My show wrapped up yesterday, which means a) I have more time in the evenings for writing and actually, you know, giving my kids real dinner and b) I have to get back on the exercise bandwagon, as I am no longer going to be dancing tap-intensive numbers several hours a day, several days a week. Couch to 5k resumes again tomorrow. I completed the program once, but if I could get all the way from "Run? Am I being mugged?" to "I can run three miles!" in under three months, I imagine a two month hiatus has brought me right back to "I must be being chased."
In celebration of the warmer months, I ordered an arm band for my phone/music player, because my warm weather running shirt has a tiny pocket for such things, and the only time I ran with it I got half a block away before I watched in horror as said phone worked its way around the shoddy zipper and went flying onto the asphalt. Otterbox, we thank thee for the protection thou hast provided my insanely overpriced fourth child...
But as usual I digress. Today I visited a preschool with Mary, as she just misses the kindergarten cutoff in our state for next year and I want her in something that's full day, at least a couple of days a week. The school we're looking at is bright, cheery and a lot of learning is play-based, which I like, because hey, she's only four. There's plenty of time for worksheets and homework. Mary is a smart kid and I'm glad she's going to be in school a little more in the fall, though I keep looking over my shoulder and wondering how the heck five years went by so fast.
So yes. I have bright kids. At least I think I do...
I know you like to go outside. When Mommy goes out to get the mail or get something out of the car, I know you enjoy standing at the screen door and watching. But baby, for me, could you please stop licking the screen? The neighbors are starting to stare.
I know you think the world is made of food. I know you like to try and feed yourself and that's something I'm happy to encourage, since I'm with you, purees are kind of funny looking. But when I put a tiny bowl of chopped-up-whatever-we're-eating on your tray and you gleefully dump the bowl over and start chewing on the rim, I start to think you're not quite as ready as you think you are.
Dear Mary and Anna,
You have a room full of developmentally appropriate toys. You have a swing set in the yard. You have blocks and a little train set and all kinds of wonderful things. So why is your favorite game shoving your feet in the other sister's face, so the other sister will scream in delight "Ew, stinky feet!!!"? I need to know. Also, the day I went down the hall to get dressed and heard you screaming "stinky butt!!!"? Yeah, I can only imagine, but I don't want to.
The cat is not a ride on toy.
Bowls are not hats.
If you shove toilet paper down the sink, Mommy's happy face goes away.
If you smear food on your shirt, I am going to clean it. You do not get to complain about this.
If you refuse to eat dinner for whatever reason (the sky is blue, you suddenly hate tacos, your sister complained so you feel you must as well), we are not getting ice cream. We are especially never getting ice cream from the creepy truck that drives through every. damn. day. right at dinner hour and sometimes plays Christmas carols. Call it an executive decision.
"Mean mommy! Mean mommy!"