Mar
15
2012
My littlest little, Teagan the 19 month old, starts “preschool” this week. And I am le sad.
I know that she’ll have fun; she loves people and songs and books and playtimes. And the school–the toddler counterpart to my son’s Montessori preschool–couldn’t be better. I know that she’ll learn lots and make friends. I know that on the days that I don’t work at the library, I’ll be able to write and hopefully cut out the number of nights I work in Starbucks until midnight, freezing and yawning and listening to off-key homeless banjo playing.
I know she won’t resent me for having two jobs, for working to further my career, for choosing a safe place for her to explore learning and new faces.
I know this is the next stage for our family.
I know all babies grow up, even dimple-cheeked, feisty blond ones.
But she is my last baby, and leaving behind this last year and a half spent nursing/cuddling/crawling/playing is harder than I thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong — I don’t want another baby. It’s just that I want more time with this baby. This blue-eyed, squishy, noisy, climby baby that wraps her arms around my neck like a koala bear whenever I pick her up. This baby that says “mom-EEEE” like a mantra and mine and no and whoa as many times as she can breathe.
I wonder if she’ll miss me with half the intensity that I’ll miss her?
8 comments | tags: children, guilt, kids, son, toddler, WrAHM, writing
Sep
27
2011
You started preschool two weeks ago, and when I came to pick you up last Tuesday, you looked at me and said, “I’m glad you are here. I’ve been here forever.”
Typical kid statement, but for a not-yet-three-year-old, I think it’s downright astounding. You sounded so articulate, so adolescent in your exaggeration, that sometimes it’s hard to remember your true age when you’re throwing fits about the color of macaroni or crying because a dust bunny touched you.
Just so we can see how far your language has come this year, here is a little glossary of Noah-isms, from about eighteen months to just a few months ago, when you morphed into a tiny Cicero.
mite— Belly button. You asked constantly to see everyone’s “mite.” Weirdo.
pepa and mema— Before you could say Grandpa and Grandma. Now all your Grandpas are permanently Pepas.
candle— Cigarette, because lighters are used to light both.
Daddy/mommy home— Meaning be here with me right now, even if you’re already home.
Binky go– Instead of being short for “Where’d binky go?” this indicates that binky went somewhere and that you had something to do with it.
Mommy, carry you– Meaning, “carry me.” You had your “mes” and “yous” mixed up for a while.
hurt you— Knives were called “hurt yous” because we always warned you that they would hurt you if you touched them.
Seahorse— Any glowing doll was called this because you had a seahorse that glowed and played music at bedtime.
Onkax— contacts
with my feet— barefoot
brown/white/orange coffee— hot chocolate/vanilla steamer/caramel steamer
I’m not a good boy, I’m just Noah–response to someone calling him a good boy
Ginky— what binky was called for a long time.
Bobby–strawberry
I love you, little Cicero. Happy third!
3 comments | tags: birthday, kids, Noah, son