Me (with head stuck in fridge): Hey, Matt. We’ve got some cilantro in here. You should make us some salsa.
Amélie: I think I have a little boy in my class named Cilantro.
Me (after perusing class list): Um, honey? Could you possibly mean Rolando?
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On a completely unrelated note, Matt updated the “family blog.” Check it out.
Two days ago I took Amélie and Jack to the library. Just taking Jack anywhere in public is always an interesting experience. He is very loud and very busy, which makes for quite the experience when we go to a quiet place like a library. Children’s libraries should be sequestered off from the adult section of libraries with either a floor between them (like in our old town), a large atrium area between them (like in Manhattan), or in a room padded with soundproof walls (like in the children’s section at all major insane asylum libraries…just kidding). He wasn’t naughty at all. He was just being…Jack. He thought that doors were for escaping and that the toys were for flinging. He was also convinced that the toy dinosaurs were going to eat him, and it took much kissing and hugging and talking to the plastic creatures before Jack was convinced that they were benign. Jack, though, was not the most annoying part of my trip. He was exasperating, yes, kind of like a puppy dog is exasperating, but he didn’t incite eye-rolling or teeth-gritting. No, Ms. Perfect Mom of Brilliant Baby did that.
Ms. Perfect Mom had a brilliant baby girl one month younger than my fella. She was perfect, you see, despite the fact that she pulled Jack’s ears, took away every toy he held, and pushed him. Here’s how my conversation went with Ms. Perfect Mom of Brilliant Baby:
Ms. Perfect Mom of Brilliant Baby: So is your son talking yet?
Me: He says a few words, but mostly he just points and grunts.
Ms. Perfect Mom of Brilliant Baby: Alex knows at least 30 words, and she’s bilingual.
Me: Of course. Oh wow.
Ms. Perfect Mom of Brilliant Baby: So do you have him enrolled in a gym or music class?
Me: Uh, no. Is she kidding? Does dancing in the living room to Hannah Montana and lying on the floor sacrificing myself as a human jungle gym count?
Ms. Perfect Mom of Brilliant Baby: So is he interested in potty training?
Me: You have GOT to be kidding me. Uh, no.
Ms. Perfect Mom of Brilliant Baby: Alex does #2 in the potty chair, and she is dry all night and goes to the bathroom when she wakes up.
Me: Oh wow. Is this woman CRAZY?
Matt asked me if I got her name and number. Uh, no. He thinks, though, and he’s right, that somehow I seem to attract those kinds of people as friends. Thankfully I backed out of this conversation emotionally unscathed and w/o a phone number. When Amélie was this age, such a conversation might have bothered me. I probably would have obsessed over her word count, worried that she wasn’t being stimulated enough since I didn’t have her enrolled in some overpriced baby class, or pulled out the potty chair just in case she showed interest. Not anymore. It’s so freeing to just.not.care. So what if Jack speaks his own language, can’t sit still through a story that’s not sung to him, and could care less that his diaper’s full of poop. He’s perfect to me. And I’m a good enough mom. How freeing.
This afternoon I took Amélie and Jack over to my grandparents’ to spend the afternoon, and we had a lovely time playing outside and baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. When we were outside with the kiddos, I was trying to get Jack to say “OW!” (which is funny because he sounds like E.T. when he says it). I sat in front of him and did my best E.T. impersonation of “OWWWWWW,” and he promptly reached over and pulled my hair. Jack likes to pull my hair. He actually likes to stroke my hair, especially when he’s sleepy, but sometimes he’ll get in a good yank, and apparently I say, “OW!” Then a couple of minutes later, as my grandpa was telling Amélie how she will have to teach Jack how to be polite and to say things like “Excuse me,” Jack promptly let out a fake burp. It’s so fun watching his brain “click” with associations.
I plan on posting pictures of Amélie’s first day of kindergarten, but in the meantime, you can look at a couple of pictures on the family blog. She is just loving kindergarten. She adores her teacher and is having a ton of fun. Whoever invented kindergarten was absolutely brilliant.
One last thing: we hooked up our cable when we got here, and even though we just requested basic cable, we have the next layer of extended cable instead. If we’re paying for it, we’ll shut it off, but in the meantime, I’m really happy to have CNN back, and Amélie is enjoying Spanish soap operas. Yes, you read that right. The TV is on for the first time all day, and she had Matt stop channel flipping on the Spanish soap opera channel. Um, is that OK? If she can’t hear the drama, do you think she’s being corrupted? She likes the pretty, bright clothes, and she loves listening to people speak Spanish. I won’t allow this to be a habit, but it’s kind of funny, really.
I know, I know–it’s been ages! But I’ve been busy, busy. First there was the move. Then there was the unloading. Then there was (still is) the unpacking. Then there was (still is) the task of finding a home for all of our belongings. Then there was the painting of the living room and the ripping up of carpet. Then there was the first day of kindergarten (today).
I’m tired. But I’m also adjusting and acclimating.
I have much to say, but I wanted to share a conversation between Amélie and me before I forget it. Today was her first day of kindergarten (pictures will eventually follow), but instead of making her smart, kindergarten seems to have made her…smarty.
Amélie: I want to go outside and play.
Me: I need to put Jack down for a nap, and then we can go outside.
Amélie: But it’s my swingset, and I want to go outside now.
Me: It may be your swingset, but I am your mother, and if I let you go outside now I won’t be able to see you while I am getting Jack down for his nap, and I don’t really want you outside if I’m not there.
Amélie: You’re not my mother. You’re my stepmother.
<sigh>
her stepmother? I have sacrificed myself on the altar of motherhood only to be informed that I’m not even her real mother? In that case, I’m going to live up to the part, hand her a broom, and have her sweep the chimney.
Thank you, Wheatland Mission, for the sweet sendoff.
We love you.
We’re going to miss you.
You have been our family.
