'Round and 'round we go....

The cold season has hit our house like a merciless wrecking ball. First, my mom was sick, which means my daughter and niece got sick. Then I got sick, then I passed it back to the kiddo. We played hot potato with a head cold, and we all lost. Thankfully, we all seem to be past it now and life has resumed its normal dysfunction.

On a brighter note, the school year is in high swing, fall is unquestionably upon us, and I have about 50 adorable pumpkins in the garden for carving/pie/as-yet-unknown purposes. More on that later, when I can take a minute to figure out exactly what I'm going to do with it all. See you in a few days, and thanks for being patient. :)

You mean I get to LEAVE?!

I'm preparing for a weekend away from my house, husband, and child. Feel free to be jealous, it's ok. I'm almost tired enough to be jealous of myself. I barely know what to think, and I haven't had to pack since I got my stuff together for when the baby came. Four years ago. Are women without a chaperon allowed to travel these days? How very progressive. I swear, I barely remember the rules. Perhaps there's a notice posted in the town square.

In my absence, I expect both The Husband and The Girl to eat too much junk food, stay awake too late, and pretend they like going unwashed just to spite me. Me? I'll be with two of my besties, hanging out in museums and looking sophisticated while shopping for non-souvenir gifts. Then, a giant concert, the details of which I cannot divulge or predict.

It'll be fun, I know, and I'll be selfishly glad to be there with my friends while my family is lonely, hungry, exhausted and dirty at home, patiently (and sadly) awaiting my return. Because that's what they do when I leave, right? It's been so long, I mean when I get home back the grocery store, they appear to have just been having the best hour of their lives. Same thing with tending the garden and just about any time I leave them unattended, which is almost never. I always come in and think, "How sad they must have been without me," and there they are, laughing and rough-housing and playing games. How kind of those two to keep such brave faces on. How will they ever make it through three whole days? Poor dears.

Picture Day

"Picture Day? Already?!" It was the third day of school, and I was caught unaware. Totally. Completely. Off guard.

"Don't they, like, wait to see if kids are gonna drop out first? I can't believe this!" (You'll be surprised to know that my speaking voice is both informal and shrill. I whine a lot. No one likes to hear me talk.)

You're probably wondering what the big deal was. You may say, "Hey, Adrienne? What's the big deal? It's just Picture Day," and then you'll shrug like I'm the crazy one here and your friends will laugh at me. And that's fine. But this is the Big Deal: I hate Picture Day.

When I was a kid (wow, I'm really old), Picture Day went a little something like this:

• Wake up late.
• Remind Mom that it's Picture Day.
• Fake sick so you can go back to bed.
• No dice.
• Watch Mom freak out while you pretend to sleep.
• End up wearing something you hate.
• Cry.
• Beg.
• Get sick for real this time, but have no chance to stay home because you've already cried wolf this morning.
• Be angry for wasting a legitimate illness on a day you already faked Mom out.
• Get driven to school as you sulk in the backseat.
• Cry some more.
• Walk into class late, crying, in an outfit you hate.
• Be first in line for pictures.
• Blink when the flash goes off.
• Spend the rest of the day trying to pretend you aren't wearing your least favorite outfit OF ALL TIME.
• Wait three weeks.
• Hide the tear-stained-cheek, blinking, hair-a-mess, bad-outfit pictures in the bottom of your backpack.
• Try to hold out until after the order date before showing Mom.
• Lose the game.
• Watch as your parents buy as many pictures as they can afford without skipping a utility, then hand them out to everyone they see, even strangers, strangers' friends, and strangers' friends' kids. Also, people's pets.
  

Of course, now it's a little different and she did fine. I even got to choose the background color and give instructions to the photographer, which mainly consisted of short, abrupt sentences like, "Don't make her cry. Don't let her blink. Wipe her nose, for Pete's sake! Do a good job. Eat your veggies." We'll see how well s/he follows directions, assuming The Girl doesn't try to hide the proofs from me.

Gettin' Schooled

When I was little, I really didn't like school. Not at all. It wasn't the teacher. It wasn't the homework. It wasn't the lunch (although, in retrospect, it should have been). It wasn't the unwieldy number of books to read (which I loved and found rather diverting) or the front and back pages of multiplication. It wasn't even that the kid next to me ate my paste (hi, Lee). It was that... well... I was shy. I was terribly, horribly, no-good, verily shy. It was "someone come get this kid NOW" bad. I also wore glasses and cried a lot, and since I have really long eyelashes (which I consider my stand-alone good physical characteristic), those glasses were always streaked with tears. I was That Kid. I never wanted to go.

My acute social anxiety (which was then just called "being a baby") followed me into middle school, where it turned into straight-up Antisocial Behavior, and then I really didn't want to go to school. Ever. And of course, absences count against you. You miss work, you miss lessons, you miss too many days and they start calling your mom, who maybe didn't know you had missed so many days, then it's all downhill. So far and fast downhill that my daughter's spoon-bending genius of a mother almost failed every single grade. All of them. Because I was shy.

The Girl has been in school for a week now, and I can tell you with confidence that there is no way this kid is going to want to stay home. Ever. At School is her favorite place to be, nosing out Under My Feet and In the Tub in an unprecedented takeover that I sort of expected but not really. She is absolutely, positively, "take it down a notch, we're in WalMart" not shy. You probably have some idea what kind of relief this is. It's like when your kid is born and you realize it's an actual, tiny human, and not the unspeakable alien creature you anticipated. Or when you open the mailbox and it's not a portal to another world where everyone looks just like you. That kind of relief.

She regales us with tales of her friends Jasmine and Jenny, the boy who wouldn't let her use the brown marker even though it matched her shirt and not his, and the progress of her as-yet-unpublished memoir, "Today I Played with Play-Doh and You Didn't (don't you wish you were four?)." We're in talks with a major publishing house. One day she'll buy me a mansion atop a hill and an attractive manservant, all because I wanted a two-hour nap every afternoon. I'm glad she likes it, and that she wants to go. And that someday I'll be able to live on her massive book-selling income. Kids are awesome.

 

The First Day

It's the first day of Pre-K, and I just left the school. As a testament to my terrible driving skills and fear of collateral damage, I drove through the parking lot twice and found nowhere to stop that wouldn't result in destroying a vehicle or someone's body. Instead, I decided to park alongside the road (not sure if that's legal--please don't arrest me) and we walked from the corner, through the parking lot, and into the building. On the way, I asked a few questions, trying to feel out The Girl's ratio of excitement to fear. Here is a very slightly edited transcript:

"Are you excited?"

"Mm-hmmm."

"Yeah? Well, do you like your teacher?"

"Yes."

"Do you like your classmates?"

"The kids?"

"Yes, the kids. Do you like them?"

"Mm-hmm."

"That's good. I think you'll have a good da--Don't step in that! Someone should take their dog somewhere else to walk."

"That's yucky!"

"Good lookin' out, kid. So what are you going to do today?"

"I'm going to do my job. . . and share with all my people."

"Wow, really? When we get home we'll outline your campaign plan."

"I can color inside the lines, Mommy."

She really can, too.

I settled her into class and watched for a minute, hidden behind the door jamb and a group of other poorly hidden mommies and daddies. She sat quietly and smiled at the boy who sat beside her (who told me rather proudly that he had a green shirt on, twice), and as other parents with other big girls and boys pushed through, I stepped away and walked down the hall, out the door, then the eleventy blocks to my car, smiling all the way. She'll be fine there, with her people.

Shoes and clothes and school supplies--oh, my!

Today I bought went school shopping for my 4-year-old, who starts Pre-K in one week. I can't tell you how envious I am of her supplies list, awesome new shoes, and carefree disregard for my opinion on what is cool/pretty/appropriate. Yes, already we disagree on aesthetics, which means that by middle school I will have very little fight left in me for the "you're not wearing that" argument. Clearly, The Girl is a forward-thinking visionary. One with a really 80s-looking pair of tennis shoes, because I lost that argument.

As I wandered through the store, trying to find a four-pack of Play-Doh and an appropriate-size container of glitter, I tried to remember what I had to have for school all those many, many, many, many years ago. All I came up with was a) not glitter, b) definitely not Play-Doh, and c) eight crayons. Therefore, I conclude that school is far more entertaining than it was when I was there, and I demand a redo. I want to go! It sounds a heck of a lot more fun than doing laundry, paying bills, and making dinner.

On the other hand, the up-side to not being allowed in is a three-hour break from saying, "don't do that," cleaning up juice spills, and being thisclose to going insane. I think that's probably why we have Pre-K now, because I don't remember hearing about it when I was younger, and I'm fairly certain my mom would have packed me up and sent me on my precocious way had it been available. Whatever the reason, I am thankful for Pre-K, glad that glitter is on the official supplies list, and still a teensy bit envious that I can't sit in a couple times a week.

Garden party!

This year, my best-good friend and I decided to get a couple of plots at a community garden. We found out about the program a little later than most of the other urban farmers, and maybe too late to get much out of it, but we got out there with our girls and planted our seeds, despite lacking any real knowledge of how these things work or what we should do. We Googled, we watered, we waited, we fertilized (organically, because we're trendy and conscientious like that). And when we realized our seeds were a hopeless failure, we bought some potted plants and put those in. And we watered. And we waited. And we fertilized. And, lo and behold, our plants became bigger plants, then those plants got flowers, then – I have no idea how this happened – food starting growing on our plants.

 

WHAT?!

 

I imagined the entire adventure yielding the only smallest possibility of a strawberry or a green bean, neither of which we have gotten yet. But our kids have been helping us since the beginning (I use the word "helping" in seriousness), so real results are doubly more satisfying. They take turns watering, pulling weeds, and counting the vegetables (a trick to occupy them while we do things). The few zucchini we've pulled and the softball-sized cantaloupe we're watching have become events instead of expectations; any time something mundane can be turned into something rewarding, I'm all about it. Next week, when the squash are ready, I expect to have a party right in the middle of our garden, complete with dancing and entertainment. You know, just like every other day we're there.

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