Good Things

I just had to post it, the first day of school picture:


Kinda Bright Out Here, Mama

I used to listen to a certain song over and over during the early stages of my pregnancy with the little V-meister – Good Things by the Bodeans.

In the hyper-vigilant state that is the first trimester of a first pregnancy, the threat of miscarriage was always a looming cloud over my head. A worrier by nature, I impatiently counted the days until the second trimester began, thinking that I could then relax and enjoy smooth sailing.

I didn't realize that there would always be a new worry to replace the old: childbirth itself, the threat of SIDS, an unquartered grape, an unattended pool.

I see now that this list goes on and on, but at the time my biggest concern was that the tiny life I carried would choose to stick around.

The song was my mantra:

No, no, no,
Don’t pass me over.
No, no, no.
Don’t pass me by.
See, I can see good things for you and I.
Good things for you and I.

It's this song that came to mind as I drove Vija to school for the first time today, and the thing that uncorked the tears I had been sure would not flow.

Hey, Vija, Vija.

There's good things yet for you and I!

Thanks for sticking with me, little bean.

Myliu,
Mama

Let's Just Put Her Back in the Womb

If I ever get around to putting the registration forms in the mail along with, say, a tuition check, my baby is going to start school next week.

Am I a sobbing wreck over it?

Not in the usual "my baby is all grown up woe is me what will I ever do without her oh my lord it seems like just yesterday" sense. I think she's been needing something other than a hovering, hand-wringing, lint-picking, spazbot mother and a baby brother whose idea of a good time is flipping light switches in her life for some time now.

In fact, I've been not-so-secretly anticipating the big day so that I could give the little J-dog the same kind of attention the V-meister got when she was his age. And regain some of the freedom that toting around only one child (never thought I'd say it) can bring.

OK, I'll just put it right out there: I can't wait for three entire hours every morning when I do not have to squelch an all-out boogerfest over the fact that oh my god, the toothbrush is not in the cup holder! or EGADS! Jonas touched my pillow! Or, horror of horrors! The stair gate is up and I CAN'T GET DOWNSTAIRS TO WATCH MICKEY MOUSE CLUBHOUSE!!!

There's that.

And yet.

What if she wanders away from the playground?
What if she's lonely?
What if the kids make fun of her accent?
What if they give her hell for still sucking her thumb?
What if she gets hurt?
What if she sucks at the little Montessori tasks?
What if she forgets how to speak in her mother tongue?
What if she goes to the potty and there's nobody there to wipe her butt?

What if she turns into an exquisite little human being, complete with friends, tastes, and memories all her own? No more lazy, rainy, cozy mornings drinking coffee and watching the rain all of us inside together, safe.

Dammit. I'm a sobbing wreck.

Mrs. Brady Wouldn't Do This

You know that little girl in the car commercial? The one who is talking non-stop about who-knows-what the entire time her dad is buckling her in and she continues to talk after he shuts the door to get in on the driver's side and then she's STILL talking as he's driving down the street?

That's my daughter.

Which is why every morning, I get up at 6:45 with the proverbial rooster (What? The rooster gets up at four?) to shower, have a cup of coffee, and eat a bite (MUST EAT) before the monologue begins. And that's how I got the boo-boo on my head today, trying to jump in the shower before said daughter spied me.

Just after turning on the water, I heard the pitter-patter of little feet coming down the hall. Then the sound of scratching at the door, followed by the doorjamb being shimmied in the way that someone who's just learned the procedure or comes from a country where there are no doors would do, then a glimpse of the little moppet head in the hula girl pajamas.

Head voice said, "GO! GO! GO! There's still time!"

But I had been discovered, and I didn't have a snowball's chance in H-E-double-hockey stick, anyway, because did you know how loud your noggin' smacking against the shower head can be?

"Good morning mama!!!!!!!"

Her happiness at seeing me is totally genuine, completely transparent. She has no idea that, each and every morning, I shamelessly plot ways to shower, drink coffee, and eat (MUST EAT) before she and her brother wake up. And there I am, hiding behind the shower curtain, holding my head and swearing (in my head voice, of course.)

What is wrong with me? MUST DO BETTER.

So I'm thinking maybe I'll hook myself up to an IV that will automatically begin pumping caffeine and nourishment into my body around, say 5:00 am, while I sleep, so I can be ready for my precious little ones at 6:45.

Are there any other morning kid dodgers out there? Because I would feel really bad if I was the only one.

But I would still do it.

The Moppet

Carrie, the Imaginary Friend

How do you tell a three-year-old that she is not, in fact, going to the birthday party of her imaginary friend, though you promised she could go after her brother's nap, hoping she'd forget?

So far, "Carrie" has not affected our lives much one way or the other. Vija talks about her all the time and we're always just like, "Oh, really? That's interesting."

We don't mean to be patronizing, it's just that when you don't know the person, what is there to say?

Oh, sometimes I ask her specific questions, such as, "What does Carrie look like? What does she say to you?" etc., etc., because I want to rule out the possibility that she's communicating with the spirit world, as Sylvia Browne instructed me to do. But otherwise, it's been no big deal.

Today, however, I found myself in a bit of a pickle with this birthday business. I mean, Vija had a present for Carrie and everything (a couple of cardboard bricks, but still). And all day whenever she started talking about how she's going to Carrie's birthday party, I told her, "OK, after Jonas wakes up from his nap, we'll go."

Now I see I should have just cut if off at the pass. But what could I have said? "There is no Carrie and there is no birthday party" just seems so gosh-darned mean. If only the birthday party was supposed to be at our house. Then we could all have sat around the little Ikea table, had tea, opened some presents.

But no.

It's at some undisclosed location on our street. Take that back - the street address, according to Vija, is "987665230517."

So, that helps.

Anyway, if there is anyone out there who can offer advice, I sure would appreciate it.


Vija and Carrie