Kate Becomes a Duckling

Kate started preschool on Tuesday. As a 2-year-old, she’s considered a Duckling, and in future years will be a Gosling, a Mallard, etc. It’s a classroom naming metaphor my mother–the self-appointed patron saint of ducks–would no doubt embrace.

Carrying her lunch box and decked in her new school clothes–a tan corduroy jumper, orange quilted vest, leggings and white sneaks–she could have been me going off to what what was then called nursery school, circa 1970. Of course, she wasn’t proudly toting her new Trapper Keeper. Then again, I didn’t have one until I was a bit older too. (But who can think about back-to-school without thoughts of Trapper Keepers dancing in your head?)

Since Kate’s filling a mysterious and miraculous last-minute opening in a highly-demanded preschool, she’s joining the school year midstream. All the other kids have already played out their adjustment issues. And now they’re clued into what to do at circle time, know the words to a handful of songs, and have likely already exchanged some germs, bites, and good times.

From the parental perspective, the spate of stories about parents who had to peel their kids off them to leave, or whose kids nonchalantly waved them off but the mother still bawled in her car in the parking lot over the fact that “little Jordan is such a big boy now”–all those stories have waned by now too.

I couldn’t help but wonder how Kate and I would play out this milestone duet.

After a constant stream of “preschool this/preschool that” banter in the drive over, once inside Kate held my hand with eyes wide open and mouth clamped shut. But after a tour of her cubbie hole and the sign-in sheet, a teacher easily lured Kate over to a table to decorate a mini-pumpkin with one part glitter and three parts paste. With a quick smooch I was outta there with no drama in sight.

As I fumbled through the labyrinth of classrooms to find a door out I passed by a window into the room where Kate was showing the craft gods who was boss. For a second I wondered if this would be my emotional moment–looking in on her blond pigtailed cuteness when she was oblivious to my presence.

Nope. No tears, no “there’s my little girl gettin’ so big heartache.” I’d figured she would groove on the preschool scene, and I was right. Teacher Lilia even gushed to me when I picked up Kate four hours later that she’d never seen a toddler transition so well on their first day–something she tells all parents?

Oh Miss Kate you continue to amaze and impress us. Muttering the alphabet–all the letters, and in all the right places!–while I give you a bath. Commending me after I pee with a “Good job, Mama!” Telling me about your new school friend, Ben, who you’ve likely already hug-tackled with your unbridled toddler glee.

Before we know it you’ll be questioning our politics, despairing our technical ineptitude and no longer volunteering information on Ben, or Henry, or whoever it is who has captured your attention.

Even though I made it through your first day of preschool, I still have plenty of parking lot crying in me for other times in your life. So prepare to be embarrassed.

26 Weeks? Is That All?

For the love of God this pregnancy may stretch out for all eternity!

I mean, mostly I feel like the holidays will be here before I know it, then the baby will be due. But that’s only if I can get out of this Twilight Zone which seems to be the tail end of the 20-something weeks.

At yoga yesterday during show-and-tell time, once again all the other mothers-to-be were able to show off their ability to retain how far along they are. (Show offs.) And when it was my turn I just decided to ‘fess up. “Um, I’m not really sure how many weeks I am,” I said weakly. “Maybe, um . . . 28?”

In the tub last night I decided to flip through some of my old pregnancy books. You know, nurture an interest in this developing child in order to maybe foster more healthy fetal development. You know, try to muster up the fascination that I had with the whole process when I was pregnant with Kate. You know, fake it.

But it’s like the “Your Pregnancy Week by Week” book was written just to mock us second-timers who have no sense of what week we’re in. I just skimmed the 27 to 29 week range and figured I had it covered. I read about some of the horrific things that can happen from “What to Freak Out About When You’re Expecting” and thought to myself that I should remember to tell Mark the crown to rump length of the baby at this point, so I could alleviate any guilt he might have about not reading anything this time around either.

Finally this evening I remembered to go BabyCenter.com to learn how far along I really am. What I don’t know, The Internets will tell me! Thank God.

Well, it turns out that after using their handy dandy pregnancy calculator thingy I discovered I’M ONLY AT 26 WEEKS. This seems utterly impossible. Wasn’t I 26 weeks along about a month ago at my last midwife appointment? Did I slip into some reverse coma where instead of losing the last few weeks, I feel like I’ve experienced them but time has really stood still?

For all I know I could get a BabyCenter email newsletter next week telling me that I’m at 21 weeks. I mean, at this point I really wouldn’t be surprised.

Well, given that I am where they tell me I am, what I learned is that the nerve pathways in the baby’s ears are developing now. And that if it’s a boy–which I’ve been feeling lately like it is–his testicles are starting their epic descent into his scrotum. It’s “a trip that will take about two to three days.” You know, a nice weekend-length itinerary.

Learning a tidbit like that helped me to realize what I’m missing out on by not closely monitoring each stage of this baby’s development. Or maybe what I’m not missing out on.

This time around, looking down at my belly every once and a while and commenting to Mark, “Yep, I’m getting bigger alright” might just be all I need to do.

Keepin’ it Real for the Kids

Kate is a busy mother. And it’s no wonder. She has on the order of 6 babies. All who need her vigilant attention.

Of course, there’s the diaper changing. Which involves finding her own diaper bag, ferreting out a diaper or two and the package of wipes. Then, no less than 20 wipes need to be extricated from the box. You can find fault with the girl’s diapering prowess, but I’ll say this: She’s a thorough butt-wiper.

And she works lovingly. She hardly slaps that baby down on the changing pad–did I forget to mention she gets that out too? No, she loving holds the baby’s head as she lowers it down to the floor, while quietly commanding, “Now lie down.”

When not dealing with what’s coming out (in her imagination at least), Kate busies herself with the input. Snapping the straps on the booster seat has long been an entertaining pastime, since the time when we bought a small booster seat for her to use at Grandpa’s house. When her high chair became too cumbersome and babyish for Kate, we got our own booster seat and it wasn’t long before she realized that it was perfectly suitable for her own babies mealtimes. Invariably when you go to put Kate in it, it’s already occupied.

Sure, she gets them seated. But the actual feeding comes in fits and starts, truth be told. At times they get a sip from her own sippy cup. And more recently they get a drink of “owange juice” from a bottle that came with a doll she got for her birthday. Not sure why they sell toy baby bottles that appear to be filled with Tang, though I’m probably too hardcore about rarely giving Kate anything more than water or milk. But like all of us, you want for your children what you didn’t (or don’t) have, right? So, for Kate’s babies, owange juice it is.

There’s also much time spent putting the babies “night-night” in either her crib (which requires them to be flung over the side railing, hopefully landing comfortably on the mattress) or arranged carefully in their doll cradle. This involves lots of smoothing down of their blankets, kisses on their heads, and the repeated incantation, “Babies go night-night. Babies go night-night.”

The hairdressing takes a good deal of time too: putting barrettes on and off, struggling with pony tail holders, and attempting to brush or comb even the hairless babies’ heads.

Yesterday I was cooking dinner for friends who recently had a baby. With all the cooking Mark does for us it’s a wonder I even remember where the stove is. Thankfully I get practice whenever a friend has a baby and I whip up some easy-to-freeze one-dish meal.

Kate’s got this new step stool that I bought her for a buck at a garage sale. Best money I ever spent. She’s got the fancy stool Grandpa made her stationed at the bathroom sink, but this crappy plywood one is her vehicle for checking out everything that’s going down in the kitchen. And she slings that thing around with a flick of her wrist like a spry oldster with their walker. It’s funny, but can be annoying when she’s tracking your every move one second behind you. You’re at the cutting board and need something from the fridge and before you know it there she is teetering on her tiptoes on the stool’s top step, gravely inspecting whatever it is you’re taking out.

After 20 minutes of her being my little shadow I encouraged her to check in on her dolls. Surely one of them needs a diaper change at this point, no? And sweet relief, she took the bait. But as these things tend to go, after a while it was growing a little too quiet in the living room, requiring me to investigate.

What I saw was no less than seven of her shirts and several pair of pants spread out on the carpet near her soon-not-to-be-naked babies. And with serious determination she was heading back to her bedroom to purloin more. I was onto her and followed her into her room.

As she’s leaning into her dresser drawer to scoop up another armload of clothes she looked at me and stopped. She extracted herself and turned towards me with her arms straight out like a traffic cop. “No come in my room, Mama! No come in my room!”

My God, I thought. Isn’t the whole “do not enter” culture supposed to emerge years from now? Have I got a toddler or a teen here?

At any rate, I didn’t take it too much to heart. Sure she was making a terrific mess, and dragging perfectly clean (and anal-retentively folded) clothes throughout the house. But I know as well as the next mother, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do for your babies. And ain’t nobody going to get in your way.

Boy Crazy 101

In what must count as a small miracle, we were offered a space for Kate in what seems to be a great preschool. This presented itself when I called them to get on their waiting list for next September, and meekly asked if by any chance they might have any openings in January. After the woman suppressed pitying laughter, she took my name down in the event that “a family moves–which does happen sometimes.”

Then a couple weeks later she leaves me a message that a space has opened up.

Did I mention it’s also just a 3.5 minute drive from our house? Though, who’s counting.

We’ve worked out a deal with the nanny so she’s not docked for the hours Kate’s at school, and until I’m on maternity leave she’ll pick Kate up. A deal our hard-driving dealmaker of a nanny actually went for!

All this certainly adds up to such a great bestowal of luck and karma, that Mark and I really shouldn’t be allowed to ask for birthday or Christmas presents for at least a year or so.

The hope is that going off to school a couple mornings a week will be a good thing for Kate when the new baby comes. She’ll be able to roll with some kids her own age and not be trapped in the house in the middle of rainy season with a bleary-eyed mother and squalling new sibling. Plus, having only one wee one to mind will make it easier for me to do glamorous things like shop for groceries and take weekly showers.

Kate always has a lot to talk about, but the impending adventures in preschool provide lots of fresh new fodder.

Tonight as she ate dinner, we delved into the virtues of preschool.

Me: “This week we are going to visit the preschool.”

Kate: “Mama come?”

Me: “Yes, Kate and Mama will go and see the preschool.”

Kate: “Preschool have little swings?”

Me: “I know there is a playground, but I don’t remember if there are swings.”

Kate: “Preschool have sand?”

Me: “Yes, there is a sandbox, and a garden, and lots of toys.”

Kate: “Oh.”

Me: “And there are lots of boys and girls for you to be friends with. And Owen will be there. He goes to the same preschool.”

Kate: [face lights up and she tries to stand up while strapped into her booster seat] “I HUG BOYS!”

Me: “You want to hug boys at preschool?”

Kate: “YES! Hug boys! HUG BOYS!”

And later…

Me: “There are also chickens at the preschool, and they are going to get a bunny rabbit.”

Kate: “Bunny rabbit? Bunny rabbit DANCE! Dance, dance, dance!”

This discussion clearly illuminates some of the educational objectives Kate is setting for herself in anticipation of her foray into academia. We’re so proud of her.

I just hope for their sakes those bunny rabbits know how to cut a rug. As for the boys, they’re on their own.

Kate Takes a Stand

Okay, so I know that kids are getting cell phones these days at an age when I was still enthralled by Sesame Street. The timeline for when girls first wear make-up, have their maiden make-out session and even get their period seems to have moved up. But I never dreamed Our Kate would be representative of this modern day turbo-maturing process–or at least that we’d see any signs of it at this point in her life.

But today, walking to the parking lot after a lovely outdoor lunch at Picante, our favorite Mexican restaurant, Kate turned to Mark and proclaimed, “I not eating meat any more, Dada.”

Oh great. Here we go with the “no food with faces” attitude and her turning up her nose when Mark tosses a steak on the grill. Next thing you know she’ll be papering her room with Greenpeace posters and starting a compost worm farm in the backyard.

I mean, in my day one didn’t going through the swearing off of meat products until college. These days I’ve heard about teenagers deciding to go vegetarian. But at age two? I know Kate is advanced and all, but sheesh!

Well it’s what we get for living so close to Berkeley, I guess.

Conversations with Kate

Kate: “Where we going, Mama?”

Me: “To the grocery store.”

Kate: “No grocery store!”

Me: “No grocery store? Why?”

Kate: “Comic book store! We go comic book store!”

Me: “Ah, I see your father has been influencing you.”

Kate: “No grocery store, Mama! Bike shop! Bike shop!”

* * *

Me: “I love you, Kate. Do you love me?”

Kate: “Yes Mama.”

Me: “Do you know what love is, Kate?”

Kate: “Yes.”

Me: “What is love?”

Kate: “Uhhh… Dada!”

* * *

Kate: “Where are you Mama?” [A new perpetual question, often asked when I'm standing right next to her. This time we were walking down the sidewalk.]

Me: “I’m in the sink. Where are you, Kate?”

Kate: “The laundry basket.”