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?"