Deep Summer

"Deep Summer is when laziness finds respectability." ~Sam Keen

We find ourselves in the midst of summer, for better or for worse. Job changes, childcare changes, taking on new hobbies, shedding old identities. I found myself spending the first 6 weeks or so spinning out of control. My phone would chirp or vibrate almost constantly with reminders from my calendar to do this thing, run this errand, make it to this play date, pay this bill. Dano makes fun of me that I need my calendar to tell me when to have a period. He isn't wrong.

Lilah Rose started violin lessons with our friend John. I can feel my heart swell when I watch her practice and concentrate so hard, trying hard to get it right. The violin itself is so small that it looks like a toy, yet it still makes music. Having a tiny violin player in the house isn't as awful as it sounds. She can't stand when it makes screechy noises and tries her hardest to make it sound good. She isn't playing songs (her goal is to learn Rye Whiskey) but she's playing notes. John is working with her weekly to build up her muscles and work on rhythm.

She is also in swim lessons. If someone bet me she wouldn't drown, after 5 weeks of class, I would not take that bet. She'd still sink like a stone. The good part is she isn't afraid to get her head in the water anymore, and she has learned not to inhale while underwater. Baby steps.

I was looking forward to our trip to the UP/family reunion. It's always...interesting...when that much family gathers in one place. Too much of a good thing sometimes. But the high points were staying in a beautiful wooden cabin overlooking Indian Lake. I hadn't stayed in Manistique since I was pregnant. It's a lovely little town on Lake Michigan. Our cabin was right next to the Ball's, so the kids would meet at the playground in between cabins every morning after breakfast. They fished for hours (and didn't catch a thing). They paddle-boated around (Lilah sat regally in the back, allowing herself to be paddled). There was swimming and grilling and bonfires and hiking. Dano, Lilah, and I took a short day trip jaunt over to Munising to meet the ever-lovely Mia and Matti, some of the best things to come out of our time in Marquette. We hiked to several waterfalls. Lilah hiked the trails well, never asking to be carried and exercising a reasonable amount of caution. It always takes me back to when we first hiked those trails with her in a backpack at 9 months old. We've done it every year since.

Being in Manistique was funny, in a way. People would hold out our debit cards and read our names, asking who we were related to in town, this person or that person. They unashamedly asked what we were doing in town, where were we staying, and how we liked it out there. It was never unpleasant (although I'm sure it could be if you lived there year-round and everyone knew your business) or meant unkindly. Just people being curious. Our check-out lady at the little grocery store asked us where we were from and why we were visiting. The owner/manager/line cook of Floyd's Diner (incidentally named Tony) sat at our table with us, squeezed my shoulder, patted Lilah's cheek, and threw an arm around Dano while striking up a conversation about anything at all - whether I could cook an egg, why this was the best city in the world to retire.

When we got back, I realized in horror that summer was half over. In a few short weeks, Lilah would be starting kindergarten. I wasn't ready. Was she ready? Would we ever be ready? Nabi time this past 10 days or so has been a fight. I wasn't sure what was going on. They were concepts she knew, I knew she knew them, and had been plugging away happily at until recently. Now, every day was a fight. It took her 45 minutes to do 15 minutes worth of exercises. I even caught her lying one day and telling me she'd already done Nabi time with her dad, like we wouldn't talk about it. I was losing my mind one night just trying to get her to do a particular math exercise. I didn't feel like 15 minutes of disciplined, sit-down, learning time was too much to ask considering she'd be doing just that for her whole day in a few short weeks. I finally threw my hands up in frustration.
"Lilah Rose, what is the matter with you? All you have to do is count how many circles there are. Why can't you just count the circles? I know you know how." Lilah tossed the Nabi aside and sighed heavily.

"Mama, counting circles is so boring." I was surprised. She'd been doing those math exercises for weeks without complaint. I took the tablet from her and made some adjustments to the lessons, bumping her up from Pre-K to K and beyond in some areas. She started flying through problems again, and asking for more. I moved her from basic letter recognition (something she struggled so much with last year) into phonics, word building, and more abstract English concepts like parts of a story. She ate it up and did the lessons perfectly with no help. In a screen filled with pictures of objects that started with D, and a row of letters at the bottom, the only instructions it gave her were to choose the letter that the pictures started with. She chose correctly every time, without me telling her what the objects started with, what sound that letter made, or the names of the letters themselves. She was loving the science lessons, parts of the body and physical properties, how magnets work, seasons, and weather. She filled a bag with toys one day to take to a friend's pool because she wanted to know which were high-density and which were low-density. The only thing she still struggles with is social studies. The lessons are absurd, and it's hard for me to blame her. The questions want Common Core, trite answers. She'd prefer the essay questions and imagining a creative answer. She isn't always wrong, but her answers aren't the ones the quizzes are looking for and she gets frustrated to see that she got one "wrong". Did Columbus set out to find new lands in which to build houses and grow food? Yes, probably, but the Nabi wants you to focus on trade. Lilah does not give two shits about trade, plus she's seen Pocahontas.

I think in light of the way she's blossomed and progressed over the summer, she'll be just fine in school. I watched her write the other day after leaving her alone about it and encouraging play dough time, cutting, coloring, and painting, and her fine motor skills had come such a long way. As long as her teacher can recognize her boredom cues (I wish him/her luck, since I gave birth to her and still didn't know that's what her problem was) and challenge her appropriately, and as long as they appreciate (to a reasonable extent) her creative answers and interesting perspectives, she'll thrive. In the meantime, we're just careening toward Autumn at a pace I'm not entirely comfortable with. We're about to leave behind such a large chapter of our family story and step into this new epoch.

The Nabi

So Spring finally showed  up in Michigan and let all the peoples rejoice. There were times this Winter when I wondered if it would ever come, if we had stumbled upon some George Martin-esque Winter where White Walkers roamed the earth and babies froze to death in their cradles.

We've been making great strides in our little palace, touching up paint, remaking our bedroom, building raised beds for my glorious garden. Well. I supervised and provided inspiration and moral support. My dear husband built them and drank beers. We have also been trying to keep a certain little Miss occupied since she's left the preschool. In jest (and when she's elsewhere) we refer to her as the preschool dropout. Dano worked dutifully on the Princess Letter Flashcards we'd made Lilah and she had nearly all of them down. She had many playdates and lots of cousin time. We took her to her formal special education evaluation that had already been set up with the school district. I was made to wait outside while the speech pathologist and occupational therapist took Lilah and Caroline into the "exam room" (i.e. room filled with toys and fun things to do) and started "testing" (i.e. playing) with her. It took a really long time but I heard a lot of praise and laughter. I kept leaning toward the door to eavesdrop. Dano kept hauling me away and telling me to knock it off.

At the end, they turned Lilah loose to play in the room and talked us through their assessment. I was pretty impressed with how thoroughly they'd tested her while keeping her laughing and engaged. The occupational therapist said Lilah was on the low end of normal fine motor development. She held a pencil correctly with only minor verbal correction and her grip and pressure were appropriate. She could draw a person with recognizable parts and colored even though Lilah didn't act like she loved doing it (she doesn't). They noticed a very faint tremor in her hands after working for awhile, so suggested some muscle-strengthening exercises to try over the summer. The only part of the motor assessment she failed was when the therapist build a simple structure out of blocks and asked Lilah to replicate it, Lilah went freestyle and built a castle. When asked, "Does yours look like mine?" Lilah nodded yes but commented that hers was better.
Typical, I thought.

The speech pathologist had a little more to say. She said they'd started out by just having a nice conversation about Lilah's birthday party in Chicago the week before. She'd gone into amazing detail about riding the train, going to the American Girl Place, having lunch and a cake, getting to choose her very own doll whose name was Caroline. On and on. So she didn't have a lot of concerns when she went to test Lilah, but they'd started at the preliminary speech testing.
"Lilah bombed. Not just bombed, but didn't get a single question right and I was getting really worried." I'm sure I visibly went pale and felt myself shaking. "It didn't make any sense to me. There were four pictures and I'd ask her things like, 'Point to the one where the children are eating the cookies.' One would have children eating cake. Children baking cookies. Children eating cookies. Children slicing carrots. She'd just pick any old picture and move to the next one. I had just had this conversation in incredible detail with this child, but she was bombing my easiest tests." The standardized tests required her to do all of the levels in order to score it, so she moved on to the harder levels. Lilah Rose scored off the charts, in the high 90th percentiles, in following directions, sentence structure, speech relationships, sequencing, you name it. "I couldn't believe this kid. She was doing things my older elementary kids can't do yet, and doing them perfectly. But when we went back and retested the basic things, she bombed again. Honestly, I just don't think she cares about them. They're easy and boring, they don't challenge or interest her. She points to whatever so she can move on, and she smiles at me while she does it like she's hoping her charm will work to get her out of if. My gut feeling is everything she's doing poorly, she doesn't care about. Get her in a project-based learning environment and I think she'll thrive. Challenge her and get her interested and you'll see a whole different kid." I wasn't sure what to think.

"But what about the basic stuff she's not doing? We keep dragging her back to get her to do the basics, colors, shapes, numbers, letters but she is really resisting or acting like she forgets the minute we show her."

"I don't think this kid forgets anything. I think she's beyond that. She knows it, she knows you know it, and she doesn't feel like proving she knows it. Meet her where she's at and challenge her. She knows more than you think. If I'm totally wrong, we have her assessment done and can pick her up in kindergarten." Turns out, she wasn't wrong.

After lots of free play this Spring, Dano and I had some serious discussions about preparing her for school in a way that wouldn't jar her or feel too academic. I signed her up for a few week-long day camps to get her used to being gone for more days and longer hours. One thing we debated about was electronic use. EVERY child she's friends with has some sort of computer, iPhone, or tablet in the house they play on. Not only does Lilah not have those things, she's been deliberately shielded from them. She watches 30 minutes of TV a day on average, with the exception from a movie here or there. She never has computer time, and smart phones "are for grown ups only". The only tablet in the house is my e-reader and she does have a few book on there she goes through every so often. Although Dano and I thought we had made the best choice possible to raise a human child in the age of the cyborgs, we had been slapped in the face with reality on her kindergarten tour. We were informed that starting in kindergarten, there was a state-mandated computer proficiency test done on an iPad or PC in the classroom. My heart sank. So not only would she be singled out because of her weird brain, she'd be the only kid there who had never played on a smart device before. I watched kids at work go through an entire physical exam without ever making eye contact with the doctor examining them. Were they autistic? No. They were on their phones or game systems or tablets. 5 year old twins with their own iPads. 9 year old boys with their own smart phones. I hated it and swore it wouldn't be my kid. So here I was feeling like technology was being forced on us whether we liked it or not.

I went to Target to talk to a really sweet college-age girl about the tablets they had geared toward kids. I felt sick to my stomach, like a total sellout. She walked me through a few models and I explained the circumstances to her. She pointed me toward one called the Nabi. It was virtually indestructible. It came pre-loaded with a free Pre-K to 3rd grade curriculum that matched the Common Core Standards in public school, so the terminology and subject matter would be familiar once Lilah entered kindergarten. It was an Android tablet we could use for things like web surfing and skype in Parent Mode, but in the password-protected "Nabi Mode", it was Fort Knox. The only web sites she could access were the ones we pre-approved in Parent Mode. The fun games like puzzles and coloring could be put on a timer to power off after a predetermined amount of time. The educational lessons and quizzes and games would power off as well, but if she chose to play them over the fun games, she could earn 15 extra minutes of time a day. The device itself was put on a parent-controlled timer and was unusable between the hours of 8pm and 7am. At 7, it would wake her up with a song and a list of morning activities she had to complete, "Make my bed, get dressed, brush teeth, eat breakfast." After an accumulated hour of Nabi time or at 8pm, whichever came first, it would start yawning and telling her it was tired before going to "sleep" until the next day. We programmed her chore list into the Nabi where she could earn virtual coins to use in the "Treasure Chest" to buy new games or coloring sheets, or we could (and did) set them to earn zero coins so we could give her physical rewards in lieu of virtual ones.

What absolutely blew my mind was watching Lilah power through the education levels. Not only was she using between 25-35 minutes of Nabi time a day on average (nowhere near her hour time max), she was flying through levels in Wings Academy, the pre-programmed curriculum. If given a dozen eggs labeled with anything from upper or lowercase letters, asterisks, and just nonsense symbols and told to tap all the letters, Lilah got all the letters. When asked to tap only the lowercase letter e, she found all the e's. Every letter-related lesson, no issues. Upper and lower case, mixed in with wing dings and punctuation marks. She could spot the right letter every time. The numbers were a little more of a challenge because she couldn't recognize all of the numerals, but the math concepts she had down. Ordinal numbers, the concept of 100, counting by 10s to 100, counting past 10 into the teens. She could count in order to 30 and it was really easy for her to do simple problems like subtracting and adding within 5 as long as she had something visual or tangible to add or take away. Reading comprehension came easy for her, listening to a story read aloud by the Nabi and taking a quiz at the end. She's watching social studies and geography videos and quizzing at the end, doing awesome. I couldn't wrap my brain around her in the science category. The questions were asking things like "Would this marble sink in water? Why or why not?" And she's answering "Yes, because it has a higher density than the water." Cosmos is paying off, apparently.

Seeing her excel when challenged and allowed to progress and perform at her own pace in a stimulating environment makes me so happy, but also resentful. She missed her end of year picnic, preschool graduation, final field trip to a dairy farm. She isn't aware she's missing out, but I'm angry for her. Trying to let it go and realize that we (so very apparently, now) are doing right by our daughter, but some days it's easier than others. I'm fielding questions from her like "What are the stars' middle names?" and she's asking to stay up late and watch Mars rise. We're feeding her interests and stimulating her brain as best we can. With 5 years of good habits under her belt, it doesn't look like the Nabi will turn her into a cyborg. In fact, with heavily enforced limits and involvement on our part, it seems to be a powerful tool that actually allows her to control the pace of her home-based education.

The hardest thing (a series of unfortunate events)

This is a long post that took me a few different days to write, so be warned.

As most people know, we thoroughly enjoyed Lilah's first year of preschool. She played, she sang songs, she had snack, made friends, went on field trips. We very happily signed her up for the 4 year class. In addition to the same classroom and teachers, it was to be more days every week, and small group time focussed on kindergarten readiness. 

I first felt like something was off around mid-September.

I talked to Dano, who said I was looking for trouble. Lilah didn't seem on track with other kids. When I'd sit down to work on writing or coloring with her she would actively resist. She said "I don't know" to answer any academic related question. She would do math while we cooked or find letters when we we read, but she was instantaneously frustrated and resistant toward any formal teaching. I emailed her teacher that I was concerned that she didn't know any shapes or letters besides L consistently, and only the color blue despite having been cleared by the ophthalmologist. She said she shared my concerns. One day she was compliant. The next day she acted like she didn't even understand the question. She suggested a chore chart to get her in the habit of doing a little every day, and we'd discuss it at conferences. We did, and I showed her doctor the correspondence with the teacher. She felt too much was being expected of a 4 year old, and we were dealing with a personality, not a deficit. She explained that her eldest had needed reading enrichment until she was 7, then she began reading at a 6th grade level. She was a late bloomer, but got there in her own time. Reassured, we dutifully practiced her name every day until conferences.

We went a little nervous (well, I was). We sat down in the absurdly small chairs and waited while the teacher went through some papers and looked grave. I had such a feeling a dread in the pit of my stomach. I looked around the room at the artwork. They had been making gingerbread-esque cutout art of their families. I counted them. Nothing by Lilah. Mrs. Fuller pulled out a stack of worksheets and explained that in their small groups, they had been tested on a variety of topics and when Lilah had agreed to at all, she hadn't gotten anything right. She repeatedly sunk down in her chair during group, saying she was too tired or wanted her mama, wanted to go home. On a worksheet where she was told things like "Color the square red," she had colored nicely, but only blue star was accurate. She pulled out page after page of Lilah's work, then other children's to compare it too. She said she was concerned about Lilah having a learning disability, that no other child was unable to identify colors or shapes. Dano smiled and pointed out that she got blue square, and had colored nicely in the lines. My eyes were too full of tears to joke. Her teacher was sitting in front of us telling us how serious it was. That she didn't know her letters, and at this time she wouldn't recommend kindergarten. I found some words, barely audible.

"She knows letters. She picks them out in the bathtub, and when we read. She knows blue and red too." Mrs. Fuller said she was relieved to hear it, and maybe she suffered from anxiety instead? Or maybe a working memory problem. Dano pointed out that she memorized 9 minute songs, and could quote movies she's seen once, or pick out an artist based on their style of mandolin playing. "Maybe if you made it more engaging or made it a game to her, she'd be more receptive." I was more defensive.
"She isn't hitting other children, right? Biting? She plays well and gets along?"
"Yes, but out of all the other children, she's pretty much the only one who can't do these basic things. I'm very concerned." The meeting ended shortly thereafter. I was crushed. Dano was convinced it would be all right. I ended up bursting into tears at her doctor's desk and spilling out the entire story. If it were possible to compassionately scoff derisively, this doctor managed it. Again I was told Lilah wasn't defective, she just wasn't compliant and this teacher had no call to use such strongly worded phrases. What worried her most, she shared, was that Lilah was for some reason resistant to learning and afraid to get things wrong. In an environment where making mistakes should be encouraged, she was being made to think less of herself because she wasn't "up to par", being called out in front of other children for not knowing what they knew. "We have to get her confidence back, first. Accuracy will come later." She also suggested getting Lilah evaluated by the school district just in case she did need some extra help in an area or two. This was free, as was any assistance she may need. I was so grateful. Why hadn't we been told that was an option by her teacher? I found out later it was because Mrs. Fuller didn't know it was.

Dano and I thought about dance class. It was a rigid environment where much was expected of these tiny people, but not more than they could give. They were rewarded at the end and praised throughout for attempts, even utter failures if they tried hard. They received smiles, squeezes on the shoulders, honest praise without sugar coating ("Good try, it looks better this week!"), and finally a stamp at the end for their participation. I made up my mind and emailed the teacher. I wanted Lilah pulled aside before group and told that she didn't have to know the answers, but she had to try her best and not say she was tired or wanted to go home. If that happened, she would get a stamp on the hand afterward just like at dance. We went to Michaels and picked out stamps with owls, birds, butterflies, and flowers. For a time it seemed to work. Her teacher reported her participation improved, as did her enthusiasm. Her accuracy did not. I tried not to care.

The special education teacher I had been corresponding with took a careful history of Lilah's milestones and wanted to know any concerns we or Mrs. Fuller had. She caught me off guard with her next question. "What are her strengths? What is she good at?" They weren't only focussed on a possible deficit. They wanted to know the whole Lilah. She wanted to visit the preschool to see Lilah in her natural habitat. I told Lilah someone would be visiting her preschool to watch her play and ask her some questions.
"Why?"
"Well...you'll be in kindergarten soon and it will help them find the best place for you."
"Right. At Kennedy. With my new lunch box. And girl teacher." Ever the optimist, Lilah already had her heart set on a lottery-entry magnet program where she planned to eat lunch every day out of a Totoro bento box straight from Japan and thrive in a female teacher's class (she'd been surprised to learn that one of the three teachers was male). I was nervous when the day came and grilled Lilah as soon as I got home for a full report. "Well, she came over while Annalia and I were playing dress up. I was Elsa (always, she's the Ice Queen and her best friend, the Princess)."
"Okay. What did she say to you?"
"Asked my name, and asked if I was dressed up like Elsa from Frozen." Lilah beamed. "I told her I was. She wanted to know what color dress Elsa wore, and I told her it was blue like mine. Then I twirled for her."
"Then what?"
"Um...she asked if I knew any letters and I told her I knew L. I wrote an L for her."
"Yeah? What did she think of your L?"
"Oh, she was impressed. Then she asked if I knew any other letters. I told her A was for Allison and D was for Dano and also Downton Abbey."  
"You really told her D was for Downton Abbey?"
"Um, yeah? So then I played some more."

When I spoke with her later in the week, the special ed teacher said Lilah was a delight to talk to, very engaging, bright, and social. She had a fine motor delay, and she had some concerns about her receptive language skills. When asked what color something was, she would give any old color along with a winning grin.
"She knew a color answer was expected of her, so she'd give one with that bright smile, just asking me to buy it and let her get back to playing. We see that sometimes in receptive language delays. They compensate very well." I told her I didn't think language was the problem, but they could go ahead and check it out if they wanted. All in all, she'll be getting a speech evaluation and occupational therapy to help her write and cut. She had just as many lovely things to say about Lilah as things she was concerned about. I compared it ruefully to the terrible conference where not one positive suggestion to improve things had been made. I'd even had to send an email to Mrs. Fuller outlining the steps of getting an educational evaluation for a child, since somehow after 15 years of preschool teaching, she'd never referred a child for extra help.

The winter dragged on endlessly. The children spent more time home for snow days than in preschool. Lilah bonded more closely with her little friend who played Frozen with her. Every day she'd tell me what they had for snack, what story they'd read, and how she and Annalia had played Frozen with Annalia's twin Matilde pretending to be their faithful pet cheetah named Cheese. I always encouraged her to stop by one of the project tables and do a craft, write in her journal. Lilah laughed at me every time. I couldn't blame her. Give a kid the option of table work or endless play, and come on. What will they choose. And if she did sit down at a table, no teacher sat along side her to show her how to write or cut. Projects seldom came home, and when they did, there would be one sad snip cut into them with Lilah's name written in adult handwriting after she'd abandoned the project. Dano called me angrily after the project where she was supposed to decorate and cut out the letter L came home blank. It was her favorite letter, and no one had even bothered to help her cut it out when she'd attempted to do the project. We talked long and hard about taking her out and putting her in another preschool for a few months. I felt like I was failing her. No matter how hard I worked with her, she was blissfully unaware she didn't know as much as her counterparts in the classroom, and content to be an Ice Queen forever. Those kids played hours on their iPads, complicated educational games. Lilah planted bulbs, cooked, asked questions about the origins of the stars and why doctors couldn't cure certain diseases, and made up entire universes in her head to be happily played out in the sanctuary of her bedroom. But if I held up a flashcard, told her it was orange, then asked her what it was, she'd smile and answer, "Circle?" before walking away. She was smart. I knew she was smart. Why couldn't she just get it?

Dano and I talked to his sister, who'd pointed out Drayton was a lot of things, but it wasn't educating her. No one instructed her, then tested or graded her work. She was tested and graded on concepts she'd never been taught. How can she succeed at Alphabet Bingo if she hadn't memorized her alphabet? And why were 4 year olds being expected to have every shape, color, number, and letter memorized in the first place? She talked us into making peace with the preschool for what it was - a playgroup - and seek out actual instruction for her outside the classroom. Let her play out the rest of the year happily, ignore her teacher, and get her the actual help she needed. I felt much more at peace. One Saturday morning, while pondering to myself why Lilah couldn't just memorize flashcards like I did, it dawned on me what is probably painfully obvious to everyone else in the world. Lilah and I have different learning styles. When she was interested in something, she memorized it down to the smallest details. The kid had worked out the entire plot to Wicked just by piecing it together through the songs that showed up (out of order, I might add) on her Pandora station. I got together with Dano and we created some flashcards of our own. Every card had a letter and a corresponding character from Frozen, Despicable Me, Spirited Away, Wreck-it Ralph, any other film she had memorized. The letter on the card was colored to match the character. She got a chocolate chip before she started, and one after she finished (a professor of mine did that with us on test days, only it was mini candy bars. She said it jump started the mind and jogged the memory). She had to sit criss-cross on the floor with her hands still and look up while we stood and held up the card (a trick spelling-bee champs use, looking up to picture the word itself in the air). She had to repeat after us. A is for Anna. B is for Belle. After three days, she knew a handful of letters she'd never known before. After five days, she knew 21 out of 26 without prompting. I felt like such an idiot. Mrs. Fuller, me, everyone had been coming down so hard on Lilah for not learning the way we thought she should. When I took five damn minutes to actually think about how Lilah learned, the solution had been screaming at me all along. Teach her the way she learns, not the way you do, you huge moron. I grew a shade more resentful of the teacher who'd had her for the second year in a row and had arrived at "maybe disabled" instead of "right-brained learner".

The final straw came last week on Wednesday. I was having the first day in what would be the worst week of my career. I didn't know it at the time I was getting the story and hearing the preliminary imaging reports, but we were rapidly losing a healthy 4 year old to a disease no one knew she had. By rapidly, I mean within 24 hours of it being found. I was just hanging up with another nurse who was giving me the first of many bad reports on this child when my cell phone started buzzing beside me. Caller ID displayed a mom of one of Lilah's classmates. Weird, I thought, and picked it up. She identified herself and apologized for calling me at work.
"Lilah hit her head, and we can't calm her down." I think she said some more words, but it sounded like she was underwater. When my brain started registering sounds again, she was saying something about trying to call us but not being able to reach either of us, our emergency cards weren't up to date, something about an old class roster.
"Where is she? I want to talk to Lilah." Someone handed her the phone. "Lilah Rose? Talk to me, goose. It's Mama."
"I hit my head!" She wailed into the phone. "I want you."
"Darling, it's going to be fine. Where are you?"
"I want you."
"We'll be there to get you. Where are you?"
"At preschool."
"What's your name?"
"Lilah Rose."
"How old are you."
"Four."
"You're going to be fine. I promise. We'll be there. Daddy might get there before me. I'm in Farmington Hills today." She started crying again that she wanted me to get there first. "Okay, okay, okay. I'll be there. What teacher is with you?" She told me no teacher was with her. "What grown ups?" Silence. "LILAH. Who is with you?"
"Juni's mommy, and Addie's."
"I need to talk to a grown up. We're coming for you."
"Okay." I was told she hadn't lost consciousness and probably didn't need medical care, but was hysterical and they hadn't been able to calm her or reach us. I seethed and told them to hang tight, that Dano would come to get her. I called him. He was furious and immediately left the house. She'd just fallen hugging a friend and they'd been trying to pick each other up. A complete accident. But there was no excuse for not being able to reach a parent, or not calling the emergency contact, my sister-in-law who's had the same number for 10 years. I called the vice-president of the school board, fuming. I spilled out all the educational cockups that had taken place over the year, the lack of actual teaching, and that since the school had failed to do more than provide a playgroup, the least they had to do was keep her safe in an emergency and couldn't even manage to do that. I told her we'd take some time to calm down before making any decisions, but I didn't know how I could send her back or write another tuition check after what had just happened. She was totally understanding and shocked, asking when we'd updated our information and who I'd given the changes to (I'd given it to the membership person twice after she got it wrong again back in December).

I had just made it back to my desk, shaking, when another call came in about our patient. More absolutely awful news. Tears started rolling down my cheeks as I trudged into the doctor's office to tell one of them. He asked after Lilah. I told him she was heading home and appeared fine to Dano. They'd both called me to let me know he had her and they were leaving. I could hear the tightness in his jaw through the phone. I hadn't sat down in my chair before my phone was going off frantically with texts to call home immediately. I called. Lilah had gotten extremely drowsy, and Dano let her rest but not sleep. He was having a hard time keeping her awake when she started projectile vomiting and shaking, saying she was dizzy. I told her to clean her up and get her to the office. Her pediatrician was at the Troy office, which meant I had to drive across town to meet them. The 30 minute drive was the longest in my life. They barely beat me there. Even though her doctor was behind, the staff put Lilah in a room and worked her up without me saying a word. They got all her vitals calmly and with a smile, and had Dr. Kolin see her next. I asked Dano if he was aware she was getting preferential treatment and he nodded through clenched teeth.

Dr. Kolin came in and immediately commented on how pale she looked. Lilah swooned several times on the exam table, whether nauseated or dizzy I didn't know. She got a thorough head to toe, and neurologically was fine but we were told one more vomiting episode would warrant a CT scan of her brain, and we had to wake her up for neuro checks every two hours through the night. She said she wanted to avoid radiating her little brain if we could help it, which I appreciated. She scribbled out our encounter form, jokingly asking me to chart for her (she'd broken her wrist a few weeks earlier and I've been her shadow lately, doing her charting and helping with exams). I told her after she saw Lilah out of order, I'd chart whenever she wanted. She told the front desk to write off whatever our insurance didn't pay, since head injuries were a higher level of billable care and she technically had a stage 2 concussion. I thanked whatever gods would listen for the hundred thousandth time for my amazing employers. No fewer than six pediatricians checked on her at all hours over the next few days, not only the one on call for the night. Texts, calls, and emails.

On the way home, Lilah started to tell me what happened. I welcomed the talking after how strangely silent she'd been in the office, occasionally making comments that didn't make much sense.
"I fell and hurt my head. I wanted you so badly. I cried for you and Addie's mama tried to call you. Juni's mama picked me up and held me and I cried for you. She told me to be brave, and you were helping other kids. She told me my fingers were candles and I should blow them out, and blow all my bad feelings out into the snow. I blew them and I felt better, but I still wanted my mama." I was sobbing as quietly as I could in the front seat, silently blessing the mothers that had been there for my child when I couldn't be. My heart was shattered hearing that she'd needed me and I wasn't there. I updated the vice-president and the mothers who had helped her on Lilah's condition. The assistant teacher hadn't contacted us, and Mrs. Fuller had been on vacation for the week, a fact not even the class rep had been aware of. Dano and I were zombies for the next few days. Not sleeping, waking Lilah around the clock to ask her questions, look at her pupils, make her squeeze our fingers and press back against our hands. She was spacey and confused, sound-sensitive and headachey for a few days. We both went with her to her field trip to the DIA the day after the concussion. He and I had talked in hushed tones, and I'd had a long talk with the doctors who knew her best. No one told us what to do other than trust our instincts. The decision was both the easiest and hardest we've ever made as parents: she could never go back to that school again. I waited until I was calm and emailed the president, vice-president, and our class rep. All were so sorry, all understood. Our class rep said her son had been having similar educational problems and was getting about as much assistance at the school.

A vague email from the school went out to her class that Lilah would not be returning to Drayton. I cried every night. I was taking from her the one thing she loved most about her life for reasons she could never understand. We kept her busy with play dates, outings, and crafts. We practiced cutting and pre-writing projects at home (most Frozen-themed or fun animal projects she liked). And emails poured into my inbox. Multiple families with the same concerns we had about the "curriculum", lack of teaching, and lack of instructing. Some who hadn't had the courage, but had wanted to leave as well. And the most meaningful emails of all were from mothers who seemed genuinely sad they wouldn't see Lilah on their volunteer days anymore. Some mothers I knew well, some I had honestly never spoken to.
"I will miss her. You have a sweet daughter."
"My daughter will be heartbroken to hear Lilah isn't coming back."
"I miss Lilah at Drayton."
"I miss her spirit. I love how in awe she always was of new things."
"Lilah made me smile every time I worked."
"I am so sad to see her go."
"Lilah always found a lap to sit in and was so sweet."
"I think Lilah is lovely. She is a gentle spirit and has a brightness in her eyes. My daughter will miss her so." I treasured the kind words even as they broke my heart. All the reasons they would miss her were the reasons we had to take her out. We had to preserve all the wonderful Lilah-ness before a stupid personality conflict broke her spirit.

I never did hear from the assistant teacher who was in the class that day. Mrs. Fuller contacted me when she got back from vacation. I probably shouldn't have been as angry at her email as I was. It contained things like she was sorry if she gave us the impression Lilah was going to receive extensive 1:1 time to work on her fine motor skills, but she simply didn't have the time for that (with 5 adults to 20 kids, I felt someone should have had the time for some 1:1. Not her always, but someone). She went on to illustrate how she'd "tested" Lilah again a few weeks ago with no improvement in what she knew - a couple colors, a handful of letters, one or two numbers, few shapes, and couldn't write her name. At one point, she'd asked Lilah what a shape was while pointing to a rectangle and Lilah had answered "Yellow". I smiled when I read that. I could picture the smirk on Lilah's face when she said it, just like she did to us when she was trying to get out of something. Instead of recognizing it as a tactic to get out of work by inducing frustration, it was just used as further "proof" of a deficit. The email ended with although she wasn't a doctor, she had been a preschool teacher for 15 years and Lilah was not a typical 4 year old. That wasn't her fault, our fault, or Lilah's fault. I was angry at the fact that Lilah not being "typical" was considered a negative quality. I loved my strange little bird, all the more lately for seeing the outpouring of love from people in her life and seeing how her knowledge bank blossomed when information was presented in a way her brain understood better. We hadn't raised her to be a cookie cutter kid. What the hell had we been doing, listening to this woman who "didn't have the time" to recognize Lilah's strengths and capitalize them, but apparently had the time to test her on her supposed deficits. I was angry we had to advocate so hard for her when she was only 4. After many tearful conversations late into many nights, we vowed over and over again to protect her from anyone who wanted her to be different than what she was. If it meant getting an IEP through the district for her to get whatever accommodations would help her learn best (books on tape, quiet and low-distractibility places to take tests, modified homework assignments) we would do it. I was at least thankful it happened now so we knew how to handle it for the rest of her time at school, but I was weary to the bone thinking their might be 14 more years of fighting for her.

We got the news today that she had indeed won a place in the lottery at Kennedy, just like she said she would, along with all of her very best Drayton friends. In touring the school, they emphasize project-based learning, hands-on sciences, small tutoring groups led by parents trained by teachers to help each group at their level, camping experiences, several school gardens, heavy emphasis on music and band, and even a vegetable stand where school-grown produce is sold at pickup time. I'm sure it won't be perfect, but at least the learning style seems much more her speed, and the kindergarten teachers we met were right down there on their level helping, touching shoulders and bumping fists, smiling, and reminded me a lot of Miss Amanda's sweet approach with her tiny dancers. Kindergarteners in every class met the tourists with confident smiles and even handshakes, 5 year old tour guides who pointed out the highlights of their classrooms, of which they were obviously very proud, finally asking the principal at the end if they'd done all right and receiving a high five and a grin in response. It was the kind of environment I could see Lilah happy and thriving, where a little bird could test her wings with support and guidance. We'll see where this next chapter takes her.

Winter Dance Show

I don't know why, but I've still been wracked with anxiety about dance. Dano goes and reads a book during the lessons. I watch with interest, but also with my heart in my chest until she gets her stamp at the end. Part of it is because Lilah is the most uncoordinated in a class of uncoordinated. She tries really hard, but sometimes her body just seems to arrest itself as she gets behind in the steps and can't decide where to jump in.
Once, she was messing around on the barre and fell hard onto the floor. The teacher came down to her level and very firmly told her, "We do not fall like that in dance class." Lilah's eyes flashed and she crossed her arms defiantly and threw her nose in the air, refusing to make eye contact. "If you do not do all the steps, you do not get a stamp at the end."

Lilah replied with a "Hmph." I tried not to drop my head into my hands. I knew this mood. She'd given Lilah a direct order and was being defied. This was the part where her dad or I would get as angry as she was, would order her to time out or haul her into her room to have a break. Miss Amanda returned to the front of the class like nothing had happened and continued where she had left off. Lilah Rose stood rigid, nose in the air, looking absurdly out of place in the middle of a line of tiny dancers. But I watched something different happen. She watched as the other dancers kept going, and realized she was out of place. I don't know if she was embarrassed or self conscious, but she melted from her defiant stance slowly and fell into sync with the others. She worked twice as hard and earned her stamp at the end. I was so thankful to see her bow to social pressures in this case, that there is a limit to her defiance when she sees she isn't benefitting from it.

During the last practice before the show, Lilah had the dances down to about 75%. All of the girls had their moments where they were backwards, lopsided, unable to hold a pose. None of them were perfect but they were all so enthusiastic and adorable. I wasn't anxious in a "Dance Moms" way. I could have cared less if she got all the steps perfectly. I just didn't want her to knock down another dancer, or go rogue and bunny hop all over the stage in her excitement at performing (it had happened to several of the girls once or twice during rehearsal), or freeze or burst into tears.

I had nothing but bad anxiety dreams the entire night before. I woke up and cleaned the whole house to keep my mind off it. Lilah ate a leisurely breakfast, helped with some cleaning, took over my Pandora station and switched it over to "Disney Princess Radio". She's discovered the thumbs up and thumbs down approach to hearing more songs she likes, although she roars in rage when she runs out of "skips". "Defying Gravity" from Wicked came on, and she listened carefully before giving it the thumbs up. After a few more songs from Wicked that morning and dozens of questions, she had pieced together the plot and took herself back to bed to sing "Defying Gravity" at the top of her lungs. I smiled and wished I were more like her. She was so excited and confident. I'd be terrified and frozen. My stomach seizes up before I go in a patient's room for a breastfeeding consult or patient education, or have to train a new employee or give a review. "You don't know anything. They're older than you. You look ridiculous. You are ridiculous." I take a deep breath before entering every room and pretend to be someone else. Someone who knows what they're doing. Someone who oozes confidence and expertise. Somehow they buy it. Somehow no one's called "Bullshit!" But I'm afraid that every time will be THE time. The time it all comes crashing down and I'll be exposed as a fraud.

And somehow my offspring was in her bed, smilingly belting out "I'm through accepting limits, 'cause someone says they're so. Some things I cannot change but til I try I'll never know! Kiss me goodbye, I'm defying gravity and you can't pull me down." I marvel at it daily. But I pretend there too. I tell her what I know to be true, instead of what my fears whisper to me every day. I pretend to know how to be a good mother, and it comes. She's growing up with the spirit I pretend to have, and I envy her for it. She's fearless and brave and strong, even when she's strong-willed. And she was about to do something I know I never could. It's a crazy thing, to admire your 4 year old.

We drove her to the community center and my hands were shaking. I thought I was going to throw up. I had no rational explanation for why I was being so crazy. We had been told to deposit her in a group of others in her age group. All of Miss Amanda's classes at her level were performing that day. I just had to take her to the front, remove her toasty robe, and turn her over to her teacher. As I did, I got pushed away from the stage by the throng. I panicked. I hadn't told her where I'd be. I hadn't kissed her, or told her she'd be great. I didn't tell her to walk carefully up the steps, and to keep her eyes on Miss Amanda. I hadn't told her anything. I was trying to at least catch her eye to try to get all those things into her head with just a quick glance. I saw a French-braided, blonde head take a seat with her class without looking back. I saw a classmate squeeze her affectionately. I heard Miss Amanda say, "It's so nice to see you, Lilah." I was 4 feet away and getting pushed further back. I turned and walked away. I wanted to cry, for me obviously and not for her. I got to our row of seats, and Dano squeezed me.

A few opening numbers by the "show dancers", and her class took the stage. Their jazz dance was first, and I saw her do her dance, grinning the entire time. She stayed in her place, kept her eyes on the teacher, gave it her best shot, and only paused once to look out into the dark crowd for us before stepping back in with the rest. During her ballet dance, she got really excited to do a releve and bounced up and down a couple times afterward. When the teacher reminded them to make sure their butterfly was on the right hand, she took this as criticism and switched hands even though she'd gotten it right the first time, so spent the majority of the dance with the butterfly on the wrong wrist, but no one cared. She certainly didn't. We didn't. We watched the rest of the dances. I was relaxed and proud. There were dancers of all shapes and sizes, fully clothed, no cleavage or midriffs (although Kim pointed out there was a lot of cheek showing under one of the jazz costumes), and no sexual dances or twerking. Seeing all the levels of classes, I was so happy to be at this dance school. I'd be comfortable with Lilah continuing on if she were interested. I'd try to be less anxiety-ridden for the rest of the season/her dance career. I seriously had wanted to hug Miss Amanda for the work she does with the girls. I'd seen her on stage dancing in several of the show numbers, and she was so talented. To pass that on to the smallest and most uncoordinated group of preschoolers I'd ever seen was nothing short of a gift.

We collected Lilah and everyone hugged her and told her how awesome she'd done. She got flowers, and cousin hugs, and love showered in every direction. She chose Lebanese as her celebration dinner location, and we ate, drank, and generally made merry with friends. I kissed her goodnight that night, exhausted and proud of herself, still humming "Defying Gravity". I think she's right. Our bird will fly high.

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."