Five Minutes to Miss You

Why is it that when all I want is a break from the noise, from the whining, and from the tattling, the house is too quiet after you leave? Why do your little shoes in the front hallway, that I am so tired of tripping over, make me want to kiss your toes? Why do the books you've left lying all over the house reproach me with all the stories I've rushed to finish, or worse, refused to even read before bed? Even your sticky plates and the crumbs you spilled on the floor cause my throat to constrict.

This is not our first time apart, but I've always been the one to leave. Now, for the first time, I am the one left behind in a house filled with traces of you. And I don't think I like it. It's too lonely.

I had all kinds of lovely plans for this much-anticipated evening to myself, but I didn't know how empty the house would feel once you were gone.

I didn't know it would only take five minutes to miss you.

"Up To My Snot"

Today while watching "4 Square", a short program that I find painful, Hannah learned a new poem. It went like this:

My tongue goes out (accompanied by the action with a strange little noise)
My tongue goes in (see above)
My tongue can waggle (even weirder action)
Down to my chin (pointing with finger)

My tongue goes in
My tongue goes out
My tongue can reach
Up to my snout (pointing at nose, obviously)

Hannah laughed so hard. Then when she repeated the poem, I realized she had misheard the last line.

My tongue can reach
Up to my snot

Gross. And apparently really funny. To her credit, it does still make sense.

The Girl with the Owl Backpack

On Monday, Hannah had her first day of JK. The thought of putting her on a bus all by herself and then leaving her to navigate school life without her parents by her side was enough to twist my heart into painful  knots. She's tall for her age, but she's still so small. Thankfully, Scott was the one to drop her off at the bus stop and watch that big, yellow monster carry her away. I was already at work, trying not to look at the clock or to imagine what was going on in her little mind. As it turned out, I underestimated my beautiful daughter.

The bus brought her to the school (where she had been once before, with her dad, to visit her classroom). She stepped off the bus and looked around. Not sure where to go, she followed "The Girl with the Owl Backpack" to the big-kids' side of the school, where she entered the building brimming with... what? I imagine terror, confusion, a sense of betrayal - all kinds of unspecified horrors. But, no. According to Hannah, she wasn't scared at all. Or worried. After all, she had noticed (her word) that her classroom door had owls on it, so naturally she would follow the girl with the owl backpack. This girl, for the record, who has no name, apparently asked Hannah to be her friend and Hannah agreed. Lost? Heck, no. She was making friends!

And then her teacher found her and safely escorted her to the fold of other JK students where she spent the day happily. Her only complaint: "I don't like the feel of the story-time carpet. It's itchy."

Tomorrow will be her second day. I'm sure that seeing her off on the bus might be marginally easier for Scott; imagining her in the cavernous school will be less intimidating for me; and with time our general parental anxiety about our baby in school will lessen. As for Hannah, she will no doubt once again be more composed than either of her parents.

You Are Not Allowed to Wash Your Feet!

During our stay at the "Spiderweb Cottage"(as Hannah calls it), when we returned from the beach I would wash the kids' feet in a bucket at the front door. On occasion, at the new house, I have carried the kids to the bathroom and washed their feet in the sink after playing in the mud that is our yard. Basic necessity from my point of view. Total excitement from theirs.

And so it began that Jacob, who drags stools, chairs, etc. all over the house to reach things he shouldn't be touching in the first place, began the practice of climbing onto the counter to "wash his feet". The first time I caught him, I admit, it was kind of cute. The next time, when I also found puddles of water all over the counter and the floor, it wasn't so cute. The third time, when he was wearing pants, and soaked not only the pants but everything within a 5-mile radius, I started to get annoyed.

It's hard to stay angry though, when he looks at you with his big wide baby eyes and says proudly, "My washing my feet, mom!"

So now we have a new rule: You are not allowed to wash your feet. Period.

I don't care how cute you are.