Transition Time

Every afternoon when we make the left turn into our neighborhood, I turn down the radio so that the kiddos can hear me, "Ok, when we get home, we're going to transition. We're going to take our backpacks in, hang them up. We're going to wash our hands and have some snacks." Inevitably, a voice pipes up from the back, "Mom, can I?" "RJ," I interrupt (every time), "What's the rule during transition time?"

"No questions for five minutes!" he shouts.

Transition time. The moment when we take a deep breath; we shift gears; we go potty; and we figure out what's coming next.

On ordinary days, transition time is one of my least favorite parts of the day. (On extraordinary days, my least favorite parts of the day include GiGi spraying Febreeze in her eyes necessitating water-boarding by mommy as she tries to rinse out the lavender scented acid.)

Both of my kids are in transition times of life right now.

RJ is transitioning from a preschooler to a little boy. GiGi is transitioning from a toddler to a preschooler (Too soon! The complete sentences and back talk have come too soon!)

And this transition time of life is one of my most favorite parts of parenthood. I didn't announce, "Ok, we're in transition time! RJ, you're going to hold my hand in the parking lot and kiss it, and you're going to make toot noise and laugh hysterically when you call me a tickle head." I didn't tell GiGi, "Ok, GiGi, you're going to ask me for nay-nay, and you're going to wake me up on Sunday morning and ask to see the baby elephant at the zoo."

But it happened.

RJ got new pj's tonight. "Are they football?" he asked. "Are they Transformer?!"

"Uhhhhhh, kinda," I replied under my breath. The store was out of football jammies, or anything else particularly cool.

"Awesome!" he yelled, "They have birds on the toes!" My transitioning preschooler tugged on his striped jammies with the penguins on the toes and immediately dropped to one knee, "Pew, pew, pew!" shooting his imaginary Transformer arms.

GiGi woke me up on Sunday by bouncing her fleecy bottom on my face, "Mama? Mama? Wanna see baby el'phant!"

I'm not sure when she started speaking in complete sentences. Probably about the same time she started dressing herself (when I let her):

This was the look she selected for her bedtime beauty routine. 

And this is what she put on to wear to her bubby's soccer game. She wholeheartedly believes that the shirt is a soccer shirt--because all green shirts are soccer shirts. 

She knows her colors and can sing her alphabet. But just when I think she's ready to start school, she reminds me, "I wet. I need new dumpy! You need change me now!" 

It's GiGi's transition time--that time when she tells everyone she meets, "I'm on an ad-ven-ture!" And two minutes later, she lays carefully in the floor of the Carter's store and commences kicking, throwing her shoes, and screaming, "I no wanna go home! I need nay-nay!" 

It's fascinating. 

Day to day, transition time is announced. It's planned. There are rules. 

But in life, transition time is furtive. It sneaks in and nearly sneaks past before I notice. My only guidelines are unwritten and often unknown until the moment arises. 

This sneaky stealthy transition time is my favorite. Because I see this: 

A little boy strong enough to finally swing himself on the trapeze. A Preschooler still most comfortable in his Finn McMissile tighties. 

And the perfect combination of self satisfaction and pure joy. 

Tonight, I tucked in an almost little boy in his penguin feetie 'jamas. He flipped onto his tummy, stuck his bottom in the air, and put his blankie in his mouth--just like he did when he was a toddler. I patted him on the tush. And he tooted. Loudly. And we both giggled, content in whatever comes next in this transition time of life.