was too," I lied. We got more heated until hushed comments were coming out more like hisses. Dano got up from the table and grabbed his coat. I tried to stop him. "Don't go to work mad. I'll feel awful all day." He shook his head.

"You might deserve it." The room swam and my eyes filled with tears. I took deep breaths to avoid the mortification of crying in public. Lilah had been involved in the discussion the entire time, asking questions about why we were feeling a certain way or another. He came back over and looked contrite. He finished the conversation with a kinder tone and didn't once glance at his phone to check the time even though I knew it was getting late. I admitted I hadn't been listening as well as I should have, and had messed things up the night before but had only been trying to help. He conceded that he would try harder to make me feel like he was on my side and that he knew my heart had been in the right place. The tense lines around Lilah's face relaxed and she smiled calmly. Dano kissed me and went to work. He left and Lilah recited one of her favorite lines from Spirited Away.

"Aww, that's love for you." I laughed and we talked about other things for a moment. The man in the beret took his tray to the garbage, then came over to me, looming there. 

"I was going to come say something, but I was waiting for him to leave." A hundred thoughts ran through my head. Maybe he was going to say we shouldn't have argued (however quietly) in public. Maybe he thought we were awful for disagreeing in front of a child. Maybe he'd overheard our earlier conversation where Dano had described how Lilah had spent the whole morning bawling because she thought I hadn't said goodbye to her before going to work (I had, she just didn't hear) and thought we were bad parents for talking about her in front of her. Maybe (thought the vindictive part of me) he was going to tell me he'd been eavesdropping and he thought I was totally in the right and Dano should have been much sweeter to me. My whole body tensed up to brace myself for whatever this massive man had to say, fully aware he was easily 3 times my size and if he admonished me in any way, I would probably cry. "I teach middle school, and my sister here teaches kindergarten.We see a lot of kids come through the schools and can always tell what kind of parents they have based on how they behave." Here it comes, I thought. He's going to criticize our parenting and I'm going to have to lose my shit at him. Maybe I should direct him toward the slapping 2 year old. "The parents who were involved from the time the kids were tiny, those are always the best, smartest, happiest kids by the time they get to me. We can always tell the parents that don't care. Just...keep doing everything you're doing." All the tension had melted from my body, the critique I had braced for had never come. "She looks like she's got a lot of fight in her, and I can tell she gets that from you." I laughed, maybe a little bitterly.

"Poor her. But thank you so much." He laughed and tipped his beret at me. They packed up and left.

I had to recount his every word to Lilah Rose, with a line-by-line breakdown of what everything meant. Only when she had received an explanation to her liking and had digested everything, she let me wash her hands and face and get ready to leave. I left feeling like we were on the right track. Our foundation was solid, no matter what bumps we hit.

Birthday, Take 2

So this post being the actual account of the party itself. I was fully prepared, table set, doing great at 3 in the afternoon. I had a few calls from a mom who had decided to keep her twins home because they were running fevers (the entire class had coughs and runny noses, but fevers are the maternal line in the sand - you can't in good conscience send your child to an event with a fever. You can't be "that mom"). She told me they had gone from "Party party party!" to glassy-eyed and passed-out asleep in a matter of hours. I had another call asking for directions since her kids had "played the invitation to death" (they were tiny toadstools). It was 3:45 and I was searching the house high and low for my husband. I even looked in the garage. Lilah was trailing behind me saying, "Mama. Mama. Mother. Mother. MOTHER!" I spun around.

"What?!"
"Daddy isn't here."
"Of course he is."
"No he isn't. He went with Rob to buy beer." I stared at her, probably mouth gaping. "To drink." No words. "At my party." I was going to kill him. Brutally. I called him to confirm that Lilah had gotten it wrong.
"It wasn't supposed to take very long! Rob is taking forever!" I unleashed a barrage of words and hung up. There were people knocking at my door. Lilah took my hand in her small one.
"Why are you taking yoga breaths, Mama?" I smiled at her and slowed my breathing to a pace that wouldn't lead me to hyperventilate.

Dano got home mere moments before anyone arrived and helped me take coats and boots and hand out wings and hats to the merry partygoers. The children were led to the snack table where they cast cursory glances about the items, poked at the hard boiled eggs I had painstakingly fashioned into owls ("Hey look! Egg-monsters!") and dumped out the one toy box I had left out for that very purpose.

One little winged girl stayed with me at the craft table to make a birdhouse. We had 9 little houses painted with green chalkboard paint and piles of moss, river rocks, ribbons, and leaves to decorate their fairy houses to take home.

The fathers accompanying their children had faces that went from (what I perceived to be) mild dejection at spending a Sunday afternoon at a 4 year old's party to surprised delight when handed a beer and ushered to a table heavy-laden with snacks. I did have to shoo the birthday girl away from the bowl of tortilla chips after I caught her dipping them in hummus, taking a bite, and replacing the chip in the bowl. The kids tore up to Lilah's room where they saw the corner "Forest area" and immediately pounced. I almost stopped them. Lilah had been so enchanted with it when I set it up that she had just wanted to sit there in silent awe. These kids were armed with fairy wings and gnome hats and had been escorted into a corner of Wonderland. They were taking full advantage. They clambered for turns to sit on the mushroom under the foliage. They lined up preschool-style and each had an apparent internal clock that began ticking once the small bottom of the child ahead of them touched the toadstool and was up approximately 60 seconds afterwards. Then the next in line announced that it was their turn. The carefully laid out fabric strips were soon cast aside. They devised an assembly line that took the need for an adult completely out of the picture. With 4 bodies and one step-stool, they could scale the mushroom, wriggle about, and then leap off and run to the back of the line. I asked one little boy, "Why not just sit quietly on the mushroom?" I wasn't trying to change them. I was just honestly curious what was different in their minds than in Lilah's. He looked at me and actually raised an eyebrow.

"Because fairies don't just sit. They run and fly. Oh! Can I have wings too?" I babbled something about girls having fairy wings and boys having gnome hats, remembering a conversation where I'd recently scoffed at Dano for suggesting the children be allowed to choose which woodland creature they wanted to dress as. I recalled Dr Kolin's fondness for a certain phrase, something about "eating crow", and made a note to tell Dano later.
"Well, you have a gnome hat don't you?" He sneered.
"Gnomes don't fly."
"Aren't fairies girls?"
"There are boy fairies too, you know." He scowled with such indignation, I took a step backward and immediately handed him a pair of green wings. Another example of how we as adults impose our gender ideas on our children. When left to their own devices, they're completely devoid of notions of sexuality aside from knowing their own gender. I went downstairs, allowing the children to destroy Lilah's room and take turns launching themselves off the mushroom, hoping against hope each time that they'd fly.

The kids wandered down one by one for a drink or snack and to make their fairy houses, which all turned out beautifully. I felt a tug on my skirt and knelt down to a little girl's level.
"This is a birthday party. Shouldn't we eat cake?" I laughed and tapped her nose.
"You were all so busy playing I was waiting for you to be done. Why don't you go tell everyone it's cake time." She was off in a heartbeat and led a parade of woodland creatures downstairs. They arranged themselves in an arc on the floor (refer to the aforementioned lack of chairs) with plates and cups. I gave each one a glass jar of homemade chocolate pudding with crushed oreos and a gummy worm inside. Lilah clutched the fairy dolls that had adorned the cake and blew out her candles with some effort but, for the first year, all on her own. They all ate cake, which I was told was very tasty. I somehow wrangled them all into the living room for presents. I put Lilah on a chair and her cousins and friends took turns handing her gifts. Per usual, she had a hard time not stopping to play with each new item as she opened it. She received so many varied and wonderful things. A book about a dog named Lila, crayons, clothes, a beautiful handmade diorama with tree bark and dried flowers (as well as birds and caterpillars to move about in their home), fun new toys, a painting of cherry blossoms, an embroidered purse, necklaces, an Etch-a-Sketch, and too much more to list. The other kids were very eager to try out all the new toys. At one point, a little girl had Lilah backed into a corner asking for a turn with a toy still in its package. Lilah was politely refusing and the girl kept advancing her into the corner, trying to snatch it. I diffused the situation by picking the girl up under her arms and placing her 10 paces away, allowing Lilah to make her escape. The girl shrugged and walked off.

After a couple of hours, the parents gathered their children to take them home. They took their dress-up gear, fairy house, and wooden picture frame favors in the shape of bugs, butterflies, and snails. The dads shook our hands and genuinely thanked us for a great party. I raised an eyebrow at my kitchen counter lined with beer bottles and replied that I was happy they'd enjoyed themselves. One father carried his daughter in his arms, her eyes already closed and her thumb in her mouth. The mother of the boy in fairy wings attempted to remove them from him, finally accepting it was a losing battle with a sigh of resignation. Lilah was sugar-crazed and happy, finally settling in to play with all her toys. She was wearing about 4 layers over her birthday dress, all items she'd received that day. I congratulated myself on not being overbearing, obsessed with the appearance of the house (which was now more or less a war-zone), and for allowing the children to destroy the woodland corner. I laughed at myself for thinking they would agree to sit quietly for a photo-op in the first place. These weren't preteens taking duck-lipped pictures of themselves in the bathroom mirror to use as profile pictures for the Facebook account they shouldn't be allowed to have in the first place. They were 9 children who were still in that magic stage of limitless possibilities and innocent faith. Even Lilah who scoffs at Santa and Jesus alike would run off blindly into the night if she heard the familiar "whoosh" of the Tardis or jump from any height if it were suggested someone had sprinkled her with pixie dust. For all the sassiness and limit-testing, 4 seemed like an amazing age. They were old enough to converse and reason, but young enough to believe in magic. This will be a beautiful year.

White Wine in the Sun

I'll be honest. This year stressed me out. Lilah of course wanted to invite her entire preschool class. Being sensible, I limited her to 4 boys and 4 girls (cousins included). I had heard that you should allow the same number of child guests as the child's age, plus one (so, 5 for her this year). I figured if we invited 8, only 4-6 would actually be able to make it. There were just a few flaws in my plan. One, all could possibly attend. Two, at 4 years, most children would feel uneasy without a parent present. Both of these possibilities turned into actualities. Including the adults who love her and wouldn't miss her birthday for anything, the family members who hold first place in her heart, and the school crowd who all RSVP'd "Yes!", the total was nearly 30. My math skills are not the strongest, but when I divided 850 square feet of house by 30 people (9 of them children), I surmised that some of them might have to hang out in the laundry room or the occasional closet. By Thursday afternoon, I was literally short of breath with stress.

By Friday afternoon, something terrible happened at work. I'd spent most of my week coordinating many, many tests, procedures, and appointments for a mother and we all had our fingers crossed for the best possible outcome for her son. Every time I spoke with her she was calm, matter-of-fact. Her voice never broke, never wavered. The little things about my job, the runny noses, the school forms, fell by the wayside and piled up. Normally that would make me anxious, but I was so focused on getting the good news I was sure would come, I didn't even care. I optimistically worked with the boy's doctor and tried to ignore the mother's fear that was so powerful despite her strong voice, it seemed to seep through the phone and grip my heart. I'd seen her face when she left the office earlier in the week and her eyes clearly betrayed two conflicting emotions - the paralyzing fear that her worst nightmare would come true, and the wild animal that would claw and fight for her child. Friday afternoon, her doctor had called me crying. My optimism drained away, feeling like it had been a charade all along and I was just now realizing it.

My "stress" over Lilah's birthday party felt hollow. Even if 50 people showed up at my house, they were there because they represented a community of people who loved her, a community she could rely on if she needed anything. They would share her joys and griefs, laugh with her, cry with her, pray for her, hold her in their hearts. I felt a bond with the mother at work. She was drawing from a well that was ancient. I had always assumed that as a mother, you did what you'd been taught, what the examples in your life had set into motion. The moment my baby was born, I knew that was wrong. To be a mother, you had to be inducted into an order. The price was blood, tears, and inexplicable joy. You had to make peace with placing your whole heart in a tiny, fragile body and sending it out into the world. When you were exhausted, impatient, frustrated, there was this place inside you could draw upon that you always forgot about until you needed it. I've heard it called the Goddess, intuition, or just motherhood. It's how mothers lift cars off their kids and go months without sleeping. It's unconditional love and self-sacrifice and still feeling like you're not giving nearly enough. A new study showed that mothers who nursed sons made fattier milk so the babies could go longer between feedings, but nursed daughters more frequently. Yet the calorie content of the milk was almost identical. The evolutionary purpose was that sons had to go out into the community, while daughters were kept close and nursed often. This astounded me. Even while feeding our children, our bodies are preparing them for the life ahead. Empowering sons, cherishing daughters, creating a new generations of amazing little people on the foundation of our hearts, souls, and bodies.

I'll post about her party another day. It'll be a post of fun and happiness and possibly some people eating cake in a laundry room. But at 8:55 on March 24th of 2009, my heart left my body and is getting bigger every year. The song "White Wine in the Sun" (even though it's technically a Christmas song) summed up how I was feeling as I rolled out a  "Delphinian Blue" fondant mushroom cap last night, and I put some lines from it up on Facebook. "And you my baby girl...you'll be handed round the room like a puppy at a primary school. And you won't understand, but you will learn someday that wherever you are and whatever you face, these are the people who make you feel safe in this world, my sweet blue-eyed girl. And if, my baby girl, you're 21 or 31 and you find yourself 9000 miles from home, you'll know whatever comes...your aunties and uncles, grandparents, cousins, and me and your mum will be waiting for you in the sun." Let 100 people come to her party. Let her know that the whole world loves her and she's never alone. As she grows, let her draw from the strength and beauty of all those people who love her and let her blossom into the little woman she's already becoming.

"Will you be my goose?"

It was my workday in preschool again today. I was dreading it a little because March is Art Month at DACP. Last week on Tuesday they learned about Michelangelo and the Sistine Chapel. The teachers had taped a canvasy-looking paper to the underside of a table and the kids had to lie on their backs to paint it.  Thursday they painted pottery at a studio and toured a kiln. Today they learned who Jackson Pollock was, as well as the art style for which he is most famous.

In the classroom, Mrs Wilson supervised the children dipping makeup brushes in watercolor paints and hitting them against a screen, splashing soft colors onto their white papers. However, in the Big Room (where Gross Motor play usually takes place), Mrs Fuller had set up the main event. Two giant blue tarps covered the floor. I was to be her assistant (hooray!), so I set up a basin of warm, soapy water on a fluffy towel. The children were ushered into the room in groups of 3. I rolled up pant legs and sleeves and smocked them up while Mrs Fuller arranged them each on the tarp in front of black sheets of paper. Each were handed a paintbrush dripping with brightly colored paints and instructed on technique. A few of them stared confusedly at Mrs Fuller and bent down to paint directly on the paper. They were gently corrected.

"Hold it like it's a magic wand and you're casting a spell." How amazing is this teacher at tapping in to the mind of a child to get them to understand? This caught on quickly. One little boy lit up like a sun when he realized he was allowed to throw paint and slung bright orange in a wide arc, getting some on his paper in the process. A little girl realized with joy that there were puddles of paint on the tarp and splashed and stomped like it was a rainy day until Mrs Fuller caught her eye. All of these kids respond well to "the look". I was assigned the cleaning up task. One girl was so hopelessly splattered that she took one look at herself and merrily sat down in the basin. Another one tapped on my head while I was scrubbing her.

"Yes?"
"Please stop cleaning my pants."
"But honey, you've got lots of pink spots on you." She leaned down and whispered.
"Those are sparkles on my pants." And so they were. She was sent on her way. The next little boy had blue and green freckles. I had to dunk a pigtail in the basin. Lilah's turn won't come until Thursday but I was told she made a lovely watercolor splatter in the classroom while I was out.

I assisted in the hand-washing line before snack when Mrs Fuller noticed something odd. "The bathroom stall is locked. And there's a pink pull-up on the floor. But no one is in there." My heart sank to my toes and I called for my child. She scampered up to me happily. It was pointed out to me by another parent that her pants were falling down and there was nothing underneath them, so she was more than likely the culprit. Yes, thank you.
"Sweetheart, did you go potty in there?" Her head bobbed and she grinned at me. "Did you take off your pull-up?" More vigorous nods.
"Then I was stuck. So I got out." I'm pretty sure I audibly groaned. "But I patted and washed my hands!" Small miracles. Not only because my daughter was the culprit, but also because it was pointed out that I was the smallest so it fell to me to maneuver into the locked stall and open it.

For Gross Motor time they played Duck, Duck, Goose. Whenever Lilah Rose's friends were chosen, she tried to hop up and chase them out of turn. Mrs Fuller kept trying to explain the game to her, but she just wanted to jump up and run with her friends. Her eyes welled up with tears and she put the back of her hand dramatically over the back of her mouth and gave a couple of gaspy sobs for good measure. Mrs Fuller smiled at her and I had every faith she knew it was a ruse. She called me over to sit with her. With her in my lap and the game continuing, I felt a tug on my hoodie and the little one next to me motioned for me to bring my head closer to her.
"Scuse me," she whispered. I raised my eyebrows expectantly. "Will you be my goose?" Silence. "Please? Will you please be my goose? I want you to be my goose."
"Uhhhm..." She pointed to the other kids taking their turn running.
"Please, Lilah's mom. Please be my goose." I tried not to burst out laughing. I let her down gently by saying only kids could be geese. She pursed her lips at me and tossed her hair.
"Mrs Fuller was the goose."
"Yeah, but she's the teacher so it's different. Only kids and teachers. But if we weren't in school, if we were someplace else, I'd love to be your goose." She thought about this as she examined her boots. I went for a diversionary tactic. "I really like your boots." She looked at me like she knew exactly what I was doing (and she probably did).
"Thank you. I spotted them at Kohl's and my mama got them for me."

Among the other incredible quotes of the day were a little girl's response to Mrs Fuller inquiring about her wriggling and tugging her skirt up. "Oh, ya know. Just a little too much crack goin' on in here."

So there you have it. Splatter paint, an abundance of crack, and for the first time in my life, someone wanted me to be their goose. Oh, and even though I swear I cleaned and scrubbed every exposed inch of me, it was still pointed out at work that just a few of my freckles were a lovely shade of blue.

No sunlight

I keep despondently singing the Death Cab song in my head. It feels like daylight will never return in the capacity my body needs it to. Apparently my Vitamin D level is "critically low" and I need to take some or something. Or the sun could just hurry it up already.

The closer we creep to Lilah turning 4, the more sweet and fun she grows. But she also grows more defiant and independent as well. It's such a hard balance to strike, and her moods swing hard for no apparent reason. In the same day she can help me with baking or crafts, and end up tear-streaked and angry because some small thing was denied her. I started to realize last week that we might have gone to far with her. We have so many celebrations and special things during the year that she's grown accustomed to them. I like to bake, so there's nearly always a cake or a few dozen sweet treats lying around. So many people love her that it's almost weekly someone is bringing her a rose (she asks the gardeners around town for roses, since she's "a Rose". She feels she has some right to them) or toy or small thing that made them think of her. Her Auntie takes her on special dates, she has skype dates with friends and grandparents, and people at local businesses know her by name and regard her kindly when they see her. The ladies at the farmer's market always pinch her cheeks and let her choose the "best" parsnips - her favorite vegetable. But for as much as Lilah charms everyone she meets into submission to her whims, we have so far been lucky that her will has fallen in step with ours for the most part. We have had to do very little but gently steer her in the direction we'd like her to go and she has happily complied. Bad days aside, we have had an easy road for the most part.

I'm pretty sure it's normal for her age, but I feel like she's set herself against us just to see what will happen. Even when it means we're both exhausted with the sheer effort of battling wills with a tiny, loud, irrational person, we haven't budged. We've cut back on the sweet treats to weekends only. I still bake frequently, but the snacks get saved for after she goes to bed so we set a good example, or during the weekends. Special occasions like birthdays and holidays don't count, of course. I set up a chore chart with nickels attached to each task (soon to be pennies. She doesn't need $1.50/day at 4 years old). She has started doing the little things like folding washcloths, disinfecting door handles, dusting surfaces, setting and clearing the table. For the most part, she enjoys having "jobs" and earning money to buy things (she just discovered dollhouses and is fascinated). Tonight, she was in a mood while I made dinner.

"Mother, can I have a healthy snack?"
"No. We're having dinner in 20 minutes."
"Fine. Then can I play piano?"
"That's up to your dad. Ask him." Seconds later, I hear the piano despite Dano being upstairs. I went over and quietly removed her from the piano. She shrieked in anger.
"I WAS PLAYING THAT!"
"You didn't ask Daddy. You're a little girl. You don't just get to do whatever you want when you want to." She turned into a jellyfish and slid out of my arms. I removed her dress up gown and fairy wings and put them up. More shrieks.
"WHY DID YOU TAKE AWAY MY THINGS?"
"You can have them back later. You're acting like you need a break." I handed her the plates. "Chore time. Set the table please." She flung them back at me.
"No." I told her she had one more chance to do them like a big girl before she had to do them like a baby. She stomped up the stairs. "No. I'm going to go play in my room." Slammed door. She ended up with her door handle removed, led down the stairs, and walked to and from the table with me. After a couple trips, she shrugged my hand off her shoulder. "I can do it."

After that, as in all battles of wills lately, she was angelic. These little tempests are short-lived. As much as my blood boils beneath the surface and as nasty as she can get when she's mad, the calmer I stay, the more deliberately she's shown she can't win, the faster it's over and she's back to herself. The days are certainly more good than bad. She had the Show and Tell bag at school and was thrilled to take her small doll Caroline, all snug in her box in the bag. I was told that when Mrs Fuller asked "What do you have there?",
Lilah replied, "A box."
"Well okay. What's in the box?"
"A doll."
"Does the doll have a name?"
"It's Caroline."
"How long have you had Caroline?"
"Oh, about 30 years." Typical Lilah-edits.

Well, her birthday creeps closer. I'm preparing a little every week. I still can't believe my baby girl will be 4. Her last year of preschool. Her last year before "real" school. The fact that no babies are coming after her is slowly sinking in. It doesn't make me want another one. It just makes each moment feel so precious. And it makes me feel terrifically old.

PuppetArt

Today was our very first Drayton Avenue field trip. We were quite excited to visit PuppetArt, the Detroit Puppet Theater. We'd never been there, but had heard great things. We were to see Kolobok, the Russian folk story similar to the Gingerbread Boy. Kolobok is a little butterball dumpling crafted by Grandmother and Grandfather who have a good life, but have no children. While he's cooling on the sill, he escapes into the woods to see the world.  He encounters multiple animals who try to eat him but cunningly escapes them all. In the original story, he is eventually consumed by the crafty fox. In the Detroit version, he gets away and goes back home.

Lilah's friend Jack and his mother kindly let us ride along with them. Jack is a sweetheart and the two chattered happily in the back. We got there with 45 minutes to spare. By the time we found parking downtown, we had 30 minutes. By the time Jack and Lilah made it up 3 flights of stairs to Grand River Avenue, we had 15 minutes. We got into the theater and were engulfed in a sea of tiny people in winter gear. Lilah Rose had chosen a summer sun dress with pink flowers, pink knit tights, and a white turtle neck as her ensemble with brown suede boots. She had rushed through breakfast and smiled winningly at me while I dried my hair to entice me to do her bidding. "Mother, will you put my hair in a braid?"

"Braided pigtails? A pony tail?" I knew exactly what she was after. I'd been giving her the "Katniss Everdeen braid" for the past week and she'd gotten loads of attention for the fancy, intricate style.

"Nooo Mamaaaa. One braid!" I had done what she wanted and as usual the results were stunning. I had a very pretty little girl. I try to make sure to tell her how nice she looks, whether in pajamas or a party dress. I looked around the theater to see most of the children were very nicely dressed as well. I greeted the mother of one of the sets of twins and told the girls how nice they looked in their sparkly boots. Their mom smiled and said one of them had them on the wrong feet, but they were dressed and that's what counted. Lilah stood out in the crowd not only because of her braid, but also because she had insisted on bringing the muff Nicola made for her. It was all the rage. Some children stood quietly with parents. Others sneakily tried to touch the model puppets. One little girl had come with another family since her mother couldn't make it. She stood alone in the middle of the room with a quivering lip and her hands knotted uneasily. I crouched down to talk to her.

"Are you okay, honey?" She looked so miserable and scared it broke my heart. "You look so pretty in your skirt and sweater." She looked down and backed away. I motioned for Lilah to come over to me (she'd been stalking the little boy she plans to marry). I whispered to her, "Peanut, she had to come all alone with friends because her mama couldn't make it. She looks pretty lonely. Maybe try to be extra nice to her or talk to her a little?" Lilah looked back to the little boy with longing, then sighed and greeted the little girl by hopping over to her until they were half an inch apart. The girl backed away. Lilah hopped closer and stuck her head in and said hello, looking exactly like an inquisitive little bird. She cracked half a smile and ran away. Lilah chased her. I'm not sure if the little one felt any better but she'd hopefully been distracted.

When we went into the theater, Lilah had asked to be carried. She was pretty overwhelmed by all the bodies (the 2, 3, and 4 year classes were all present with parents) and had also just come to the realization that "theater" hadn't meant "movie and popcorn" and was noisily digesting this deception. Lilah and Jack asked to sit in the first row of child chairs with their respective mothers behind them in adult chairs. The kids around them rocked their chairs, stood up and sat down, and occasionally made some noise. Those two were angels. The commented and asked questions and shrieked with delight, but they were really good. It was funny to see the little ones compared to some in the older class. When the lights flickered and the sounds of birds and wind played from the speakers, Jack looked to the ceiling for the birds and Lilah was looking for squirrels in the (very obviously fabric) forest. The older kids shushed them. "It's a CD!"

During the bit of the performance where the Grandmother was kneading flour and butter to make Kolobok, Lilah gasped dramatically, stood, and exclaimed, "Mother! She's making bagels!" The entire theater chuckled. When they pulled the little Kolobok from the oven, he really did resemble a big bagel. Nothing could convince Lilah he wasn't one. Even though the kids grew restless after the first 25 minutes of the performance, it was engaging and animated enough to grab them again. I would definitely take her back there. We came home and had a nice lunch while she recounted her morning to her dad.

 In the afternoon, I walked into pure insanity at work and 2 inches of paperwork on my desk and audibly groaned. For a moment, I wished I had just come to work in the morning. Then one of my coworkers came to my desk to ask how the field trip went. I gave her a quick synopsis and she was happy but looked momentarily pained. She told me that she told her son's school in the very beginning that she has a full-time job and was unable to attend functions and regrets it now. "Work doesn't matter. Go to everything you can. I was the asshole and I regret it. Don't be like me." I smiled to myself. Not only did work happily grant me the morning off, but they gave me paid time off to attend. I could bravely face however many inches of paperwork and whatever crises awaited. My little bird and I had a lovely time at Kolobok. We might just go back for Anansi.

School Days

Today was the second time I volunteered in the classroom. I was a little apprehensive after the last time, but I was "snack parent" and I didn't have tremendous faith in Dano to get the execution and presentation down. Yes, I'm aware that they are a pack of 3 and 4 year olds, but they really are brilliant little people with excellent tastes and clever opinions all their own.

Lilah and I made stop-and-go fruit pops. On tongue depressors (popsicle sticks were wretchedly skinny and splintery) we placed a kiwi, pineapple, and strawberry to look like a stoplight. In a muffin tin, we arranged wonton wrappers sprayed lightly with cooking spray and sprinkled with cinnamon. For snack time, we filled the wontons with vanilla yogurt to dip the fruit pops in. Lilah must have eaten 4 of them while we were assembling the night before.

While the little ones played before class, I helped set up the classroom. During circle time, they picked one of Lilah's favorite friends to be the "magic apple" of the day. The water table was open for the first time in Lilah's school career and the magic apple gets to choose what color to dye the water. It was pink. I stationed myself near the water table, foreseeing the need for some adult presence at a table filled with pink water in a room with 12 preschoolers. I ended up as wet and pink as the table. The children had to roll sleeves and smock up to play there. Most of my time was spent assisting them in and out of smocks, negotiating small peace treaties ("When he's done with his turn with the shark, he'll be happy to give it to you. Here. Catch some frogs in this net in the meantime."), and repeatedly issuing the gentle reminder, "The water needs to stay inside the table."

I looked out over the classroom and saw a table filled with 6 little girls in princess gowns and pearls all making play-dough snowmen and unicorns. At another table, Mrs Fuller was playing matching games and puzzles with a few children. One or two played at the sand table. One little one was carefully and thoughtfully  applying blue paint to her paper with slow, broad strokes. They were all such darlings and I was so happy they were Lilah's friends.

During story time, we set up snack. Several people remarked how amazing snack looked. It didn't feel amazing. I was proud of it being healthy and fun, but it was hardly amazing but I nodded and smiled my thanks anyway. Mrs Fuller asked who had brought snack after everyone was settled into their snack spots and had sung their snack song. No one saw Lilah discreetly point to me. I spoke up that it was Lilah Rose's snack day. She looked aghast. "No! My mother made these!" I assured everyone that she had helped assemble. Most people remarked that it looked time consuming. They don't know Lilah in the kitchen. She is my assistant in every way - gathering and putting away ingredients, taste-testing, mixing, beating, kneading, assembling, using the whisk or pastry brush as directed. Tonight after sampling the seared chicken, she proclaimed, "It's so tender, Mother! I really like it." She's developing quite the palate. Some of the children asked for seconds or thirds. One set of twins in particular were the last to leave the table and licked their fingers at the end. Another set of twins picked and poked and didn't act like they really liked it but never complained. The adults, Lilah, and I happily chomped on our wonton cups after they were empty. Some of the children where wide-eyed and shocked, like we were eating actual bowls. I laughed at the gasp of the girl next to me and poked her playfully.
"It tastes like a cracker or a cookie. Try it." She did, then turned to the child next to her.
"It's like a cracker or a cookie." And so on. Soon the entire table was munching on wonton cups. While the adults cleaned up, the teachers handed each child a stick with ribbons attached. They listened (of course) to the song Car Wash while forming two lines and twirling their ribbons while each child took turns going through the "car wash". All I heard were giggles and swishy ribbons.

Being cold out, the gross motor time took place in the "Big Room" with trikes, cozy coupes with gas stations, balls, and seesaws. One of Lilah's friends, a sweet, beautiful little boy who seems to like me as much as I like him (he's always tugging on my sleeve saying "Excuse me!" to get me to play with him) asked me to play hide-and-seek with him. We played a round and were joined one by one by a handful of other classmates. A few minutes later he and I were counting together as the entire class hid out of sight in fits of giggles. Mrs Fuller returned to the room after leaving for a moment and was greeted by dead-silence (save for the giggling) and not a child in sight. She looked around.
"It's so quiet!" Mrs Wilson, the assistant teacher nodded gravely and pointed to an upside-down laundry bin that was haltingly scooting of its own accord across the gym floor, and to a potted tree that was swaying gently despite the absolute lack of breeze in the room, then to us "counters". Mrs Fuller nodded knowingly.

Lilah was brilliantly good compared to the last time I was in class with her, and I did noticed the children of some of the other working parents struggle with having them there while still maintaining the class routine. Not that I want any child to struggle, but at least is shows Lilah isn't abnormal or behind. I have her at home saying things like, "Yes ma'am, I'll be with you in a moment," or "I'm not quite done yet but I'm nearly finished, Mother." She's been raised on the BBC and I can recall Dano snuggling 4 month old Lilah while reading Tolkien and L'Engle aloud to her. We've never pulled punches with grammar or more mature literatre and as a result she turns phrases better than some adults I know. She adjusts gracefully and usually flawlessly to any social situation, somehow innately knowing when to sit quietly, ankles crossed like a little Victorian lady and when to get up and play. I'm continually impressed with how observant she is. I do worry that because she can't recite the alphabet or count past 20 or recognize all her colors and letters and numbers from memory that she will be behind. They're so separate to her. She'll yawn and sigh through flashcards with us, but she'll pick up social intricacies with ease. This school subtly weaves learning with play and social interaction, so she has honestly picked up more since arriving at Drayton Avenue than through years of flashcards with us. I believe it's because seeing it in practice makes all the difference to her. I took years of all manner of math class and always despised it. But when I studied Drug Calculations in nursing school, math suddenly had real purpose. I still recall how to calculate tablespoons to teaspoons to milliliters to ounces in my head because it applied to cooking as well as medication administration. Lilah Rose seems to be made of the same stuff. Flashcards bore her and she does it to please us. The things she learns in class seem to have a purpose and a practical application to her life so she picks it up in an instant.

In a society that prides itself in Mandarin tutors for toddlers, there is such an emphasis on the academic from daycare to high school. The poor are associated with unintelligence, so if your child is well set-up educationally, it bespeaks of financial success and security. I have to catch myself holding my lovely little daughter up to that standard. It's unfair and a nasty set up for insecurity and perfectionism later on. I have to tell myself, sometimes daily or many times a day, that she is coming along brilliantly and it's much more important to have a child who will run to me when I come in the door at the end of the day and say, "Mummy! I missed you! How was your day?"