Dren Notes

My kids love music.  Correction:  my kids love kid music.  You know, the cds marketed with the high pitched voices, frenetic pace, and annoyingly catchy lyrics?  And, unlike their mother of wee attention span, they can listen to these cds over.  And over.  And over.  I think that’s the root of the problem.  A new cd enters the cd player.  I feel relief:  “Oh, thank goodness:  something new.”  And it’s played and played and played until, in a rare moment of silence, we find ourselves humming or speaking something from the album.  “6 is afraid of 7.  Why?  Cause 7 8 9.”  “Oh no no I never go to work, oh no no I never go to work.”  “Hey Victor.  Are you ready?  To eat some spaghetti with Freddy?“  It makes for some very intellectual conversation over dinner.*

So I’m taking some initiative in my library holds by getting music as well as books (so many books – they had to set aside my pile in my own “section” last time.  Rock on.).  This way the kids can listen the heck out of the cd, but oops:  it has to go bu-bye.  And:  I try to get music that’s *not* available at my library so on the off chance that I actually let them frolic about merrily in the children’s section and they come across a beloved listen, I don’t have to be The Big Mean Mama or the Passive-Aggressive “Fine, Check it out, and I’ll resent you for it everytime it’s played” Martyr Mama (I’m good at both).

This week:  Blast Off.  From the Salem Library.  A little more honkey tonk than I was expecting, but this afternoon totally redeemed anything that makes my n0-country-in-this-household sensor go off.

I heard the strains of some familiar tune, but continued on with my work.  Then I heard JJ repeat it.  Again.  And Again.  Finally removing the earbuds from my ears, I realized what it was and did a little jig (as much as I can jig these days) – a cover from my favorite childhood/maybe allhood movie of all time: “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”.  Funny thing is I don’t think JJ has seen the movie all the way through, but for some reason, he *knew* this was a song he needed in his life.

Is this due to nature?  Or nurture?  I don’t really care because a vegetable isn’t singing it.

*[And yes, I've heard from other parents, in rather condescending tones, "Oh, we don't *allow* that kind of music in the house.  My child only likes jazz/classical/U2/Nora Jones/African tribal drum circles."  Bully for you.  Doesn't really help me feel better in my current circumstances, does it?  Sometimes we can't control everything that comes into the house.  And when your child discovers Barney or Yo Gabba Gabba, I'll try to empathize, since my natural smirk is probably about as helpful as those comments.]

Most of the comments I hear throughout my day:

• “When are you due?”
• “Wow:  you still haven’t had that kid?”
• “Any day now, right?”
• “Geez:  you sure are stickin’ out there.”
• “You must be *so* ready to be done with this.”
• “Wow:  she’s about to pop!”
• “And you really don’t have a name picked out yet?”
• “Mon-kee!  Mon-kee!” – which is actually Abe asking me to read a Cookie Monster book to him.  For the fifth time in a row.

So yes:  I’m still waddling in my neck of the woods, and I’m actually quite fine with that.  At night, when I’m having contractions (both wimpy preppers and the real take-my-breath-away-aw-crap-this-is-gonna-hurt ones), I may think, “Hmm:  tomorrow would be a nice day to have a baby.  Then I won’t have to …” [insert:  do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, clean up the ever-present crumbs, deal with preschool orientation, take one more deep breath while dealing with my toddler].

And every morning I wake up and realize:  “Hmm, it’s not today.  That’s okay, now I can …” [take the boys to the Coffee Cottage for a play date, get dressed up for Bible study, clean and organize and clean some more, enjoy more hours of consistent sleep than I will for a while, not have an excruciatingly sore bum].

I’m not surprised that she’s not here, honestly.  True, the due date’s September 19th/20th:  a week + to go.  If she followed the ways of her brothers, she would’ve come today, though:  Abe – 11, JJ – 12, Hubby – 13.  Makes it easier for me to remember birthdays, although months and years get tricky.    No, see, Hubby and I know this one is our free spirit:  she’s a girl, she’s the youngest, and she’s going to do just whatever she wants (methinks the bossing will come from the youngest up).  The boys felt ready to come:  pushing and stretching and making me really uncomfortable.  So far Boo and I have worked out a mostly-agreeable symbiosis (minus the sciatic pain:  nothing like the feel of randomly touching an electric fence shoot from your bum to your toes):  I have occasional bouts of insomnia, I have only recently had to pee every hour, I’ve been able to sit without feeling like I needed a lift to get my stomach out of my lap.

I haven’t hit the miserable point yet, and until I reach that, I don’t think she’ll come.  I remember sitting in Abe’s room, in the rocker, looking over at the stocked closet and the cradle all ready to go, praying, pleading, “Pleeeease come!  Please!  There’s no reason to stay in there!  Outside has so much more room!  And look:  you have presents!  To use!  And play with!  Come play with them already!”  Part of me would like to hit the miserable point so she will maybe recognize, “Uh oh:  pushing the host a little to far.  Vacate before she gets drastic!”  But then a real contraction hits, and putting off labor another day doesn’t sound so bad.

This tune may change as I see the forecast for this weekend, and if she doesn’t want to comply, then maybe we’ll just try a “practice run” of labor.  I’m sure the Birthing Center wouldn’t mind. 

Yep, still pregnant.

Nope, I’m not that miserable, unless it’s 2am, and I have to physically flop from one side to the other before rolling out of bed and hobbling to the bathroom to pee and then realizing I’ll be awake at this time, but for longer periods of time, for many months.  And then despair does sink in.  But not for long:  my bladder holds not-a-lot, then it’s waddling and flopping back to sleep.

It’s not your job to tell me what Abe is doing.

Abe, knock it off.

Boo is due September 19th-ish.  The boys were due around the same day-date, and they came a week-ish early, but she’s a girl, so she’ll do whatever she wants.

Yes, she may come early.  But I’m mentally preparing myself for an October due date.  Stop rolling your eyes at me, Dr.  Tami.

Use.Your.Words.  Howling is not considered a word.

Ow.  Fake contraction, but still:  ow.

No, we don’t have a name.  Yes, that suggestion is great:  I’ll run it by the fam when I get a chance …

No more Elmo At the Orchestra:  Elmo needs a break.  Or Mama’ll need a drink, and she can’t have one of those for a while.

[Shaking belly]:  WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!!!?

Ow:  real contraction.  Sorry.

It’s only 7:30am.  I’m not talking about Screen Time Plans for the day right now.

Please stop smashing the cherry tomatoes into your shirt:  no, it’s not a tie-dye method.

You just ate an hour ago:  I’m not prepared to talk about snack time right now.

Way to poop in the toilet!

Shhhhhh.

You just ate a half hour ago.  I’m not ready to talk about lunch yet.

No, I’m not opposed to pink:  I just think there should be an appreciation of colors *beyond* pink for girls – girls can wear blue, too.

You can tell me I don’t have cankles, but you can’t tell me I don’t have *self-perceived* cankles:  don’t take that away from me.

It was a day.

I’m glad you have room for one more foods in your tummy:  we’ll get that in tomorrow morning.  For now:  go.to.bed.

If you ask my Hubby what’s going on, he’ll often shrug his shoulders and say, “Enh, not much”.  Even if the servers at his work have all crashed and the organization has completely restructured and his coworker is moving to Yemen and the Red Sox decided to relocate to Fargo.  I’ve learned to ask more “specific” questions if my need for information is to be satisfied.

But I realize I’m not doing that in return.  If you asked me right now, I’d say the same:  it’s so much to say.  Snippets are all you’re going to get.

– We celebrated Abe’s 2nd birthday.  A couple of times.  And he’s OH so two – complete with tantrums, bright smiles, hitting, and bi-polar moods.  Right on target.

– One afternoon while we were fixing JJ’s bleeding toes, Abe slit his head open outside on the bbq.  Nothing like coming outside to see your shirtless child gushing blood from the head.  If I didn’t go into labor then, I’m good until September.   Eight staples later, and we’re back in business.  (Staples removed by Granddaddy because my doctor, who apparently LOVES removing staples, was going to be out of town, and she didn’t want to give anyone else in her practice the pleasure of taking them out, so she sent us home with the removal device.  Good times).

– We crashed at the Grand’rents new digs:  highly approve.  Busted out Unca Matt’s old school legos:  the Black Monarch’s Castle will live again!

– Hubby’s folks came to town:  lots of food and conversation and water tables and sprinklers and baths.

– It got hot:  bloody hot.  But the heat and a local conference coincided.  Correction:  the heat and a local conference with childcare and air conditioning coincided.  Nuff’ said.

– Went to the beach:  cold.  Came back:  hot.  Not good for the preggo mama to try to acclimate that quickly.  Managed fine when living in the heat, but my body moved into autumn mode and is none too happy to be back in sticky summer.  We’re working through it with lots of pudding and crystal light (not-so-much a toxin-free pregnancy for this girl).

– I have no more space in my body for this child.  But her lease isn’t up for another seven-ish weeks.  I feel like the room Alice was stuck in after drinking the bottle and swelling up to be ginormous:  poor room.

– Next week:  VBS for one tyke.

– Following week:  shipping the kids off, going to camp.  High school camp.  That I’m leading some kids through.  And hanging out with.   Until mandatory lights out at 1am.  Then meeting with leaders in the morning.  7ish.  For like 8 days.  No Memory Foam Mattress Topper in sight, but we will have easy access to an abundance of squeaky cheese.  Yeah, we’ll see how that goes.

The other week I told someone that I just have to get through camp, then I can breathe.  They looked at me.  “Okay, fine, so it will be more labor breathing, but whatever.”

For Abe’s birthday Unca Matt got him the latest cool thing/monstrosity on the market:  Broby from Yo Gabba Gabba.  I just checked out the video from the library:  it’s like preschool crack – my children talk about it non-stop.  And they dance.  You’d think I’d relate and enjoy more, what with being the embodiment of a Party in the Tummy, but somehow it’s not connecting while they blast that and I try to drown it out with my current read: “The Hole in our Gospel” by the president of World Vision … I’m sure there’s parallels between the two somewhere ….

Pardon my twitching lower abdomen:  *someone* is practicing the lovely art of having the hiccups.  *All**the**time*.

It’s funny how I don’t remember things from pregnancy to pregnancy.  I’ve heard countless mothers say the same thing, but I always thought, “How could you forget such an amazing, precious, life-transforming thing?”  And then I tell Hubby:  “This kid has so many more hiccups than the boys!” to which he responds, ‘Uh uh, Abe had a lot of them, too.”

Really?  Honestly, I don’t believe him, but my shrinking pregnant brain is in no shape to argue.  Although I did manage to find some small bit of lucidity to defend my position that “Runnin’ Down a Dream” by Tom Petty is *not* alternative radio material, even though I heard it on our local alternative station.  Don’t question my understanding of the Tom Petty cultural phenomenon or my ability to quote “Grosse Pointe Blank”:  you’ll get a beat-down.

I used to be floored that my mom couldn’t remember what year my brother was born, or would flip our birth dates (24, 26).  And now people, like the children’s pastor at a church we were visiting a few months ago, ask, “How old is JJ?”  To which I respond, “Oh, 5.”  “Um, then he needs to be in the 5′s class.”  “Oh, I’m sorry.  He’s really 4.5, but both my kids like to act at least six months older than their age.”  Yeah, step away from the crazy pregnant lady.

The only thing I can remember about the in utero boys is that JJ wedged his boot in my right rib cage – a LOT – , and Abe stuck his butt out, stretching my stomach to the point that I thought it would rip and reenact one of my mama’s most favoritist scenes from a movie (she was a lot more selective about what movies she would see with my father after that one ).  And the boys both moved:  a LOT.

So far this little one doesn’t have any trademark moves except for the regular hic.hic.hic.hic and the nightly Zoomba sessions.  That, and seemingly not liking to be touched or talked to:  more than once she’s jumped when people touch my stomach, and Hubby’s gotten a few pops to the nose when asking her what’s going on.

But she does seem to like to listen to Tom Petty.  How do I know?  Because I’ve dreamed about Tom Petty.  Twice.  And he’s on the radio a lot lately.  And I really like it.

And while I could leave you with a link to a Tom Petty song, I’m not going to.  Because while searching for the above youtube clip, I came across this.  And it makes me happy (and will be today’s homage to Mikey J:  gotta be culturally relevant).

Yesterday a friend asked me how I picked 11lbs of raspberries in an hour and a half:  the title was my answer.  Well, that coupled with rows that boys could run up and down, snacks that take a looooong time to eat (granola without a spoon anyone?), and setting aside my desire for my children not to be the walking essences of the raspberry fields (let’s just say that Abe’s yellow Mythbusters shirt may never recover).

This is my summer of craziness:  two tykes under five, one Buddha belly, and this insane determination to explore the local/sustainable/harvesting lifestyle.  Our CSA delivers a bounty of lettuce and other greens that must be worked through in seven days; I’ve hit the strawberry fields twice; our cherry tree gave buckets of fruit that have been cut, pitted, and frozen; I want to go back to the strawberries, but my Mama kindly reminds me, “Sweetie, other types of fruit are ripening.”  “Yes, Mama, but so am I.”

So then I bat my big eyelashes at Hubby as I say, “Boy, I’d really like to get blackberries, blueberries, peaches, and apples this year …”  My hubby who has the same childhood phobias of berry fields as he does of the fabric store (which I have NOT taken him to:  isn’t he glad I get my stash of yarn from Freddies?).

Each “harvesting” experience is interesting in itself, so different.  Raspberries are much kinder to my belly, getting to move up and down rather than squat and wonder if my doctor would just meet me out in the strawberry fields in September because it’s an awfully conducive place for contractions.  But I picked half as many raspberries than strawberries in the same amount of time (which is dictated by small tykes’ abilities to cope and patience for eating granola oat by oat).  But then I just washed the berries, threw them on a tray, froze them, and they’re ready to go:  no pitting, hulling, slicing, etc. (my fingers are still recouping from/protesting being make-shift cherry pitters).

So far the most consistent thing I’ve found:  once I’ve harvested, I’m ready for a break.  I don’t want to eat any strawberries or cherries:  the craving has been quenched (for the moment).  I’m still okay with raspberries, but am so ready to move on to the next thing.  Perhaps that’s what keeps the harvester going back to the fields rather than saying, “Ugh, I’m done!”  That, and true harvesters kinda hafta sorta harvest or starve.  However, I know that my teriyaki tree blooms year round, and that’s a hard one not to want to go back to over and over and over again (oh, my tree of the knowledge of good and House of Teriyaki:  how you tempt me).

A while ago, when my idealistic side got access to the Dreaming parts of my brain (meaning the Realistic side had worn out of making lists and lists and more lists), I wondered about the sleeping situations at Chez Dren.  We have three bedrooms, all occupied.  What could we change?  What if the little bros. shared a sleeping room?  And we could turn the other room into a playroom/office?  In college many folks lived in the suites and had a Sleeping Room and a Working Room.

I broached the idea with Hubby who immediately said, “Why?  I always had my own room.  Who would want to share?”  I, too, had my own room and *loved* it.  But our eldest’s need for alone time seems to be done within thirty minutes of falling asleep, and then he’s ready to put on his party shoes again.

Then a little Boo decided to make her presence known, and room reorgs had to happen.  I already have two scruffy roommates (at least one of them shaves on a regular/semi-regular basis depending if it’s No Shave November or not; the other one just sheds on my side of the bed) plus now a short-term renter whose 40-week lease will not be up for renewal.

We got bunks.  Yes, we are suburban IKEA web2.0ers with young boys in bunk beds.  Who woulda thunk it?  The beds were purchased and set up a while ago, and in typical fashion, we’ve been doing things in “stages”:  let JJ get used to them, move Abe to a regular bed in his room, move Abe to the bunk bed while JJ was up at the Grand’rents, and then the final installment which began on Saturday:  the boys share a room.

We had a brief bout of sharing rooms when visiting Hubby’s folks, and they did …. okay.  They fell asleep LATE, but that might have happened anyway.  The immediate benefit I noticed:  entertainment without the presence of adults.  Talking to each other.  Sharing toys.  Bossing each other around.  Trying to get the other one to do something they weren’t supposed to:  you know, all the stuff that siblinghood is about.

So Saturday night we loaded them in the room.  Abe:  delighted, jumped in the bed, pulled the sheets up, “ByEEEE”.  JJ:  “But I want to sleep on the bottom!”  Sigh.  However, they managed to entertain each other.  Until 10:15 pm.  JJ only came out of the room a few time with reports:  “I bonked my knee and it hurts.”  “Abe wanted this toy and I gave it to him.”  “We want the windows open and lights on.”  “I didn’t open the blinds, but *someone* did.”  Tears exploded only a few times.  When Hubby went to tuck the boys in after the final passout, they were continuing to share … the bottom bunk.  My response:  “I don’t care what they do, as long as I don’t have to get involved after they go in that room.”

That’s honestly my feeling.  I. Don’t. Care.  JJ gave us quite the workout training him to stay in his room and fall asleep.  Seriously.  It was training:  for us all (although Hubby did most the heavy lifting, or containing).  Every few moments, the door would creak open, or “tip toes” would be hurting running across the hall.  It was exhausting.  Abe, however, doesn’t seem to know that’s an option, and even when JJ leaves on Reporting Duty, he mostly stays in the room.  Progress!

Until 5:30am the next morning, that is, when I heard “tip toes” running through the hall and blinds being opened.  “Hubby:  Boys.Up.”  He immediately shuttled them back to bed:  Abe conked out, JJ bided his time for an hour until he could stand it no longer.  His morning report:  “Mama, I let Abe share the bottom bed with me.  And then I woke up and said, ‘Rise and shine!’  But Dad made us come back to bed:  why?”

They’re still adjusting.  JJ’s new favorite “mean thing” to say:  “I don’t want ANYONE to share MY room!”  Abe doesn’t like having quiet time in his old room, because then he might actually fall asleep, and might be a bit more pleasant (not necessarily, though).  Hubby’s dealing with the boys being loud, even if contained, for a longer period of the day.

Last night I was putting the boys to bed solo, which honestly I was dreading to a degree:  I was Reported Out.  But they fell asleep.  Both.  In a few minutes.  In their own beds.  It was so … idealistic.  It may not happen again anytime soon, but it *did* happen, and I will savor that for at least a few sleeping times to come.

“Mama, how can I help?”

Dreaded words for a chronic “I’ll do it myself” person.  And yet that’s what my eldest has been asking all morning.

I know I should be grateful that he wants to help because it will only last for so long (if any of my DNA runs through his veins, which, by the by, are blue and carry blood away from the heart as he will tell you and other small tykes on the playground:  thank you, The Busy Body Book).  But I just want to do it *myself*.  Because I can do it faster.  And “right”.

Hubby and I were discussing the grace-growing experiences we’re having with JJ as of late.  Grace-growing as in “stretching us in ways we don’t wanna and don’t think we should hafta and yet we gotta or it’s gonna be ugly”.  Even the way we form sentences are being restructured, working the Dr. Phil out of us (“YOU need to do this; YOU have to change; YOU must do it this way; YOU YOU YOU”), engaging some more creative grammatical structure:

Rather than “Shut the screen door already!”, “It’s TIME to close the door!”

Rather than “I’m going to throw your shoes in the street if I trip over them again!”, “Shoes go in the closet!”

Rather than “For the love of all that is holy and good, stop sitting on your brother!”, “When Abe is sat on and starts screeching, I get frustrated because my ears hurt.  What can we do about this?”

Hubby commented on how the books we’re reading have such nicely laid out situations for solving tension:  “The kids reason and offer solutions.  I did what the author said:  JJ just fell on the floor and rolled his eyes.”  I told him he needed to read further, because the author says, “Of course, sometimes none of these things work out, and everyone screams and goes to their rooms.  And then you can apologize and start fresh again.”  That’s the only reason the book didn’t end up in the street with size 11T shoes.

I read about Montessouri methods and home schooling and think, “Oh, that sounds so wonderful and experiential and cool”.  That would be my idealistic side.  Taking time to have the kids clean alongside me, not minding that they go slowly or don’t get all the crumbs.  Letting them get covered in paint from head to toe and not feeling that I needed to scrub everything to get it clean.  Setting up a station for them to sit at and play not needing or wanting supervision ….

It’s TIME to stop laughing now (note how I didn’t command you to stop laughing:  look at me growing).

Somehow this Montessouri education is happening, and yet it’s mostly to me.  This is not what I had planned.  I already went to school, skated through, in fact.  Lesson learned, kids:  when one thinks they know it all, all the things they don’t know or didn’t think they needed to know move into the house and become covered in pudding pop goo, as I now have the opportunity to discuss the finer points of getting food *in* one’s tummy, not *on* one’s tummy.

Our family tends to stay in town.  I hear about all these people taking crazy journeys with their families, walking the Pacific Crest Trail, camping for over a month, traveling the world on a few dollars a day.  And my idealistic self says, “Ooooh.”  To which my realistic self promptly whallops her on the head with the t-ball bat that the boys are currently “debating” over.

My first born, as a small tyke, was not so … containable, and my concept of trips and him combined to me is like herding kittens:  crazy, driven, really really fast kittens.  I forget that as he ages, he changes and can do things like respond to commands and stay in one general area and not throw himself off of high places and not break out of the nursery … each nursery …. at least twice.  And the second born doesn’t even know that there are other options beyond responding to the Mama Barks.

Our local church camp was trying a new program called “Family Getaways“:  basically a laid-back weekend of getting to hang out at the beach, eat yummy camp food, enjoy their grounds and equipment, and the best part for our family – kids aged 5 and under were free.  SWEET.  And if it bombed, I figured we were only two hours away from home (with a quick stop for squeaky cheese – a necessity).

Packing did not go well.  It was turning into:  Family, Get Away!  I told Hubby that I will no longer pack for myself and two small children by my lonesome again.  And then realized that I won’t:  it will be *three* small tykes.  Lovely.

But we made it to camp and got to stay in a *gorgeous* cabin that I want to permanently move into.  Or at least steal their bathrooms.  Of which we had access to two.  For four people.  Bliss!  We bundled up the kids and they slept in their twin beds while Hubby and I enjoyed a very new, firm queen-sized mattress (pregnancy gives me a bit of a Princess-and-the-Pea syndrome.  If only memory foam mattress toppers were a little more transportable).

We played lots of games in the shelter, some with people who wanted to play with small children, and some with people who didn’tsomuch.  Smores were eaten, songs were sung, children (of which there were really only four for the whole group, and two were girls:  well.behaved.girls.) ran amuck if that was their natural inclination.

The next day was more of the same.  Excellent food (that I didn’t have to prepare, but did have to clean up after thanks to a toddler who enjoyed giving depth to his wardrobe by sporting his meals).  Times to play.  Times to chill.  Times to talk with friends who work at the camp.

Flying a wicked shark kite.

Enjoy the Rocks of Twins.

Can you believe they let me have this?!!  Legally?!!

Golf ball go down the hooooooooole.

The Professional at work.

Be Free!

Golfing, frisbee-style.

Same table, different player (with one of my bestest bud’s kids).

DOH!

And no trip to that part of the coast is complete without a trip to The Cheese Factory.  Because we *love* cheese.  And ice cream.  And fudge.  And dried meat products.  We love health. 

Monitoring The Cheese Making Process in a very safe fashion.

Say Vegan Soy Products!

The trip had its good moments and its hard moments.  I’m trying to take it for what it was worth:  a weekend away, with my family, two of whom are small people who don’t respond to changing environments all that well.  Each one fell out of bed once.  Each one had meltdowns due to food issues or over-exertion or being told “no” (gasp) – adults included.  But times of changing scenery, enjoying God’s beauty, being with friends, watching the little guys make new friends – that makes it all worth it.  That, and the three packages of squeaky cheese that were consumed in the next week:  mmmm.

It’s June!  It’s summer!

(Enjoying an ice cream sandwich, or guarding it lest others might think they needed a taste.  Believe me, we didn’t).

I wore full-body long johns last week!  But the week before I wore summery clothes.  And put away the boys’ winter clothes.  Which I had to resurrect so that sweats weren’t worn to church.  We’re laid back, but oh, my sweet Southern deceased grandmothers might just have to beat Christ at his own game and have a little resurrection time of their own:  “You sent my grandbaby to Sunday meeting wearing what?!!”

A number of my friends were voicing concern due to the change in the season:

• “School’s almost out.”
• “It’s going to get hot.”
• “What am I going to do with these kids all day?”

I remember that panic from last year, that dread of “I’m in charge of scheduling all this time?”  To which this year I shouted a “Glory, hallelujah!  I don’t have to be anywhere or do anything!  I’m in charge!  And We’re Staying Home!”  Hmm:  who doesn’t want to waddle after two active boys in public as onlookers gawk and stare at the Crazed Hormonal Woman?  It’s been a very religious experience so far, as you can tell.

JJ “graduated.”

It was during the “heat wave”:  it was warm:  it was a nighttime thing during a busy week:  I really didn’t want to go.  He’ll be going back to the same Pre-K program next year, so it felt so anticlimactic.  However, each child had a role.  That they led the class in.  Up front.  In alphabetical order (which would explain why JJ comes home from school chanting his classmates names in alphabetical order, letting me know who was and was not present.  It does warm a former librarian’s heart a bit).

JJ led the class in reciting numbers.

During “prairie quest” time, he asked for healing for Abe’s scratch on his knee (which stays present due to someone’s picking fixation).  Can’t imagine why he has a scrape on his knee.

And then the “aw” moment of the evening”:  led by his friend Jacob – “Class, it’s time for thanksgivings.  JJ, what are you thankful for?”  “You.”  Seriously.  That earned him a few “get out of parental frustration free” points, which were quickly used up at the after-party – cookies and juice and primary colored napkins (we were instructed on what to bring.  Teacher L runs a tight ship).

So now we’re in the throws of summer.  The first request:  “Can we eat breakfast at the park?”  SURE!  Which has been requested since then, but sitting on a wet picnic bench just isn’t so appealing.  That’s just how summer rolls:  no rhyme or reason, Little Man.

Now JJ lets everyone know, “I’m not going to school anymore.  I’m on Summer ‘Cation.  I’ll go back to school on September 12th”.  His birthday.  Which is not the date that he starts school, but it’s the best way to help give him a concept of time, and to get him to stop asking me, “Am I going to school today?”  Oh, and his sister is arriving on that day as well according to him:  I’m glad he’s got it all scheduled out.  Maybe she can even be his show-and-tell, that or mama’s freaky-floppy-stretchy-stomach:  that could really wow the crowd.

I know it’s been a good year when JJ’s pouting because he’s gotten too riled up and we had to get him away from his friends, and he says, “I don’t love my friends anymore.  Just you and Dad and Abel and God and Teacher L.”  Just like I said to my mama about my first grade teacher (except it was more in the context of , “Well, you may not love me anymore, but Mrs. Iverson always will.”  Oh, the sting).

So now we’re cruising through summer.  Posts will follow regarding events – wouldn’t want to flood you with too much Drenness.  Plus, I need to go finish reading about The Blue Zone lifestyle and Husband Coached Childbirth because I have the most random Books On Hold list at the library ever.