bug and the sweet banana

That's a fact, Jack. Fact. F-A-C-T.

It's always a good idea to check children's homework:

© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana
           Charm School
        Damn Misunderstanding
        An Angel Underneath, Innocent and Sweet  

Solemn Warning

One of Natalie's daily writing assignments at school involves writing a few sentences and drawing a picture based on a random shape or line that the teacher draws on a piece of paper.

In this case, it's the black marker line that Natalie turned into part of a boot.

The text reads, "An ant is small. If you were an ant, you would be squished. You do not want to be an ant."

I love these assignments.
© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana

        Doot! Doot! Doot!
        Paper Conservationists

What's Old Is New Again

"Mommy! Mommy!" Natalie gushed after school. "We're going to make a cell phone at school—with two cans and a string!"

my swiss cheese memory

Connor went on a class field trip this week to Mount Vernon, George and Martha Washington's home on the banks of the Potomac River.

"I played tag on George Washington's lawn. Not very many people can say that," he bragged.

"Did you know that George Washington's sister had a home in Fredericksburg, where I went to college?"

"Oo."

"What is its name?" I ask myself. "'Ken'—not 'Kensington.' 'Ken—.' What is it? I can't believe I can't remember. I used to walk by it all the time. Well, anyway, George's sister's name was Betsy. Betsy Price."

"Oo."

I love that my audience of one is intrigued.

"Let me see what Google says about the name of her house," I mutter, typing "Betsy Price" in the search box. "Huh. Well," I stammer. "Betsy Price wasn't George Washington's sister, after all. Betsy Price is the mayor of Fort Worth."

"Mommy!" Connor scolds.

"George Washington's sister was Betty. Betty Washington Lewis, and her home is Kenmore. It was built in the 1770s."

Confusing the current mayor of Fort Worth with the first First Lady? That's me.

            Be Decent
            Basic Math 
               Connor Sees the Bright Side

the wild ones

"Connor, do you have any homework?"

"Never on Fridays. Who knows what could happen in two days. Too risky."

The Linneys: Living Weekends on the Edge



        a pioneer woman, I am not

can't hardly wait

Natalie will attend kindergarten in September. She's had her backpack stocked and ready to go since last October. She knows which dress she will wear. She has decided that she'll ride the bus with Connor, share a seat with him, and will sit nearest the window.

Natalie has a little more maturing to do before she is truly kindergarten ready, from taming her temper to using the bathroom when she needs to, not when she desperately needs to. Jim and I reminded her of this all at dinner one night, ending with, " . . . and you do want to go to kindergarten in the fall, right?"

Natalie looked at Jim so earnestly, those big blue eyes bright and wide, and said, "Oh, I want to go so hardly."

So damn sweet.

cheetahs, leopards, and survival

Natalie and stores do not mix. Example numero uno: She is two. Hear her roar. Natalie and craft stores really, really don't mix. Example numero dos: Bartender, A Cup of Cheer, Please.

She and I were at yet another craft store last week looking for items for Connor's school project. Connor's school mascot: cheetah. The most prevalent animal print in craft stores: leopard. Why is that? The patterns are close, but both Natalie and Connor know the difference between cheetah and leopard patterns. I could never get away with passing off leopard print as cheetah print. Never.

Just the same, I held leopard-patterned self-adhesive letters, wondering if I could get away using them for Connor's poster, when Natalie gasped and cried, "Ooooo!" Then, the sobbing began. "Oh! That paper just cut my thumb! I'm bleeding!" And then realization struck: "It's my sucky thumb! The thumb I suck! I need my sucky thumb to survive!"

I wrapped a tissue around the thumb—I always have a tissue in my pocket. Every pocket. If I don't have pockets, check my sleeves—set down the leopard letters and let Natalie's howl clear a path for us as we walked out of the store. If ever Natalie needs a motto, "Fear amputation at the infliction of a papercut," is a strong contender.

I tucked Natalie into the car, and she continued to sob about her thumb and her survival. And then, then she put two and two together and came up with 22: "Daddy wants me to stop sucking my thumb because I'm five now, but I need my thumb for survival! He's pushing me toward death! Why does he want me to die?!"

The papercut is on the mend. Natalie has made it through the past 36 hours, no demise in sight.


        she is two. hear her roar.
        bartender, a cup of cheer, please
        the heartthrob of the paint and crayon mob

there are lies, damn lies, and dog biscuits

Is this thing on?

It's been a while. I've been busy aging and taking care of Trouser, who has fallen ill again, and helping with a certain second-grader's homework.
But that's neither here nor there.

Actually.

Wait.

It is here. All here.

The aging: Hello, scary new decade.
The Trouser: We have a diagnosis now. Trouser has megaesophagus, which means peristalsis fails to occur, food pools in her esophagus, never quite making it to her stomach, and she is prone to recurring aspiration pneumonia.
And the homework, oh, the homework. It—like time—is aging me far too rapidly.

I wandered downstairs one day last week after a too-short night's sleep and heard Natalie hollering, "Lies. Lies! LIES!" I half expected to round the corner and find her wearing a corset, a petticoat, and a velvet gown with puff sleeves, enacting a Shakespeare play.

But, no.

There she stood in the living room, hair messy from sleep and wearing her "sleep dress," which, in our house, is simply a dress that I bought for Natalie to wear during the day that she insists on wearing only at night. Call it a "nightgown," and Natalie will correct you and call it a "sleep dress."

"Lies. Lies! LIES!" she continued.

"What are you doing, Natalie?"

She turns to me, annoyed. "I'm trying to get Liza's attention, but she's ignoring me."
"But why are you yelling about lies?"

"I'm not yelling about lies," she looks at me, half mystified, half annoyed. "I'm calling Liza. I've given her a nickname: Lies."

"Oh. She mustn't know that it is her nickname. Try callng her 'Liza' or 'Liza Bean' or 'Liza Jane.' One of those should work."

She ignores my suggestion. "Lies, let's go see Trouse," Natalie says, patting her thigh to get Liza to follow. Liza stays put.

I tried.


        full circle
        hippity-hop
        long name short

back at it

Natalie: "Connor? I'll miss you when you go to school."

Connor: "I go to school late in the morning—and you have ballet class today, so, hopefully, that will keep you busy."

Natalie: "I'll still miss you."

Connor: "OK. Thank you."

Natalie: "You're welcome."

divided trays, overcooked peas, and miniature milk cartons

"Mommy, do you have a hairnet?" Connor asked, clutching a book and a cup of hot tea.

 "A hairnet? No."

"Hmm. Well, Natalie and I are playing school. I'm the teacher. She's the student. And you, you're the lunchroom lady. You need a hairnet."

Hmm. Well, I can plop mashed potatoes on plates like no one's business. And—victory of victories—Connor has taught Natalie to read her very first book, so maybe he's on to something.

Peas?

playground games

Natalie climbed into the car after school one day and said. "We went out on the playground twice today. Two times." She holds up two fingers. Little girl has adopted my (admittedly annoying) tendency to say things twice, with a slight rephrasing: "Let's clean up the toys. Clean up the toys," I sing. And "We need three baskets. One. Two. And three."

But that's not what this post is about. Getting on with it . . .

"Oh, lucky you! What did you play?"

"I played 'Family' with Trevor."

"Oh, good."

"I was the mommy. Trevor was my husband. Parker and Harper were our son and daughter. Their names rhyme."

"They sure do. I was just thinking that. Parker, Harper. Parker, Harper. So what did you do as the mommy."

"I worked on the computer. I write."

"And Trevor? What did he do?"

"He cooked dinner."

Sounds familiar. Very, very familiar.
"I fancied up Trouser," Natalie said, so proud.


        the outsmarted schoolmarm
        the mocha in my mocha 

long name short

Natalie arrived home from school horrified, just horrified, that the boys that she plays superheroes with on the playground call her "Nat."
"'Nat' is not my name," she declared, crossing her arms and sticking her chin in the air.

"Does everyone at school call you 'Nat'?" I've noticed artwork coming home where a teacher has scrawled "Nat" on the bottom, but I figured that it was a space-saving shortcut on the smaller art pieces.

"Carson does, Mason does, Jack does," Natalie said, rattling off her classmates' names. "But not Parker."

Parker is Natalie's preschool sweetheart. "He's going to be Batman when he's in his 60s," Natalie told me yesterday.

"When the boys call me 'Nat,' Parker tells them, 'Her name is 'Natalie.'"

Natalie quotes Parker not in a spat-out-in-anger way, but as an honoring, royal, sound-the-trumpets proclamation: "Her name! Is! Natalie! And thou shalt not disrespect her!"

When Connor was just little, he called Natalie "Nally," and I thought for sure that the pronunciation would stick. Natalie pronounces Connor's name with a, well, with some sort of accent: "Corner," she calls him. I think, though, that these two will remain "Connor" and "Natalie," "Bug" and "Sweet Banana."


        silly goosehound     
        baby isser
        zsa zsa no more

the talk

Today is National Grammar Day, and anyone who knows me knows the grammarian within me. Lend a hand to the persnickety among us who try to make the world safe for grammar: Don't misplace your "onlys," don't go all passive on us, and, for goodness sake, don't dangle any participles.

 

 
Natalie and I had The Talk. Sure, she's only four years old, and, sure, it's a lot for her mind to process, but it had to be done.

Oh, goodness, not that talk. The Me-Versus-I Talk. This one: "It's 'Connor and I would like to go for a bicycle ride,' not 'Me and Connor would like to go for a bicycle ride.' How would you say that only you wanted to go for a ride? 'Me want to go for a ride'? Or 'I want to go for a ride'?"

"I want to go for a ride."

"Right! 'I want to go for a ride.' So, if you both want to, you would say, 'Connor and I would like to go for a ride.'"

"OK." She's catching on, I can just tell.

"But then, what if you wanted to tell me that Daddy gave you and Connor cookies?"

"Daddy gave us cookies."

Touché, little one. Touché.

"Right. Or you could say, 'Daddy gave Connor and me cookies,' but not 'Daddy gave Connor and I cookies.' Do you know why?"

Silence. Eyes glazed. I'm pretty sure that means that she's getting it, that she's catching on. Pretty sure.

"Well, because, which sounds right: 'Daddy gave me cookies'? Or 'Daddy gave I cookies'?"

"Daddy gave me."

"Yes!" My enthusiasm startles my little grasshopper. "If ever you aren't sure whether to use 'me' or 'I,' just take the other person out of the sentence and figure out how you would say the sentence with just yourself in it. That will tell you what to do."

She looks at me, perhaps puzzled, perhaps hoping that this whole conversation is over, perhaps marveling at the wonder that is her mother. Hard to say.

I imagine Natalie later, trying to sort out my ramblings, and a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip where Calvin's dad tries to explain revolutions per minute, comes to mind:
My doubts ease up a bit when, at dinner the next evening, Natalie corrects Connor: "It's Natalie and I, Connor. Natalie and I." Little girl was right.

Next lesson: When to use "myself."


        with thanks to vivian and kit
        all tangled up
        charm school
        a book by its cover

squashed intentions, smashed fingers and squished tomotoes

I am a PTA dropout. The group effort just didn't work for me. 

I explained to my friend Liz, who didn't let the PTA down, that I operate more like the Unabomber: independently, but with intent. And without the cabin. And the woods. And, uh, the beard. And, you know, the bombs. And, well, the malice.

I'm a dyed-in-the-wool introvert.

So, instead of volunteering at the school or helping with fundraisers and such, I worked individually―but in cahoots, we'll say―with a friend, Jen, when the number of car crashes at the main intersection near the school concerned us. She and I lobbied the two cities that shared jurisdiction of the intersection to replace the lone stop sign with a three-way traffic light. It took some time and pressure, but, we did it, and car crashes at that intersection have dropped noticeable. Go, us. Rah rah. Siss-boom-bah.

And that brings us to last night. (Don't worry, I'm not segueing into details of a car wreck here.)

The PTA hosted a Valentine's dance at Connor's school last night. Connor hemmed and even hawed all week about whether he wanted to attend. I knew that he was curious about the whole idea of a school dance, but understood his apprehension of The Great Unknown.

He flipped and flopped, committed to going, slammed his sister's hand in the car door accidently in his excitement as we set out, declared that he wasn't "going to any stinky old dance" as he dealt with the horror of his mistake, and then cast the decision to go or not on me.

I would have been content to curl up on the couch in my jammies, watch a movie, and fold laundry, but decided that we three―Connor, Natalie, and I―would tackle that stinky old Valentine's dance, head on.

And so, we went.

And when we walked into the overstuffed cafeteria with its dim lights, red and white streamers, pink and purple balloons, and not-loud-enough music, Connor stopped short, squeezed my hand, and announced, all sorts of matter of fact, "I'm overwhelmed."

I was, too, buddy. I was, too.
We stuck it out for 45 minutes. Connor and Natalie laughed and socialized a bit, and Natalie got her groove on.
When we arrived back home, I changed into my flannel red-and-white snowflake jammies and curled up on the couch with my two little urchins to fold baskets and baskets of laundry and watch a documentary about mountain lions.

It was only when I changed clothing that I discovered that I had attended my third-ever school dance―the first, for those at home counting on their fingers, was the ninth-grade prom, the second was a junior ring dance at college―with a squished tomato on my backside.

No matter. I like to think that I wore that tomato well, and Connor, Natalie, and I―two introverts and one extrovert―survived a school dance. Go, us.


        karma wears a floofy pink dress 
        How to Be Unruly by Jennifer Linney
        . . . and their hearts go boom-boom-boom
        Connor, Pat Collins, and me

lemony goodness

Last April, I had my first ever panic attack during a tornado outbreak, not because the idea of a potential twister terrified me (even though it did), but because my children were not with me. Connor and Natalie were at school. One was just two miles away; the other, 29 miles away. I was safe at home, but that didn't matter because my children were not with me.

Yesterday, when I heard the news of the school shootings in Newtown, Connecticut, I thought about that sense of panic. The desire—no, need—to be where one's children are, to protect them, to hold them, to be there with them and for them, is so strong. I never loved school pickup like I did yesterday.

I always adore holding Natalie's and Connor's hands, but yesterday, when I grasped theirs, I held them consciously, noting how it felt to wrap my larger hand around their smaller, softer hands, feeling their warmth, their frailty.

When I had gathered both Natalie and Connor and hugged them with all of my might and then some, Connor stumbled backward, smiling and eyes sparkling.  "Goodness, Mama," he said. "We need to write 'lemon juice,' on the grocery list, because we just squeezed all of the lemon juice out of each other."

That's what we say when we hug like there is no tomorrow: "Squeeze the lemon juice out of me."

Wishing that schooldays were still about only paste and crayons, boys pulling pigtails and girls playing hopscotch, backpacks too large for wee little backs and cafeteria-style green beans.

be decent

So. My son. Connor. You're familiar with him, yes? He's learning about early Native American culture this week at school and brought home a book that includes the words "tepee" and "wigwam." Connor showed the book to me and said, "We're learning about Native American culture. Some Native Americans had hoohas."

"Maybe you mean tepees? Wigwams. Wampum? Totems." I spurted desperately all of the similar such two-syllable words featuring consonance or assonance that I could dredge from the depths of my mind on such short notice.

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Tepees," Connor conceded, unaware, I think (and hope), of the meaning of the slang that he had slung.

My little man's little slipup brought me right back to that summer day of my childhood when I announced at the dinner table, "I want a Chihuahua," but using the Italian slang word for, well, hooha, instead of "Chihuahua." And I didn't even know any Italian. It just kind of came out.

My father's appalled "What?!" still rings in my ears.

My son and I. We've come full circle.


        safe at home
        oo-chee oo-chee oo-chee
        charm school 
        circle of confusion

love on the playground

My little girl is smitten.

Natalie hopped into the car after school, beaming. "I patted Parker's back," she told me.

"Oh, you did? Why?"

"He was sad that another boy kicked over what we were building on the playground, so I hugged him, and said, 'It's OK,' and that's when I patted his back."

"Oh, that was nice of you! You're a good friend."

"Parker told me, 'I'm loving on you, Natalie. You're sweet.'"

Oh, my.

"He loves me."

Oh dear.

Natalie and I tootled across town to pick up Connor from school. She could barely contain herself as Connor climbed into the truck: "Connor! Connor! Parker loves me. He's giving all. the love. to me." She hugged herself, content.

Connor blushed and smiled, seemingly happy for his sister but looking to me to verify Natalie's story.

"Yep. Natalie hugged Parker when another boy on the playground wasn't playing nicely," I said, giving him the backstory.

"And Parker said, 'I love you, Natalie.'" She tried to hide her smile. "And I said, 'Thank you.'"

Connor leaned his head back, exhaled, and muttered, "Natalie is growing up just too fast."


           sweet heart    
           something tells me I'm into something good
           the lady approves

 

basic math

"Hey, Mama," Connor said as he stepped out of the tub and into a bath towel. "Two plus one plus two equals five."

"You're right. Are you learning to add three numbers at school?

"No, not yet. Would you like to know how I figured that out?"

"I would." His fingers. He used his fingers, I figured.

"Well," Connor said, "I have two nipples, one penis, and two feet. Two plus one plus two. Five, altogether."

If he strips during his next math quiz, I, for one, will know why.


            on the fly
            no bone(r)s about it
            sock it to me one more time

architectural marvels

When we drive to one of the neighboring towns, we see the top of a home that resembles a castle peeking up above the treeline. Each and every time that we drive by, Natalie gushes, "There's the castle!"

She fell victim to the grunchies a few weeks ago, because Connor had a schoolday while she did not. The girl loves schooldays. I drove along, running errands with the pouty face in the backseat, talking about all that she does on nonschooldays. Nothing cheered her.

But then, I saw the pointy copper roof of the "castle's" highest turrets. "Would you like to drive past the castle?" I asked.

"The castle?" Her eyes brightened.

"The castle."

And so, we did. We pulled off to the side of the road, and Natalie wondered aloud about the princess who lives in the "castle" and then, shucking that idea, she imagined that we lived in the "castle" and decided which windows were her bedroom's windows and how she would play with Trouser and Liza and her imaginary horse in the yard. When it finally came time for Natalie to return to school, she and I charted yet another route there, because there are about 12 different ways that I could drive to her school. I am on a quest to find the best route, weighing ease of travel and time spent traveling against roadside interest (gotta keep the view in mind), the number of railroad crossings (100-car freight trains can really slow us down), the number of school zones (again with the slow-downs), road construction (more slow-downs), the number of horses within sight, and, well, road comfort. One road that we could take is just excessively jouncy. I used to think that Interstate 287 across Staten Island, New York, was the most potholed, jarring road. A portion of Harmon Road, here in Fort Worth, steals that title.

Natalie frightened me out of my morning-drive stupor one morning when she gasped—gulping pretty much all of the air out of the passenger compartment, I'm sure—and gushed, "A princess fence! It's so beautiful!"

A princess . . . fence? I've never heard of such a thing. I looked, and there it was. A princess fence. And just like that, I knew that we had found the best route to school, one set of railroad tracks, three schools zone, one patch of road construction, and one awkward roundabout drive-north-then-east-then-south-to-head-east segment and all.

        because even princesses take swim lessons 
        word to your mother 
        peg leg, eye patch, tutu, fairy wings 
        the royal flush 
        springtime temps. short sleeves. bubbles. and the requisite fairy wings.

connor sees the bright side

Interrupting our long haul up the California coast for this news flash.

"We were late to school yesterday," I said, fighting the urge to stand with my arms akimbo, hip jutted, toe tapping, tongue tsk-tsking.

"Yeah," Connor replied, sounding so much like Eeyore. He had resisted my attempts to wake him early. He and Natalie had engaged in a knock-down, scream-and-fight, have-it-out tirade before breakfast. And during breakfast, they argued about who was looking at whom. Never mind that they sit across the table from one another.

"Did you have to get a tardy slip?"

"Yes, but I was first in the tardy-slip line!"

Setting attainable goals, that's us.

        it's mine. all mine. 
        buzzkill 
        the end is here

first of many

Natalie all but pounded down the schoolhouse doors this morning. It was opening day at her new school, and we arrived several minutes a whole lot of minutes early. <Go, me!>
She has been counting down to this big first day, so those last few minutes before the teachers opened the school doors ticked down at an excruciatingly slow pace.
The wait proved worthwhile: Toy horses beckoned
and so did the playground, the virtues of which Natalie has been singing since she first spied it last week.
The girl knows what she likes. (Connor does, too. For example, he does not like this photo. "Hmm," he said. "That's . . . awkward. Not quite the look I was going for." Something with his stance. Shh. Don't tell him it's here.)
©Jennifer Linney.

        old pro
        distraught: adj: agitated with doubt or conflict or pain
        ladies who lunch
        apron strings

spitfire in the schoolhouse

Natalie and I attended Meet the Teacher at her new preschool this morning.
My little spitfire couldn't have been more excited.

©Jennifer Linney
YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . .
she could be dancing, yeah 
school? arg. 
mark this, baby 

first of first

It's the first day of school here under our slice of sky.
Last year I dreaded letting go. This year, I dreaded packing that first of 180 lunches. Call me fickle. Or maybe, like this guy, I've just grown up.
And, look: I have. It has been a long time since my first days of school. Here I am, starting kindergarten, in September 19—Look! Over there!—78. Aw, missed it. I still remember the texture, thickness, and heavy weight of that (short! very short!) dress.

Hellllloooo, 1970s polyester. And hello, stems.

And here I am, toothless at the bus stop—and more sensible in easy, breezy cotton—on the first day of first grade.

 
Connor has been counting down the days until today, which can mean only one thing: I bored him sufficiently this summer, making school the more enticing option.
I'd wallow in self-pity and mom guilty, but I like the idea of Connor enjoying school. And I like thinking that maybe, just maybe, getting ready and out of the house in the morning won't be such a struggle. School begins 20 minutes earlier than it did last school year. I need all the positive thinking that I can get.

Natalie is home with me all of this week. She returns to school—at a new preschool—after Labor Day. She, too, is looking forward to her first day and was dreadfully disappointed to hear that she starts several days after Connor.
I'm either doing something right or something woefully wrong. Children who enjoy school? Yeah, I'll take that. 

© Jennifer Linney.
YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . . 
picky picky
a square is a rhombus, but a rhombus isn't a square
our seedling
the end is here 

like peas and carrots

. . . and this is what heartache looks like: That's Connor, stopped in his tracks, eyeing the moving truck parked in his best girl Presley's driveway. She and her family moved to the east coast this past week.

Presley has been such a good, sweet friend to both Connor and Natalie. She is the first friend that Connor ever allowed to see his silly, goofy side. Gotta love that about a girl. Hers is the first friendship that Connor ever truly embraced. He'll be lost next school year without her.
Those two spent countless afternoons after school bicycling and giggling around a neighbor's shrub that Connor and Presley named "The Butterfly Tree." Butterflies flocked to it and had no qualms about landing on them.

Presley held Connor's hand every chance that she could get: while walking from school to the car line, during the drive home from school, and, here, while standing in the moving truck, hidden behind Natalie: Natalie enjoyed Presley's company and gave her hugs when we saw her at morning dropoff.

Who would have known that the cute little brown-haired girl who we dubbed "Sparkly Pink Backpack Girl" on the first day of school would become Connor's biggest fan, confiding in her mom that, surely, Connor would receive the "Spur of the Week" award at school and the Principal's Award at the end of the school year? It turns out that Sparkly Pink Backpack Girl is a good judge of character: Connor received both awards.

If I know Presley's mom—and I'm so happy that I do—she is all weepy, just like me, reading this. Goodbyes suck.
© Jennifer Linney.

YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . .
taking charge
. . . and their hearts go boom-boom-boom
discerning taste
the heartthrob of the paste and crayons mob
sweet heart

the end is here

. . . and that's it: Kindergarten is over. One hundred and eighty days, and we never quite mastered the fine art of getting out of the house on time. My chronically early self has been writhing with agony all school year.

Next school year. There's always next year, when school starts 20 minutes earlier. Curses. We're doomed.

Connor wrote this note to his beloved teacher, explaining, "I want to make this note nice, so Ms. Denham will be proud." He also said that he wrote his name, and the exclamation mark that always follows it, "special for her, with hearts for love."


Connor and some of his friends:
And  with his best girl, Presley:

faster than a— well, you know

I'm about to sigh a parenting cliché in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1: They grow up so fast. Natalie's first year of preschool came to an end last week.
Little Girl took to school just fine, despite all my fears and anxieties and heartache. She ventured into school without begging and pleading and besieging me to not leave her there. She mixed and mingled and fell in with a circle of friends. She prided herself on making the boys laugh at lunchtime.

I picked up Natalie from school on Tuesday, catching the tail end, so to speak, of the petting zoo that had set up camp outside. One of Natalie's heartthrobs, Carter, held open the door as we paraded into the school to collect her belongings. As Natalie approached the door, she said, "Thank you, Carter, for holding the door." My eyes opened wide when, as she walked by, Natalie placed her hand on Carter's belly, her fingertips just barely touching his shirt, and let her hand trace a trail from his belly to the small of his back  with the confidence and grace and savvy of a vixen.

Fire. Cracker.

And oh my.

When Carter walked past as Natalie packed up her backpack, she held the skirt of her dress out as far as her arms could stretch and said, "See my dress, Carter?' He mustn't yet have developed an eye for fashion: Carter merely glanced and said, "Cool."

Later that evening, Natalie announced, "Carter laughs at me, he's sweet to me, he helps me. He's my boyfriend."

"How does he help you?" I asked. 

"He helps me with puzzles." And then she added sternly, as if she wanted to make sure that we knew that she was no delicate damsel in distress. "And only puzzles."

They so totally do grow up so fast. Too fast.
© Jennifer Linney.

YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . .
apron strings 
distraught: \di-ˈstrȯt\: adj: agitated with doubt or conflict or pain
old pro
ladies who lunch

finally, an answer to that age-old question

Ever wonder wonder wonder wonder who <boom> who wrote the book of love?

Wonder no more. Connor brought this unfinished manuscript home from school yesterday.
I present to you, the author.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.
YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . .
all you need is love. love is all you need.
it's about love

how to make a mother cry in one easy step

Step 1: Send home work from preschool showing her child's efforts to write her own name.

It's that easy.

I was similarly afflicted when Connor first wrote his name.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

see them fly

Soon after word got out that I was expecting Connor, a friend passed along all of her parenting books. Among them was one called The Irrepressible Needs of Children. Or something like that. (I never did read it. My children, it seems, needed me.)

I'm thinking about writing a companion book: The Irrepressible Needs of Puppies, because, let me tell you, two puppies are, like, four times the work of just one.And after I finish penning that book, I figure that I might as well just change Holly and Liza's names to "Beck" and "Call" because those redhead snippets are running me ragged.

In other news, Connor has been marveling at my <ahem> mad typing skillz. He has asked several times, "How is it possible that you can type so quickly, with all of your fingers, and not look at the keyboard?"

I pieced together an explanation that made sense to me, at least, filling his mind with thoughts of muscle memory and practice and an oft-used backspace key.

Earlier this week, Connor watched intently as my fingers clickety-clacked across the keyboard. He broke out of a dreamy-eyed trance to ask, "Do your fingers have eyes?"Connor's ah-ha moment was no more far-fetched than the one that I had as a preschooler. I had fallen from a piece of playground equipment, and while the teachers fussed over my bloodied leg, where a yellow Lego brick that I had fallen on lay embedded in my knee, I had the epiphany of a (four-year-old's) lifetime: If a Lego stuck so well in my knee, I reasoned, then I must be made of Legos. How else could the Lego brick stay so well in my knee? Of course! People are Lego creations!

Cue the apple-and-tree comments riiiiight . . . now.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

old pro

Natalie's preschool teacher tells me that the Sweet Banana's first few days have gone really quite well. Natalie cried only today when two splinters found their way into her thumb. (Oh, the drama that ensued over their removal, let me tell you.)

But backing up a moment.

Yesterday, Natalie's very first day, was The Best First Day of School in the History of First Days of School, Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever: The class decorated cupcakes for Valentine's Day.

Cupcakes + Natalie = Oh, yeah. So there.

And here, our little artist works on a masterpiece:
And her scratch art:
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

distraught: \di-ˈstrȯt\: adj: agitated with doubt or conflict or pain

Natalie made small talk with me this morning, sitting at the countertop bar while I emptied the dishwasher.

"You're haircut looks very nice, Mommy. I really very like it."

"Oh, thank you, Natalie. That's nice of you to say." I had spent a good chunk of Saturday morning at the salon while Connor and Natalie stayed home with Jim and the lumps of love that are Trouser, Holly, and Liza.When you were gone, I was very distraught," Natalie said, casting her eyes downward and to the side.

"You were what?" Surely I hadn't heard correctly.

"Distraught. I was very distraught while you were gone getting your hair cut."

"Oh my. Distraught.""Distraught" just might describe me this evening, because tomorrow <deep breath> tomorrow Natalie steps bravely (I hope) into the big wide world of preschool. Her lunch is packed. Her nap mat, laundered and smelling like home. Her clothing, laid out.

Natalie will be in good, familiar hands, I know that: A friend is the director of the school that Natalie will attend, and she is also Natalie's teacher. But I also know that Natalie will feel a bit sad and perhaps a bit overwhelmed. She'll want the comfort that is me, and she'll cry. And I feel distraught knowing that I won't be there to help Natalie find her calm, that I won't be the one who snuggles her close and feels the hot tears on her thick pink cheeks, that I won't be the one who makes it all better.Connor was just about Natalie's age when he started preschool. Natalie was eight months old, and I felt as if I were farming out the care of my son, my firstborn. The guilt. The despair. The mental anguish when Connor clung tight to me, sobbing, begging me not to leave him.I've known from the get-go that this has had to happen, that my grasp on my little urchins' hands would have to loosen at some point. But I can't keep from thinking, Have I done enough? Have I made the most of my stay-at-home-motherhood? Somehow, I think I haven't.

I remember sitting in my glider with a days-old Connor, wailing through my postpartum haze over the thought of Connor traipsing off to school one day. The idea of him standing at a bus stop among older children, walking wide-eyed through school corridors, tore right through me with such sadness.I know, intellectually, that Natalie will be OK for this, that her first days at preschool will not scar her for life. But I also remember how frightened and all alone and big-of-eyes-but-small-of-body I felt when I first ventured off to preschool.

It's such a big world, and they're just so small. I hope I can do this.

©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.
YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . .
big day
apron strings

up against the curb

How I know that I celebrate far too excessively when I parallel park perfectly on my first attempt: Natalie and I spent much of last week touring preschools. I drove right past one of our prospects and doubled back.

As I swooped around, Natalie—who must have noticed that only street parking was available—clasped her hands together and said, "Oo! Are we going to parallel park, Mommy? I love parallel parking."
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

cover girls

Connor and his classmates visited the school library this week.

"We were allowed to select a book from the shelves all on our own! For the first time!" Connor reported. He chose a book about ballerinas, "because the ballerinas on the cover are really very pretty," he told me.

Maxim, Esquire, Playboy, I have a future subscriber, I just know it.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

he gets his drawing chops from me

Connor arrived home from school on Friday with a backpack full of holiday-themed art projects.

Here, we have his mug on a wreath, fit to be tied:
And here, he elfed himself:
(I'll admit it: I snort—in the most lady-like fashion, mind you—every time that I look at Connor Elf. Jim and I have thought from day one that Connor resembles a wood nymph, so the elf—complete with hippity-hoppity legs—is just perfect.)

And then, there is this:
Persnickety old grammarian me, I even love the misspellings. And Connor is all about exclamation marks these days, so the multitude of them is just right.

But, even better, is that Connor's drawing resembles the découpaged, avant-garde, er, masterpiece—yes, that's the word that I was searching for: masterpiece—that I made as a five-year-old kindergartner, way back in the day:
Same age, same grade, and we even have the same feet and the same smile.

Follow the links below to see more of our artistic endeavours.

nice and smooth and shiny
our little picasso
on display
zee artiste at vork
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

she of a whole lot of faith

Natalie and I brought Connor to school this morning and then made our way toward the rest of our day. We puttered quietly down the road, over train tracks and through school zones, past longhorn cattle and long-lashed llamas.

As we slowed to a stop at a traffic light, Natalie spoke up from the back seat. "Mommy? Why doesn't Connor ride a school bus?"

"Well, observant girl," I said, "Because he would have to get to the bus stop at the time that we are usually just sitting down to eat breakfast and because school buses don't have seat belts."

"Oh, Mommy. It's OK. Connor will sit still," Natalie assured me. "He won't wiggle. He won't turn. He won't jump, dance, or leap. He'll just sit, I know he will."

Sweet girl, having such faith in her big brother.

(I'm still not going to let him ride the bus. Here's why.)
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

put another log on the fire. it's warm outside.

The weather these last few days has been balmy with a chance of balmy. Back into the closet went the long sleeves and cardigans, out came the short sleeves for one more hurrah.

This morning when we reached Connor's school, he struggled to loosen his seat belt. I stepped in to help, but had already taken Natalie from her seat and worried that if I let go of her warm little hand, she might get squished by a car in the parking lot.

"Stand right here," I told her, pointing to a spot that corralled her between me, the open passenger door, and the vehicle itself.

Natalie obliged, but then Little Girl got her groove on and danced there in place, getting down with her bad self.

"Can you stand still for just a moment longer, Natalie? Freeze right there for just a minute, love."

"Brr," Natalie said, wrapping her arms around herself and pretending to shiver despite the muggy air.

I'm going to have to introduce her to the game of freeze tag. Next sunny day. My yard. Bring a picnic lunch.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

butterflies sleep in trees. coyotes sleep in the ground. birds sleep in nests with twigs all around.

Natalie sat at the kitchen table, nibbling raspberries off her fingertips."Mommy?" she asked between mouthfuls.

"Yes, Natalie."

"Where do butterflies sleep?"

"Butterflies? I think they sleep in trees or in shrubs."

"Oh."

She slips a raspberry off her littlest finger.

"Mommy?"

(Before the stuttering made its surprising appearance, this was Natalie's latest. She asked, "Mommy?" and waited for me to say, "Yes, Natalie," before she continued.)

"Yes, Natalie."

"Where do coyotes sleep?"

"In a little burrow in the ground."

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Natalie."

"Where do . . . hmm . . . where do birds sleep?" She's quizzing me now.

"Birds sleep in their nests."

"That's right! Good job, Mommy!" She gives me more credit than Connor once did.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Natalie."

"Where do bears sleep?"

"In a cave in the woods."

"In a deep, dark lair!" Natalie says, finishing the first line of one of our favorite books, Bear Snores On, which I had quoted unwittingly. We read the book, written by Karma Wilson, a lot.

 A lot-a lot.

A lot-a lot-a lot. A fun read with captivating illustrations? We're so there.

We've got a slew of Wilson's books on our shelf that I am always more than happy blatantly delighted to read. 

I bowled Connor over with my enthusiasm this evening when I read on his kindergarten newsletter that this week his class would study Bear Snores On. I so want to be a kindergartner again, but just for this week.

Remember this post, where I wrote about our tendency to get hooked on certain books for a week or so at a time? Well, when we road-tripped from Texas to Montana and Idaho two summers ago, Wilson's Sakes Alive! A Cattle Drive was the book in constant rotation. As we bid farewell to a little speck of a town where we had stopped for lunch, Jim and I both spotted a sign:
And we both hollered, "Sakes alive! A cattle drive!"

We've got another here in Fort Worth: 
Karma Wilson has graciously offered up as a giveaway an autographed copy of her latest Bear book, Bear's Loose Tooth.
Our copy of the book has quickly become one of Natalie's favorites. I think she feels a kinship of sorts with Bear: While reading it one of those first few times, she said, "Look! Bear is missing a tooth just like me!"
To enter to win the book, simply leave a comment below telling me which book you most love to read to your child or grandchild or any other little sprites in your care.

I'll select a winner at random on Friday.

Ready. Set. And go.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

it's mine. all mine.

I haven't got a name for my fumbling, bumbling alter ego—the one who once tossed trash from the car into the garage bins, along with her car keys—but I'm thinking that she needs one.

She has accomplished far too much to continue nameless. She places the Slip 'n' Slide on fire ant piles. She crushes dreams and squashes desires like no one's business. She sets up her daughter for wardrobe malfunctions. She makes questionable word choices. She
shops horrifically. And after yesterday's debacle, it is clear that it is high time that she had a name.

Yesterday, fatigue sneaked up on me. I felt like I used to feel during those four-in-the-morning nursings when Connor was wide awake and Ready to Get This Day Started! and I struggled to keep my spinning, twirling, so-desperate-for-sleep eyes open.

I consider brewing a cup of coffee, but the thought of slipping into the syrupy goodness of a nap trumped that cup of get-up-and-go.

And, wouldn't you know? Luck was on my side: Natalie announced that she was tired. "Is it nappytime?" she asked, hopeful.

Hotdiggitydog. It is.

I set the alarm on my phone to wake us at 2:30, so we would have time to wake and freshen up before we fetch Connor from school at three o'clock. And then, we two girls snuggle in for a long autumn nap.

At some point, I drift reluctantly from sleep. Hmm. It's been a while. It's probably about time to wake up. The responsible me suggests that I check the time: "I'd hate to be late picking up Connor from school," she says, wagging her finger at me. The exhausted me says, "Dude. You set an alarm. Sleep."

And because the tired mind is a persuasive mind, I nestle back into my heap of covers and fall asleep to the tst-tst-tst sound of Natalie sucking her wee little thumb. I wake next to the sound of my phone thump-thump-thumping a guitar riff. I'm cuddling my cheek against Natalie's bare foot. And I know—I just know (with quite a bit of dread)— who is on the line.

"Hello?" My voice has that undeniable "Yeah. I've been sleeping. What of it?" sound to it.

"Mrs. Linney? This is the elementary school. Connor is here with me and—"

I glance at the clock. 3:17. 3:17! Technology failed me all day yesterday, so it stands to reason that the alarm that I had set would take a pass, too.

"Oh, goodness!" (For the record, that is not the word that I wanted to use. At all.) And, of course, in my dreamy nappytime delirium, I feel the need to explain—no, confess: "I fell asleep."

Honesty might be a lonely word, and honesty might be the best policy, but blah-bitty-blah-blah-blah. I really could have kept that little tidbit about falling asleep to myself.

"I'll be right there," I say. Now I'm awake.

I scoop Natalie from the bed. "We have to pick up Connor," I explain.

"Huh? Connor?" She's confused. She puts her thumb back in her mouth and falls asleep on my shoulder.

I race toward the garage and race just as quickly back to the bedroom, when I chuck off my slippers and step into my shoes. Then, it's back toward the garage.

"See you soon, Trouser. We have to go."

Again with the unnecessary statements. Trouser looks up at me from the sunny spot on the kitchen floor. She's all drowsy-eyed and rumply of fur. If she had thought bubbles, this one would read, "Really? You couldn't just slip out quietly?"

The route out of our neighborhood seems painstakingly indirect, and, of course, the longest. freight train. ever. slithers leisurely across the very tracks that I need to cross to reach Connor's school.

"Timing!" I holler to the train gods.

We jounce over the tracks as soon as the gates rise up. I skip the part where I say, "Ge-de-ge-de-gump," like I do when we drive over bumpy train tracks. I zip closer and closer to the school, but then slow to a torturous crawl in the 20 mph school zone.

Parking is no trouble at this hour. I have my choice of spots along the curb right in front of the school. (Yay, me.)

And then, I do what can only be described as the parenting equivalent of the Walk of Shame.

Connor has his face pressed to the glass wall of the office. A teacher walks out of the office and just stands there in the lobby, looking at me as I struggle to heave open the ridiculously heavy doors, which, I'm convinced, are filled with lead. The secretaries, both of them, look up. And the teacher sitting with Connor? She just looks at me. She doesn't say a word. She doesn't return my weak smile. She just looks.

That coveted Mother of the Year award? This year, it's mine. I have clinched it, baby.

©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

discerning taste

Connor moaned and groaned awake. "Oh, I wish I were back in pre-k."

"Oh? Why is that?" I tried to find the elusive chipper version of me. I haven't seen her in quite a while and think that it might, perhaps, be time to issue an all-points bulletin for her safe, speedy return. I dread the struggle of getting Connor up and going and ready for school—dread it—and I have a hard time hiding that little fact lately.

"Well, because when I went to pre-k, I had to go to school for only three days, and the days were shorter," Connor explained, stretching and yawning but still not out of bed.

"Do you miss your friends from pre-k?" ←That right there? That was me, trying desperately to redirect and keep the conversation going, thinking that, maybe, just maybe, if I set Connor's thinker in gear, he'd step out of bed without realizing it.

"I miss Audrey," he said, quickly and so sure of himself.

"Oh, I like Audrey. What do you miss most about her?"

"Well, she's scientific," Connor said. He's sitting up now. "Even more scientific than me. No matter how scientific I became, Audrey was always more and more scientific. One time, we were working on the computer, and Audrey took a piece of paper and folded it up and built a little computer out of it. She just got right down to business. That would've taken me months and months to figure out. Audrey is very scientific."

Connor was up and out of bed now, chattering on about his sweet, intelligent friend.

I love a man who appreciates beauty and smarts.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

taking charge

Remember yesterday's post where I discussed Connor and his new school friends? Well, soon after I shared it on the blog, I picked up Connor from school, and—wouldn't you know?—he climbed into the truck and said, "So, Mama? I invited Presley over to play at our house after school next Friday. She said yes.""You did?! Good job, Connor!" Never mind that he might have checked with me first. He took initiative.

Connor's courage—and his plans—surprised me. He has never invited anyone over to play, ever, despite my reminding him, "To have a friend, you need to be a friend." I've always done the inviting.

I e-mailed Presley's mom last night to officially invite her over and we both had to laugh at those two.

Next Friday. Our house.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

outtake double take

Someone pass the smelling salts, please. I just saw the next 10 or 12 years zoom right on by, and all because I glanced at a photo that I snapped last night in the backyard:

I was looking for a photo to post with a different blog entry, and, well, nothing drives me battier than keeping photos that I won't ever use—Well, some things do. Actually, lots of things do—so I was about to delete this one. But then, I did a double-take.

Who is that boy? Not my son. Not my little five-year-old. And certainly not this boy, all big of cheeks and full of giggles:September 2008

When did he grow up? He looks, what, 15? Maybe 16 years old? Where has the time gone—and just where does it think it is going?

He's growing taller and broader of chest and so wise. He measures his growth by the amount of "fur" on his legs. (And he's so proud.) He's reading and solving math problems and spelling words all on his own. And then there are the girls that he is noticing more and more and the girls that are noticing him.

It's happening. He's growing up on us.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

editor turned contributor

Soon after Connor ventured out into the big wide world of kindergarten, I received this comment on my post about his first day of school:

 

It turns out that April is an editorial assistant at Parents.com, and—boy oh boy—could I remember the days when I worked as an editor, contacting potential authors and contributors, asking them—quite out of the blue—if they would be interested in submitting a manuscript for the editorial staff's consideration.

I worked for a nonprofit, which meant that our writers wrote from the goodness of their hearts. We didn't pay them—and we made no commitment to publish the manuscript until it went through our rigorous review process.

Calling potential writers to ask if they might maybe— possibly— would they puh-leeze write for us with no compensation was not my favorite task. At all. (In their defense, most potential authors did accept the invitation to write.)

So, besides being flattered that Parents.com had paid a visit to my little blog and wanted to use the photo, I wanted to make April's job a little easier. (In other words, I said, "Yes!")

She e-mailed me today to let me know that the editors had indeed chosen Connor's photo to be featured on Parents.com's back-to-school page.

Connor's photo will be on the page until next Monday.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

apron strings

Earlier this week, I told my friend Keely that my memory is more like a slotted spoon than a soup ladle. Forget about having a bad memory. Me, I've got a good forgetter.

Take this, for example: I know that I wanted to sit down today to write about something that Natalie said—it was going to be just a few lines long, that much I remember—and I recalled twice what it was that I wanted to write about, but I didn't jot myself a note. And now that I am sitting here, hands poised at the keyboard, I haven't a clue whether what I am about to write about is that something that I wanted to write about or if it is a new post entirely.

Did that make any sense? Can I possibly use any more italics? I believe I can.

Moving along . . .

Natalie likes the whole routine that we have for getting Connor to school. We arrive at the school and cross a street with the help of a crossing guard. Natalie leaps and skips and giggles like a wild woman. As we enter the school, Mrs. C., the teacher who holds open the (super heavy) doors each morning, greets all the students and their siblings and their parents with enthusiasm and spunk and awakeness. (She is very, very awake for that hour of the morning. I'm convinced she was a cheerleader back in the day.) Natalie begins to beam as we approach Mrs. C. She knows that Mrs. C. will lavish her with compliments and attention.

Today, as Natalie skipped and twirled her way to the entrance, Mrs. C. cried, "Oh! I like that enthusiasm!" Natalie was beside herself with delight.

(OK. This is definitely not the few-lines-long post that I mentioned way up there in the first paragraph. But I definitely did use more italics, see?)

Friday morning, after we returned home from our morning trip to the elementary school, Natalie darted off to her room for her "packpack," as she calls it.

(She and I purchased Connor's school supplies at Office Depot, where upon checking out, the cashier offered us a free backpack. She held up a black one, a red one, and a pink one. I declined politely, explaining that Connor had a backpack all set and ready to go.

Natalie would have none of that.

She piped up, "Hmm . . . I think . . . I would like . . . the pink one!" And so, Natalie now has a pink packpack.)

Natalie emerged from her bedroom, dressed in her pink tutu, pink ballet slippers, and her pink packpack. "OK, Mommy," she said. "I'm all ready for school. Can you drive me to school now?"

I sat down on a step stool and patted the floor to the right of me. "Come along and sit down," I said, with my hands on an imaginary steering wheel. "Let's drive to school."

"No, no, Mommy," Natalie said, refusing to climb into my imaginary car. "I mean, really drive me to school. I need to go to my pink school so I can teach all the girls how to curtsy."

Natalie did a perfect curtsy right then and there, as if to show me that, yeah, this is no playtime matter. She wanted to go to a pink school and teach Curtsies 101.

"Oh. Well," I stammered. "Huh. Are you ready to go off to school all by yourself and be without me for a few hours?"

Natalie was so confident and matter of fact about the whole idea of school that I thought for sure that she would say, "Why, yes. Yes, I am."

Instead, there was this: Natalie's face crumbled. She tore off her packpack and slung it across the kitchen floor. She ran to me sobbing, "No! No! I don't want to go to pink school without you!"

And there we have it. My apron strings are still tied securely to Natalie's wee little wrist, and I'm just fine perfectly delighted with that.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

up, meet adam. adam, up.

One of my college roommates confided that when she was a girl, she could never quite figure out why her grandmother often bellowed, "Up and at 'em!"

"I knew who Adam was," my roommate said, "but I just couldn't figure out who Up was in the Bible."

That Adam guy has thrown Connor for a big old loop, too, it seems.

Back a few weeks ago—when Connor was a wee little pre-kindergartner—his teacher sent home a note that read, "I often call the girls in the class 'Madam' just for fun. Today, Connor stood up and said, 'OK, Adams, let's put away your white boards!' His classmates all looked at him, confused, wondering, 'Who is this Adam?'"
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

braving it

Connor's first few days of kindergarten—in a new school with a new teacher and all new classmates—have gone really rather well.

That first day, I was just chomping at the bit, anxious to hear all about his new experiences. But Mr. McCool was all sorts of chill and blasé about it all, feeding me tidbits here and there, but not the play-by-play that I had hoped he'd offer.

Although I was a bit disappointed, I was also so completely relieved that Connor's first day had not been traumatic. Perhaps keeping him in pre-K through the summer had helped with the transition.

I love it when things go as planned.

But then, yesterday, Connor resisted walking into the school. He clenched my fingers and plodded slowly along. I knelt down in front of him at the door of the school, wished him a good day, and moved in for a hug and a kiss.

Connor clung to me with such desperation.

I encouraged him along: "You can do this, Connor. You can. You're a brave, brave boy. You can do this."

Connor cried, "Noooo, I-I-I-I caaaaan't."

A teacher greeting students at the door and I exchanged glances. She would help, her eyes told me. I stood up, steeled myself against the weepy emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface, and wriggled my finger free from Connor's fist.

"I love you, Connor. Your teacher told me yesterday at pick-up that she just loves having you in class. You're intelligent. You're interesting. You're funny. You're likable. You can do this," I told him one more time.

And then the teacher took hold of Connor's hand and spoke happy, chirpy words to him as she accompanied him into the school.

When I picked up Connor at the day's end, he was all smiles and glee.

But this morning as we drove into the school parking lot, I glanced at Connor in the back seat and saw that he had crumpled. Big fat tears rolled down his reddened face.

"Please walk into school with me, Mama. Please," he pleaded.

I, for one, know that by refusing to let him ride the school bus, I am holding on to the little boy that I still see in him. I am keeping him in my clutches as best I can while he spreads his wings, just a little bit. But I cannot be the mom who walks her son into school every morning and stands beside him until he lets me go. I cannot do that, and I don't want to do that. Connor needs to do this on his own.

I asked Connor what upset him.

"I don't want to go in all alone," he confided.

I, of all people, could empathize. Social anxiety smothered me well into my late 20s. The thought of walking into a room full of people filled me with dread. I remember deciding to miss a class in college rather than draw attention to myself by walking in mere minutes after class began.

"I just don't want to walk in all by myself," Connor sobbed.

I'm doing my best to be strong for Connor, but I cannot bring myself to be cold. I stepped out of the vehicle to help Natalie out of her seat. As I reached for her, she asked, "Why is Connor so sad, Mommy?"

I explained as we walked around to Connor's side of the vehicle, and when we opened Connor's door, Natalie told her big brother, "It's OK, Connor. Here," she said, reaching out her hand. "You'll hold my hand, and I'll hold Mommy's hand, and we'll all walk in together. You'll see. It'll be fine. Just hold my hand."

Natalie's calm, confident, comforting way stunned me. I mean, she's two, but she gets it.

I expected Connor to balk, but he grasped his sister's teeny-tiny hand, took a deep breath, jerked up his chin, and took steps toward the school.

Together, we three walked hand in hand through the doors, all the way to the gymnasium, where the student body and teachers gather every morning to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, sing The Star-Spangled Banner, and acknowledge birthdays and accomplishments. And then, we let him go.

Connor walked through the masses to join his class at the front of the gym, on his own and so brave.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

our seedling

We'll plant some seeds. We'll watch them as they grow. And with each new beat from your heart, the roots grow deeper. —Jack Johnson, All At Once

Kerry Gastley 
 
 
 
 
 

 
Connor began kindergarten today. Time, where've you gone?
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

. . . and 5, 6, 7, 8

Connor begins kindergarten tomorrow. I'll skip over the absolute frenzy in my mind and jump right to this, a sign I spotted while we were Galveston earlier this month.Figured it might come in handy, considering the <ahem> kindergarten requirements.

Cannot wait to see all the kindergartners arrive at school, showing off their spicy Latin dance moves.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

pomp. and circumstance.

Our little man graduated from pre-kindergarten this morning.He gave a little speech about the planet Mercury without the slightest quiver in his voice. ("This is Mercury. It is the closest planet to the sun. One side is hot. One side is cold.")So proud, even if Mercury does look like a whole ham smothered with mustard.(Any Brian Regan fans out there will appreciate this: As the other students spoke about their planets, it took all my might for me to stay in my seat and not shout, "The big yellow one's the sun! The yellow one is the sun!")

But back to Connor. <Ahem.> He's got his diploma in hand. It's official. 
 
Monday: Kindergarten.

 

©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

a square is a rhombus, but a rhombus isn't a square.

Finally, finally, FINALLY, I've had the chance to register Connor for kindergarten. It's not that I haven't tried. I have. Twice. Or was it three times? The school turned me away each time, because, they claimed, something just wasn't right about my timing. It was May. It was June. It was a day ending in "y." But that's another story for another time.

The upshot is, the school now knows that my little man is kindergarten-ready. Or is he?

The hefty packet of papers that I had to complete to get Connor all signed up for school included this little information sheet:

I read it aloud yesterday evening to give Connor the confidence that, yeah, he's so gonna rock kindergarten.
But then, I reached this line: "Children should recognize basic shapes: circles, squares, triangles, rectangles, rumbas, and ovals."

Rumbas? A slow, sexy, passionate dance? What are they teaching nowadays?

Must dust off my dancing shoes and get to showing Connor my moves so he can recognize a rumba with a mere glance. We'll move on to the samba, cha-cha, jive, paso doble, and mambo from there.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

the toothless among us

We are reaching that time in a child's life when the tooth-losing begins. The thought of it makes me all sorts of queasy. I'm talking weak-in-the-knees, tunnel-vision, hear-the-blood-rushing-in-my-head, I'd-better-take-a-seat queasy.

Don't let anyone tell you otherwise: I'm faint of heart.

When I was 11 years old, I babysat for our three-year-old next-door neighbor, Jessica. I spent the evening that I was tasked with helping Jessica get ready for bed, sitting on the stairs just outside the bathroom with my head between my knees, trying not to lose my stomach contents. The reason: Jessica was brushing her teeth, and the foamy white toothpaste was gushing—just gushing—from her mouth, down the toothbrush handle, and all over her hand. I couldn't handle the sight of it all. The river of foam. The mess.

Weeeeeak.

Nowadays, I'm good with the tooth-brushing experience. I can handle it. I've got it under control, errant toothpaste and all.Instead, the sight of mouths with missing teeth makes me all woozy and sparks the idea that maybe—just maybe—I ought to take a seat so I don't fall out right there in the middle of Target.

Friends share photos of their children, smiling and so proud to have lost a baby tooth, and I scroll quickly past the photos. A girl at the playground flashes a gap-toothed smile our way, and I return the smile but look at her eyes, not her teeth.

It's the gap. The reddened gum line. The recollection of how it felt as a kid to run my tongue over the spot where a tooth had just fallen out, all raw and tender.

Heebie.

Jeebies.

I wasn't always like this. I remember when my baby teeth started getting antsy. They'd get loose, and I'd flick 'em with my tongue, wiggle them forward and back with my finger, upset my father by showing him how a tooth was dangling by just a thin thread.

I was fine with it all.

I remember losing my patience with one loose tooth—it was one of my central incisors, for those playing dentist at home—that just would. not. let. go. I was tempted—so very tempted—to take a plastic knife, with its minimally serrated edge, and saw the tooth loose, be done with it.

Yeah.

Gross.

But something has changed. I don't know what, exactly. Something just changed.

Connor is approaching the age when his baby teeth will start bidding adieu, and I've got to find a way to toughen up, because, chances are, I'll being peering into his mouth a time or two to study a loose tooth, assess the progress, clean up the tooth for delivery to the tooth fairy. I've got to toughen up.

The good news is, a tooth pillow is waiting in the wings, and has been for years and years (and—OK, fine—years). My kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Vaughn, gave it to me on the last day of school.
She sent all of us students off at the end of the school year with little tooth pillows that she had sewn herself. I can still see her taking them from a bag and handing them out, one by one. The boys received white pillows with blue gingham trim. The girls, white pillows with pink gingham trim.

Except for me.

Mrs. Vaughn had inadvertently made too few pink tooth pillows, and so, she handed me a blue one, with lots and lots of apologies.

I didn't mind. I don't do pink. And now, in retrospect, it all makes sense: My first born is a boy. It all worked out just fine. And so will the tooth-losing, I suppose. It'll be just fine.

I'll just have to breathe in, breathe out, and go to my happy place.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.