Happy 3rd, Moo-bear

When I was a girl fantasizing about my grown-up life, I always pictured myself with a red-headed pigtailed daughter. We'd do the sorts of things my mother always did with me. We'd bake. We'd paint. We'd play dolls. We'd sing and walk. We'd cuddle up and read a good book together.

Today the embodiment of that dream turns three.

Megan is not the docile, mild-mannered child I used to pretend I'd have. In fact, she's anything but docile unless she's sound asleep (and even that is questionable.) However, and please don't tell her this, I'm quite relieved she's taken the different route.

Today, I have a head-strong and confident little person. She knows what she wants, she's not afraid to tell you and she's certainly not about to back down until she gets it - or until it's clear you're going to do what it takes to outlast her. Megan seems fearless, except when she's not. She's a girl that understands the power of the tear and the well placed whimper.

She'll try anything once - although sometimes she prefers to have a hand to hold while she does it. She's vocal about her likes and dislikes. She's perfectly capable, even at this age, of standing up for herself. She's perfected "the look" that tells whoever is on the receiving end that they've crossed some sort of unforgivable line.

Megan is also compassionate in a way I never expected a child her age of being. She's quick with a hug or a kiss to heal hurt feelings - even the ones she did not inflict. She's first to round up a group of tykes about her age (give or take a few years) and take charge as she engages them in play. She's quite concerned about making sure everyone is included and happy.

Give her room to roam and people along the way, and Megan will make new friends. It's not just that she talks to everyone she meets. She remembers them all - by name if they've been so kind as to give theirs. She never forgets these details.

Silent is not in her vocabulary. She will whisper. She will meow. She will talk in a 'normal' voice. She will squeak. She will yell. She even talks in her sleep from time to time. She sings. She recites stories she's memorized. She tells jokes - and sometimes gets the punchlines right. She's a born entertainer.

She's her brother's shadow. And yet, she's his rival. She's his hero. She's his devotee. She's the bane of his existence and the balm for his soul.

Megan is my touchstone. She's the one that keeps me grounded and the one that let's me soar.

She's growing fast. Too fast. She's my preschooler now. Not my baby any longer. And yet, for as long as she let's me say it out loud, she's my Meggie, my Tinkerbell, my Princess and my Moo-bear. And some day she'll be all those things whispered in my heart as she outgrows her comfort with those monikers in public. She'll always be my littlest one. My baby. My dream girl. Always.

So they grow

A week ago the boy climbed up the steps of a bus for his first trip to school in which one of *his* grown-ups did not escort him into the classroom.

He attended Kindergarten for the first time.

Just days later the girl ran down the familiar hallways of the preschool - also our church. She knew right where she was going. It's the same room she's spent every Sunday morning in for the last year. It was her third year dashing through hallways at drop-off time - but it was the first time she was the one who stayed.

As a parent you worry. Will they listen? Will they make friends? Will they learn? Will they grow? Will they thrive?

Frankly, I found it easy to form an image of my child's preschool day. I get to know the families in her class as we became familiar sights at drop off and pick up. I develop a relationship with the teacher in that same time. I know if my child had a classroom job - it's posted on the bulletin board. It's a routine that I've been exposed to and I know the leading questions to ask to provoke chatter.

Kindergarten is different. I saw parents and classmates once at orientation. I met the teacher for all of 15 minutes. The hallways - although very much a sister school to the one I attended 29 years ago - are forgien terrority to me. I probe with questions and sometimes I get replies and sometimes I pull a few proverbial teeth.

Yet we're learning this tango together. Occasionally a few questions open flood gates and other times it merely leaves the tap open so that the picture of a typical day comes out little by little over time. For example, on Friday, school was simply "good." It was yesterday, I learned that he sits in the class library reading books with one Joshua and a Ben. One of those boys was in "the old Sunday School" class and so a familiar face. The second is a new friend but not to be confused with "the other Joshua in class" that happens to sit with Logan on the school bus for the ride home.

I felt some of the tension leave me as he disclosed this bit of his new life. Suddenly it's a little less unknown. Slowly we're establishing some familiarity. I known enough again to know that he's comfortable and social in his new terriority.

When Logan started preschool there was no melancholy for me. It was new. It was exciting. He loved it and I was thrilled for him. I did, if I'm being honest, chuckle quite a bit at the friend of mine who swore she'd have to be peeled from the classroom windows where'd she by crying her eyes out. Taking Megan this year hasn't been any different.

Kindergarten, however, is different. It's giving up a lot more than just a few hours in the day. It's losing that connection and control of drop-off. It's not just sending your kid to school, its putting them on the bus to get their own way there. It's not having the easy ability to put faces with names when your child starts talking about teachers and classmates.

The reality becomes stark and clear. Your child isn't just growing up and moving to a new phase of their life - something you really do reveal in. Your child is growing up and moving to a new phase of life that includes less of you. It is kindergarten not college, but it is step one in that direction.

It's a selfish thing, admittedly. Even in those moments when you moan a little and wish for just ONE trip to the bathroom that did not include an audience, even then, deep down you feel that warm fuzzy of being part of the center of a child's universe. You are the one to meet every need - not just food and shelter, but companionship and comfort.

Kindergarten, however, is phase one in the path away from all that. You realize that almost overnight you start to inch away from the center and a tiny bit closer to that spot you'll occupy years from now - the one that loops around in orbit.

Berry-lious

Every autumn we pack up the kids and the grandparents in the "mommy-van" for an excursion to the orchard. It's a tradition that goes back over 25 years to when my parents used to take my brother and I apple picking at that very same orchard. I can't seem to pass by a tree in that particular set of fields without flashbacks of climbing up their centers in attempt to drop immature fruit on my immature brother's head or of shining up freshly picked gems on our sleeves before biting into them.

But it's not September today. Nor is it October. It is July, of course, and July is berry picking time.

I've not actually gone berry picking with the kids. The last time I went I was still counting years to my driver's license and my kid brother was diabolically plotting new ways to torture me. (Some things don't change, he's still twerp even if he is nearly a foot taller than me.) My soon-to-be-sister-in-law, however, has a favorite blueberry farm and a suggestion that we join her and her daughter on this summer's trip.

It's a good thing to play nice when you're adding members to the family, so I agreed. It was a small jaunt out to the berry patch - you ride from parking lot to trees on a big hay-ride type wagon (sans hay) pulled by a tractor. My daughter, the Thomas the Tank Engine fanatic, dubbed the tractor "Terence."

At the very first bush we reached I pointed a finger to a plumb, dark blue berry, "This is what you want to pick kids. Not purple even if it's your favorite color, Meg. Not green even though it's your favorite, Logan. Dark, deep blue." They nodded gravely and set about the task of filling their coffee cans to the brim. For the record - two small plastic coffee "cans" equated to roughly 2 1/4 pounds of blue berries.

It's been three full days since we went picking. We've eaten berries every night (Megan LOVES blueberries apparently, while Logan is a "in the fields only" berry kid.) We've made the most amazing blueberry coffee cake. We still have berries left.

The yield and baked goods, while delightful, are not the best part of our excursion. The blue-ribbon prize was the experience. No, not plucking berries from their branches, but the warm sun that made Megan's cheeks rosy pink as she worked diligently beside us. It was in the pride-filled grin on Logan's face as he held out his coffee can loaded with sweet fruit. It was in the marriage of "togetherness" and a beautiful day outdoors. It was in creating something to eat from scratch with something you, yourself picked -- topped only by when you create it with something you picked and you grew. (And since we've got tomato plants loaded with green fruit...that's only a matter of weeks away!)

These are the sorts of things I remember from my childhood. The ordinary things done outside the realm of our ordinary days. I sometimes wondered if this particular quirk (remembering the seemingly ordinary as extraordinary) was my own. My family took it's share of vacations - and I can tell you where we went but few specific details from most of those trips. The tradition type events - the seemingly mundane - those are the squares of my fond-memory patchwork quilt. My brother, unknowingly perhaps, offered his reassurance that my desire to give the kids the same wasn't unrealistic.

He watched his niece and nephew giggle over their harvest and lunge back into the branches greedily to snag even more. He smiled a little and looked at me over the rim of his sunglasses. "Do you remember when Mom used to take us to the park to pick the wild berries? That was fun wasn't it? That was summer. That's why I'm glad we could come today."

And with that I knew that this was exactly the sort of thing childhood memories are made of.

Milestones

Five years ago I was huge. I was perpetually hot. I was swollen so badly, it's amazing the woodpecker that thinks the vinyl on my neighbors trim is yummy did not try to snack on my ankles. My blood pressure was starting to creep to the 'danger zone.' I had a month left to go before life changed completely. At least in theory.


On June 28th, 2002 I would check into the hospital a very pregnant woman with pregnancy induced hyper-tension. On June 30th I'd simply be woman that to used to have high-blood pressure and who had a nifty excuse for not fitting into last year's summer wardrop. I'd also be holding the smallest human being I'd ever seen.

Logan wasn't as preemie. He was considered full-term albeit born before his due-date. He was not "small" as newborns go. He was decidedly within the realm of "average" size - and yet he was the first person I'd ever seen within seconds of birth. Those long, tiny fingers that wrapped so very tightly around my own. Those eyelids that would press so tightly together at the first hint of light. The toes that would spread and stretch if you rubbed the arch of his foot.

He was an alert baby from the get-go. Those big blue eyes staring not just at you, but into you. Logan always had the "wise old man" look from the start. The gaze that made you feel as if he knew all he needed to or could at least take in enough to fill in the blanks for himself.

He was a happy boy. When he cried it was clearly for a reason. He was rarely fussy for the sake of being so. As he grew he displayed a natural curiosity about most things, albeit a comfort level in having someone tackle the mundane for him. I mean really, he *could* dress himself a lot sooner than he actually did so with regularity. . . but those buttons got in the way of some really good play time.

He's not "quite" five yet - but he may as well be. Yesterday was his birthday party - quite early in the grand scheme of things and yet just the right time. The early celebration meant avoiding "summer vacation overlap" that can crop up for "summer babies." He had a nice group of 5 friends from school join us for cake and loads of play. I sat back marveling over how 5, 5-year old boys (or close enough to 5 yrs old) could get along so well. Granted, all of them need to perfect the "Look before you swing the plastic bat and whack the other guy in the head instead of the ball" concept.

Tomorrow I will take Logan to preschool one last time. I'm not sure if I'll manage to do so without tears. He's grown so much these two years at this school. He's made friends that did not involve my 'blind playdate' intervention on his behalf. He's grown more independent in ways it's hard for me to fathom him doing as I look at those earliest photos of him lying with clenched fists and knees pulled in tight to abs.

It's almost not the same person.

And yet it is.

Today, when he tips his head, wrinkles his brow and scrunches his nose as he envelopes himself in the deep concentration of study, I see that same little child. The one that could furrow a brow as he shifted weight from side to side in an attempt to flip over. When Logan's smile takes full possession of his countenance, I see the infant that would fill with pride over getting his toes in his own mouth or at sitting upright for the first time. When he struggles with a new task, shaking fists in frustration before trying again, I see the boy that would take a first step and fall, only to lift his arms for help up so he could give it another go.

This is just a new beginning in what is still the beginning of his life. This milestone, this prime moment for reflection, will likely be dwarfed by future moments - 'bigger' graduations, dates, cars, jobs, marriages, etc. This is nothing in the grand scheme, and yet it's everything. It's standing at the end of an era and start of another.

It won't be a last day looking to the walls of these classrooms to identify the 'right' art project. In three short months Megan will begin her tenure in that same arena. And yet, it is *his* last time and for some reason, that's hitting me more than I expected it would.

All at once

When we had our children two years apart we knew there'd be times when their milestones managed to overlap. Big moments coming at us all at once.

Wait, first you need to understand something about me. I'm not the type of mom that really mourns the passing of a particular stage. I didn't get sad to see my baby grow to toddler. IN fact, I was almost relieved. I adore my children. I loved their little fingers and their baby quirks...but frankly, I'm really not a big 'infant' fan. I prefer the interaction and the give and take that the toddler years brought and I'm loving these preschool years. We get to a new beginning and I get excited about what comes next - to excited to miss what we're leaving behind.

So, you see, when it came to the big "start of school' ages, I didn't expect any lump in the throat or catch in the chest. I figured it'd be more of the same. More building excitement. More "yup, we're moving on and that's ok." what I didn't bank on is that it'd come all at once. . . even though I knew it would.

A few days ago we began to get information about Kindergarten registration. Our son will turn 5 over the summer and begin school in September. He's excited. He can't wait for the bus and the 'real big kid school.' He's practically counting down the days.

Then today I reach into my mailbox and see a familiar return address - our preschool. What was different was the way the envelope was addressed. It was in regards to my daughter. My baby. She'll turn 3 in September and she'll begin preschool at the same time. She's dying to go. She's begging. She's even willing to give up the diapers to go. (In fact upon seeing the letter today she ran to the bathroom giggling about being a big girl! Granted, she put a pull-up on right after that, but hey, baby steps.)

There it was - all at once. One off to elementary school and the other starting her adventure at preschool -- all at once. Suddenly I found myself looking at my oldest thinking "Wow, he's going to ride that school bus next year on his own. Without me? How's he going to get to class? Holy cow!" Then I looked at my headstrong daughter, "She's really going to sit in circle time? She's going to be gone for two mornings a week...on her own?"

It wasn't that one kid was on the precipice of a giant leap forward -- it was that both were, all at once. And suddenly that lump started to build and my heart skipped a little beat.

This little piggie

New parents often have a weird obession with their newborn's toes. At some point in those early hours of life, there's a tally taken - do we have 10? Yes we have 10. Well all right then! (I have no idea what we'd do if we ever counted more or less.)

Then there are the non-parental adults in a child's world that seem to have a baby foot thing going. A friend of mine was giddy waiting for the day she could get peek at the little baby toes of both my kids. So tiny to the point you questioned their reality. Could a person be THAT small?

I must confess to finding the small feet in my house a bit of an intrigue. They're invovled in some pretty big 'firsts', if nothing else - those often well documented first steps. The 'biggie' as notable milestones go. And yet, they are so darn small. So flat and so fat. Yup, we're talking puffy little toddler feet.

A few weekends ago when the weather denied it ought to celebrate winter and we basked in the warm sun on the beach Megan gave up her insistance that beach sand on naked toes was unacceptable. She plugged her foot deep into cool, damp piles of sand. She ran across the uneven ground sending clumps of sand about knee high (to her) out behind her to illustrate the nature of speed. She sat and wiggled those toes in the fine grains.

And of course I took pictures.

I sat looking at this particular one for a while. It seemed a little odd at the time to take it - but that never stopped me from doing so before. My husband laughed a little when he saw it. Megan finds it terribly amusing. Yet it illustrates something to me in a way other photos can not.

In our hallway there is a picture frame with a black and white photo of Megan merely days old. Below her photo is a black stamped footprint next to her name and details of her birth stats. (We have an indentical frame for Logan on the opposite wall.) When we stamped her foot that day, it seemed so big - She seemed to have such 'huge' fit as newborns go. Yet now that print seems so tiny it's surreal. So hard to believe my bundle of energy was every that little bundle of baby.

And yet this photo. That foot. Still so small.

Megan is not quite two and half years old. She's got so much life ahead of her and at the same time, so much change already behind her. She's done some major growing recently - not just in size. We've come to know her personality and have begun to understand how to make adjustments in our behaviors to have some success with hers.

And then there's her brother. When he's on his own or with her seems so big. When he's with "big" kids though, he still so small. He's wise beyond his years. He's still such a little kid at the same time.

In the next few weeks we're going to sit with his teacher at the preschool and we're going to talk about his progress this year - and the antipation of next year. The big "K."

He's excited. He can't wait ride a school bus and hit Kindergarten!

Me, I'm a bit in a daze over it. I look at that tiny foot print in my hallway. I look at the photos of his first steps - the big pride-filled smile on his little 10 month old face. I look at the mix of joy and nervous on his face his first day of preschool last year. I look at his foot today - so much bigger and yet still quite small in a way. This same foot that's going to walk him up the steps of that big yellow vehicle and then into those big brown doors of elementary school. I can imagine the years ahead as that same, albeit much larger foot, walks him down an aisle with a cap and gown - so many years away and yet not so many.

Those little feet taking them so very far.

Mushy Mush

If you're easily nauseated by outright parental gushing, a word of caution - proceed at your own risk.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm simply an emotional girl with easily misting eyes; I don't know. Sometimes one of my kids can say something or do something that makes me so proud of them I start to tear up a bit, which is what happened tonight.

Today is Meg's December sleepover. It's also Bruce's big trek to the perfect barber night. This left Logan and on our own - a date night. He picked the where and the when. I had to supply the wallet. We had dinner out together with plans to come home for a rousing Monopoly match and a good video before bed. We got sidetracked at the mall.

First it was to peek at Santa. Not speak to him, just peek at him. We peeked. Then it was chocolate at the forbidden zone (aka, peanut laden). And then it was the Disney store. I reminded Logan that he had recently spent the generous porition of his helping bucket money on a gift he'd donate through the church school program this weekend. He nodded. I pointed out the Toys for Tots table and asked if he wanted to get someone else a toy this Christmas. He nodded again and clapped.

The Disney store presented lots of nice options and so we rooted through their giant white plush winter animals marked down generously. Logan picked out the winner - a big, soft, cuddly white Heffalump. We paid. He marched back through the ball - both hands on the oversized Disney bag. He was determined to do this himself. When we got to the donation bin, Logan reached inside the bag, removed the prize and placed it gingerly in the bin with a giant smile. The two volunteers exhaled deeply and told him he was sweet. They offered him a candy cane. He took it with a nod and thanked them.

As we walked away he took my hand, clutching his reward tightly in the other hand. "You know what?" he asked me. I responded appropriately - What?

"My favorite part of Christmas is giving gifts to other people," he said with the sort of complete sincerity 4 year olds have yet to figure out how to fake. He went on to explain why he picked the toy he did - it was soft and squishy. Certain to make someone really happy and so therefore perfect for this sort of thing.

I was so proud. I *am* so proud. And I'm just a little teary eyed.