Tapas Friday

It’s been such a busy news week at Casa LD that it’s been a slow news week at the blog.

Which is to say, most of the household attention has been paid to the turning three of a certain someone, plus the matter of that two-going-on-three-year-old beginning (and staying a whole morning at!) preschool.

So much to facilitate, so little time to write about it. Ch-ch-ch-changes. That longer rumination will continue to season on the back burner; meanwhile I’ll offer up a few “tapas” to tide us both over.

• Mama and Baby Brudder were out of town for almost a week for an out-of-state singing gig Mama had. During their long absence, the girlie and I had dutifully filled each day with either fun or extendo-family or both. The day before the Mama returned, the lil’ monkey and I spent a blissfully lazy Sunday of communion with the special cousins and their parents, also known as my dear old friends and their daughters. (Huh?)

At one point I was talking to my chums about how excited I was to bake the kiddle’s birthday cake. Or some precious thing along these lines. I allowed as to the fact that this might make me more “demi-butch” than butch. To which they replied, “Anyone who uses the term ‘demi,’ rather than ‘hemi,’ is definitely not butch.” D’oh! Nailed!

• When I dropped the lil’ monkey off at preschool the next day for her first full day there, everything went suspiciously smoothly: she leaned against the director as she read a book, revelled in the sand box, delighted in “pushing me out the door” (yeah, we read the preschool parent playbook). Our two previous partial days had worked according to plan, thought I!

I was humming to myself as I rode back home, marvelling at the dazzling combination of our girlie’s fortitude and our parental brilliance. But it’s a good thing I’m not a speedy writer. I could have dashed off a smug little bulletin and posted it. And then I’d have had to redact it all. Because only ten minutes after I returned home, I got the call. Seems the transition from the sand box to snack time was a hair bumpy. Later, she told me, “The reason that I was upset, was that I didn’t understand about the snack time. I thought it was lunch time, but it was snack time.” Yeah, I thought, that throws me too, sweetie.

• We went to pick up Mama and Baby Brudder and Gramma at the airport later that day. We were more than ready to have our brood be whole again. When they finally emerged into the meet n’ greet spot in the airport, I set down the lil’ monkey and let her run to Mama. Gramma, pushing the lil’ peanut in a stroller, filled to the brim with loving tears as she watched her daughter break into a trot, squat down, and scoop up the girlie who had rocketed toward her calling out “Mama!” Recollection of her own homecomings to her children? Bittersweetness at the transition of Mama from one generation to the next? (How old were they when her own children last ran like that to her? Will any of us ever be able to mark it when it happens, the last unchecked moment of exuberant, pure, unselfconscious, mama-dependent glee?)

• Our girlie’s next day at school was her birthday, and of course Baba chanelled her own ma and baked and iced twenty little strawberry cupcakes. On the phone later, I told my sister I should be congratulated for showing enormous restraint, since I considered, but did not glaze the names of all the little kids on the cupcakes in a transparent ploy to endear them to my daughter. Was this overcompensation? Like, “Please love my daughter, please! Please befriend her! Don’t hold it against her that (a) she has two moms, and (b) one of them considers Hugh Grant her stylistic role model!” My sister assured me that every parent feels this way, and that what’s more, our girlie is a sweetie pie who will make friends just fine. I comforted myself that I could eventually ease off the campaign once she was elected Preschool Class President, or Homecoming Queen/King, or Representative to the Preschool Model U.N., or whatever things they have going on there. ‘Til then, though, I may have to keep the baked goods flowing.

• The birthday was a three-year-old’s delight, complete with a pair of HER VERY OWN SCISSORS! (“I could cut with these all day!!”), a trip to Little Farm, a dance in the butterfly garden there with birthday wings, a visit to the pottery studio to pick up the birthday teacup Baba and she had decorated last week to her exact design specifications, a table full of family for dinner, a strawberry birthday cake, a gaggle of cousins bearing or bearing close witness to gifts, including a book about — you guessed it! — all kinds of animal poo!, and sloppy lovey thank you kisses all around.

• This morning, when the beloved took the girlie to preschool, the transfer went as smooth as her brother’s behind. She told the mama, “I’ll tell you when I want you to go. I might want to be with my friends.” Half rehearsal for the truth, half truth. Since, after the accumulation of two days there, she’s got just the flickering embers of a friendship or two.

After it seemed as if the girlie was suitably engaged with the play-dough, the beloved asked her whether she was ready to push Mama out the door. “Yeah!” said the monkey, and enthusiastically shoved her out, with Mama all the while squeezing in little endearments. “See you soon, sweetie! Have a good day!” Etc. She didn’t utter the words, but her little body said “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out, Mama!”

Like I told the preschool director. Dog training is mostly for the humans. And preschool separation anxiety is mostly for the parents.

7 thoughts on “Tapas Friday”

  1. Zeca had her first full day at her new school on Monday. Today was the first day that she cried. I consider myself a pretty seasoned parent but I wanted to scoop her up and take her to work with me…just because she asked me to! More congrats to your family as you enter this new stage. It’s exciting and frightening and, you are right – mostly for the parents.

  2. I remember how I used to hope people would like my mom’s baked goods. 🙂 Was definitely part of my trying to be accepted. Not because I was queerspawn (well, I didn’t know at the time that I was queerspawn, nor did the other kids) but because I was from a poorer family than the rest of them. Private school. Ugh. Worst 4 years of my life.

    Oh dear, that sounds more negative than I meant. I’m sure your daughter will have a great time in school. 🙂

    note: If you don’t like the term “queerspawn,” I can avoid doing it, I just felt it fit for me. Drop me a line or such.

  3. I am SO GLAD to know that there’s no good reason for me to let up on the baked goods campaign. I just love baking too much. Don’t THINK I didn’t trot down to the culinary supply store to get me some works, special for the occasion.

    And as to queerspawn: Sister o sister! Are you kiddin’?

    It helps that the beloved (slash Mama) is queerspawn, too (a bothie!). She even has a t-shirt. I’m going to really shove the girlchild toward heterosexuality when the time comes, though, because a third generation of wimmin-lovin’ wimmin would just be too treacly and hard-to-be-believed at pride parades.

  4. Haha, nah, three generations? That means you’re doing something RIGHT.

    Gosh, your little girl is very articulate! After spending the whole week with first-graders who seem to go like this when they want something “I aoiwjknxv,zvsadf!” despite my excellently-honed child-to-adult translation powers, I appreciate a girl who can explain the allure of a good pair of scissors. 😛

  5. O lordy, snail, this one could recite sonnets about them. First time she uttered a sentence, it was so complete (and complex), it freaked me out. It was kind of like looking at the dog and hearing her make some remark about current events.

    Oh, and when the time comes, I s’pose I’ll have to find a way to warmly welcome whomever she brings home. Girl or boy or both. Devil take the hindmost. Long as they call me sir, and ask “How high?” when I say jump.

  6. “I’m going to really shove the girlchild toward heterosexuality when the time comes” how are you gonna do that? is that even possible? that makes it sound like homosexuality is choice something that we know is not…not in most cases…but it will be easier for her in the hetero world so I get the point…

  7. I’ve been so loving the little crumb-trail of comments you’ve been leaving as you read through all these archives, Tamara! I had to just comment back to this one — that was totally a joke. The only point of the joke (and it was admittedly wee) was that three generations of lesbians would be so hard to be believed that folks would think we were kidding about it all.

    Deadpan doesn’t always work in print. But that’s what it was. As my own life is testament, we are who we are, and love who we love, and being shoved in any one direction or another doesn’t change that. It just lets us know where the shover wants us to be.


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