A few things about the first day of school

• My child is exuberant--to the point of absurdity--when he sees me at the end of a work day. I expected the same joyful shrieks and hugs when he saw me at the end of his school day. My expectations were modified when he saw me, marched in line with his class, and greeted me with, "Hi mom."

• But. When released by his teacher, he walked over, grabbed my hand, kissed it sweetly and said, "I just love you so much." I looked around quickly to see if his teacher had taught all of the little ones to do this. She had not. My sweet boy was the only one. I am proud that he listened to his teacher and sat with his class while he waited on further instruction, but I was relieved to get a more typical R.J. greeting later in the day.

• At lunch, he mimicked my every action...stopping only to rest his head in his hands and to tell me again, "I love you so much." (Secretly I'm just glad he's in my camp again. We've had a rough few weeks of timeouts, backtalk, and general discontent. Apparently school has taught him that his mommy really isn't mean, and he shouldn't try to cancel me or send me to my hotel. I park at a hotel; he believes I work there.)

• R.J. does not like his hair to be styled: "I like it when it looks like a pumpkin. Psssshhhhh!" he tells me, showing me a rounded, puffy bedhead. I like it when it looks like a pumpkin too. I guess we'll keep the toddler shag for a while longer.

• They must have learned about numbers in class, because in the middle of the night, R.J. sat up and shouted, "It's a number!" He then promptly went back to sleep. I did not.

• School, in R.J.'s world, means "circle time, playdough time, color time, and park time."

• After worrying about school, "canceling" school on his calendar (wonder where he gets that?), and planning for school for weeks, school turned out to be okay. R.J. said he'd go back again. But, he did want to read his Llama, Llama school book. Twice. Just to make sure he's not the only one who missed his mama.

First Day Jitters

My stomach is queasy. I don't want to eat my waffles, and I wish we had just 10 more minutes to watch Curious George. But, it's the first day of school. We've prepared. We talked about it. We visited the teacher. We read Llama Llama Misses Mama and learned that little llama can love his mama and school too!

But, I confess, the three-year old is better prepared for this first day than his mommy.  He was ready to learn. He was ready to play. He was not, however, quite ready for the goodbying this morning. R.J. has a particular affection for ladies wearing dresses. So, at open house a few nights ago, he was tickled to see his teacher in a long white skirt: "That my teacher? In the pretty skirt?" He grinned.

Today she was wearing leggings and a zebra print top. A darling outfit. My son may never recover from the shock.

I took the teacher's advice. A quick goodbye: "R.J., you have a good day. Mommy and 'Sisa will be back in just a little while to pick you up." Startled eyes. Tears. "Mommy, don't go! I tired!"

He's not tired. He's worried. I know this because I watched him flick his wrists in the hallway before he bravely marched toward the classroom. I worry too. How can this baby be in school? (In quiet confession I admit--he still poops his pants, proven this morning--but we pretend he's potty trained so that he can go learn some A,B,C's. His teacher may hate me someday. Not today. The  Big Issue has been resolved for today. But someday.).

R.J. is in good hands. He will have a good day. But until 11:30 when he tells me so, I will worry. Because I'm his mommy. And today, mommy can't fix it all for him. Updates to follow, but until then...First Day of School!

How Many Licks to Get to the Center?

There's a little sandwich shop in the basement of my building downtown. It's not fancy, and the food isn't great. But, when I have a craving for PBJ, it works. The lines are long, and the wait gives me way too much time to explore the candy rack conveniently situated smack in the middle of the shop.

About three weeks ago, a Tootsie Pop called my name. Without much thought, I plunked down an extra 25 cents and tossed it in the bottom of my purse (along with 45 binder clips--I have a binder clip problem. I'm working on it.).

This morning, R.J. had a doctor's appointment. I sprung the news on him around 8, giving him only 30 minutes to ponder and obsess, as much as a toddler obsesses--and he obsesses a lot. "The doctor will check your tummy and listen to your heart. She'll weigh you and see how tall you are," I tell him.

He promptly steps on the bathroom scale, "It say 80-11 pounds. There. I weighed. I'm sorry. I cancel the doctor." He's crafty. (I have the same problem with that scale--it currently says I have gained 35 pounds, but I know that can't be right.)

He chatted up the nurse: "This is my blanket. It's a nice blanket. It's soft. It smell good. I sleep with it." He chatted with the doctor: "I don't poop in the potty, but I toot on it." He speaks the truth.

And then. Trauma. Tragedy. Terror. The dreaded immunization. (I always want to call it a vaccination, but that brings memories of my cats having panic attacks in their plastic kennels. I actually don't kennel R.J. Most days.)

Desperately searching for a distraction, I found...a Tootsie Pop! Perfectly red. Perfectly tasty. R.J. wasn't even suspicious, until the nurse came in with a tray holding a "dandaid."

He was brave. He refused the dandaid and only cried for a minute. Rubbing his leg and looking at me with those big, blue, sad, teary, weepy, crying, hurt eyes, he said, "Mommy, it itches. Fix it." So, I did. He'll never know that mommy's magic itch cream is really cuticle gel designed to give mommy beautiful nails. It works better as toddler itch cream anyway.

I shut his hand in the car door in the parking lot. It hurt. Both of us. He told me, "I was just trying to get in the car. That hurt my feelings." At least he's accurate. It hurt his feelings more than it hurt his hand. Mine too. He dropped his Tootsie Pop in the floorboard. I found it. "What you doing?" he asked me. Sigh. "Mommy's licking the lint off your lollipop for you." (because she'd rather do that than see those big, blue, sad, teary, weepy, crying hurt eyes again).

We ate donuts. We discovered that it really is impossible to find the  number of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. We survived. And today, I think I'll visit my sandwich shop in the basement and mindlessly plunk down another quarter for another Tootsie Pop.

The Important Question

Before R.J. was born, I was a born career woman. I fully intended to drop a perfectly organized diaper bag off with my perfectly clean child every morning and a perfectly structured daycare.  I wait-listed daycares. I visited with R.J. I put his name on his binkies and his blankies. In ink. We were ready. I was ready. Or, so I thought. He lasted one afternoon at daycare. He melted down. I melted down. I extended my leave. I cried for weeks.

I agonized over hiring a nanny. A stranger taking care of my Baby? Alone in my house? What if she was mean to my Baby? What if she slept all day? Or parked him front of the TV?

And the important question: What if he loved her more than he loved me?

I actually advertised for Mary Poppins (must love children, etc. so forth and so on).

We hired a nanny (actually two). Our first nanny was a delight--young, musically gifted, and full of life. She taught R.J. to love PBS news and how to play a drum. When she moved on to law school to start her own career I cried.

We hired a new nanny. R.J. loves her fiercely.  She is uncommonly sweet in her manner of speech. She is easily the most non-judgmental person I have ever met. She understands the laundry chair. And sticky tile floors. And the mornings when R.J. has wet the bed, the cat has barfed on the rug, and I've overslept. I don't have a sister, but if I did, she is what I would hope for.

She dries R.J.'s tears when he falls down.  He prays before meals, and he's learning his ABC's.  He is a delightful little boy, and I can't take all the credit. I'm happy to share it.

This afternoon I analyzed shareholder agreements and pondered the other important question in my life: where in the world is the signed promissory note?  I heard the ping of my cellphone and found a picture of my Baby cooking in his chef's hat.

So, when my Baby calls me 'Sisa Mama, I smile. I know the answer to the important question: What if he loves his nanny as much as he loves me?

He is loved. And I love that.

(We love you 'Sisa!)

Family: It's All In How You Define It

This past weekend, we made our monthly (or more frequent) pilgrimage to Ponca City--where the grass is greener (because it's fescue); the yard is shadier; and it only takes 10 minutes to get to WalMart, the YMCA, and the gas station--in one trip. Ponca City, and more specifically my parents' house, is our resort vacation, complete with trusted, skilled baby sitting services and a late check out on Sundays.

Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, we enjoyed our weekend. R.J. golfed, and so did his daddy, albeit at entirely different courses (the backyard versus Wentz).  We had a fantastic dinner at the Rusty Barrel (and yes, the chairs in the bar are actually made out of barrels).  And, we took R.J. to the new YMCA. 

The new Y is a toddler's dream. It has a toddler pool that is no deeper than 3 feet deep, fountains, and as R.J. says, "It's in, not out, so we don't need sunblock." In these respects, this pool is a mommy's dream too. We love our neighborhood pool, but it's out, not in, so this summer our swims have been mostly late evening, pre-bedtime swims designed to wear out a toddler for stories and bathtime as we enjoy the cooler evening temperatures. And by cooler I mean a hundred and two, not a hundred and six.

Despite the sweaty walk to and from, the neighborhood pool far exceeds the Y in one (very important to a pregnant mommy) aspect: the bathroom(s).  The neighborhood pool has two. Girls and boys. Marginally clean and open to the outdoors, a generally non offensive proposition. And we can walk home to change into dry clothes (or to remedy the "major issues" that R.J. identifies: "Mommy, we gonna have a major issue," is code for "Mommy, I'm going to poop in the pool if you don't get me out of here NOW.").

The Y, on the other hand, has ventured into what I hope will be a short-lived trend in facilities: the family locker room. Family, in my world, is comprised of those people I've seen in pajamas. The people who have witnessed the laundry chair as it attempts to gobble up 14 pairs of underwear and 3 socks (none matching). The people who understand that sometimes a really good meal consists of turkey sandwiches, chips, and ice cream, so long as we all get to sit down together.

Family, in my world, is not comprised of 14 pre-teen boys, 8 toddlers, and 6 grown men with hairy bellies lurking outside my dressing room door. "Family" should not require me to pack hand sanitizer for a purportedly chlorinated and sanitized experience.  The powers who determine "family" for locker room purposes are clearly confused. My family does not include the 8-year old who was spending way too much time in the one (coed) potty for it to be anything other than a Major Issue.  My family does not include the three children spinning every piece of clothing they own in the suit dryer. By my definition, a family locker room would not require me to post the three year old by the locked door with instructions such as "Do NOT open that door until Mommy has her pants on," and "Get out of the floor and stop touching the drain!" I do not find the family locker room comforting or a safe haven. It is bizarre for strange men to be standing on the other side of the door while I waddle into dry clothes. It is borderline dangerous for a 7-year old girl to be waiting outside with them.

I understand the need for clean locker rooms for grown-ups. I understand the desire to keep the little poopers separate and apart from the big poopers. I do not understand defining "family" to include everyone under the age of 18 or who is with someone under the age of 18. The family locker room is new to me, and I don't like it. I don't like the "girls" locker room at my home YMCA--it stinks, it's wet, and little girls do some nasty little things. But at least we're all working with the same set of equipment in there. There are no hairy-backed strangers lurking outside my door. And, the only conversation I hear is about how to get chlorine out of our hair or where we bought our pretty pink beach towels.  

I will continue to applaud my resort on the prairie. So long as R.J. wants to swim in instead of out, I will hold my breath, lock the door, and dress under a pretty pink beach towel. But, in time, I hope to see a return to the archaic model of segregated dressing rooms--for my own sanity (and hand sanitation issues).

You can't just slap a bandaid on it

R.J. loves his gymnastics class. He's a cheerleader, applauding for each of his classmates. He gets his weekly affirmations in: "I did it!"  He loves his Coach Becky: "I gonna see my friend Coach Becky."

Last night was no exception.  He danced (we never miss the opening dance--being late is not an option with a little one who loves to shake his boom boom).  He tumbled and balance beam-ed. He ziplined. In fact, he's kind of famous for his ziplining.  Parents go to window to watch. Other kids stop tumbling to stare. R.J.'s classmates zipline like ballerinas: toes pointed to the floor, perfectly poised for a perfectly graceful landing. R.J., well, he turns the world upside down:

When he laughs, the gym laughs with him. It's refreshing to see someone enjoy himself so very much. And so, when R.J.'s grins turn to tears during his 'nastics class, the gym sympathizes. Parents watch with worried eyes, and little ones ask why R.J. is sad.

Last night on the trampoline, R.J. re-scraped a boo-boo. And the tears flowed. Not so much because of the boo-boo but because of the bandaid prospect. The child is terrified of bandaids ("dandaids"). Dandaids are not something to show off. They are not fun--even when stamped with Chick Hicks and Lightening McQueen.  R.J. wanted his blankie. He wanted his own house. He wanted sympathy. So, mommy carried him to the car, and we made the short trip home.  Mommy bribed (a Hot Wheels--of course).  Mommy cajoled and pleaded: "Please don't cry baby. Mommy has to clean your boo-boo." Mommy sympathized.

Because today, Mommy had to face her own dandaid demons: the dreaded glucose screening--ie, another blood test. Two failed attempts in the bag, and Mommy returned one more time. Mommy's hands shook--just like R.J.'s did last night when she fixed his boo-boo. Mommy wanted sympathy. And her blankie. 

We survived. Mommy with a blue armband that says "I did it!" R.J. with a Lightening McQueen dandaid. This morning, he noticed his dandaid: "Hey MomMY," he whispered, "Look at my dandaid. I a big boy!" 

Mommy is a big girl. It's hard to see my baby tremble over a skinned knee and the prospect of a bandaid. It's harder to watch when I see so much of myself in him.  As a mom (and a lawyer), I strive to make it all better for my baby (and my clients). Sometimes I wish I could just slap a bandaid on the problems. But, as R.J. will tell you, a bandaid isn't always the answer.  I see so much of myself in my little one, and I wonder exactly how to set the example that so very clearly should be set. This is one problem I can't make all better. I can't just slap a bandaid on it, but I'm at a loss to solve it.  All I can do is my best to sympathize and empathize. I continue to stock Hot Wheels surprises in the cupboard and keep blankie clean and within reach. And I hope that in time, my R.J. will overcome his fear of dandaids and continue to turn the world upside down with unmitigated toddler joy.