Apparently, there is much talk of love happening these days around The Kidling’s kindergarten classroom.
Seriously, kids, it isn’t even February. Clearly Hallmark has not yet impressed on you the importance of saving up your love (and your money) for that one big day next month.
Thank freaking goodness.
But, as usual, I digress.
The Kidling was sitting at the kitchen table a few days ago when she began to tell me the rules of love (clearly parroted from a teacher), interjecting kindergarten for a little kick.
“If you fall in love at school, you don’t tell. No one falls in love at school. Cam* is in love with Emma. Clara is in love with Max. Jane and Jill are so best friends that they are close to being in love.”
“(shrugs) You could just wait and meet more people and then find someone to fall in love with.”
Um, yeah. A few more people might not be a bad idea. You’ve got to see what’s out there, kids.
* As usual, names have been changed to protect the innocent. And because I don’t remember.
“Mommy, you’re wrong. ‘Let the kid do what she wants. Because. It’s her birthday today.’ That’s what the fox says.”
January 8, 2014
The Family lives in a charming and delightful home. It is tiny and it is red, hence its name: Little Red.
We are damn clever.
This weekend, The Kidling and I festive-ified (Festivated? Prepared our home for festivities? Decorated? Whatever) Little Red. We don’t do much, but what we do is important: a few planters with birch trunks and evergreen tips in the front and a few planters with spruce and pine sprinkled with tiny red berries from a shrub whose name I cannot recall in the back. Toss up a couple of wreaths, and that’s the extent of our exterior… well… festive-ifying.
Because Little Red is on a corner, easy access is to be had travelling from our freshly festivated front door to the all-important festivication of our back steps. As we rounded the corner and entered our backyard, I spied a bird perched on our porch light. It looked happy there, and I wanted to make sure The Kidling saw our feathered friend. I held my arm up to stop her and put my finger to my lips in a hushing gesture. I pointed dramatically to the porch light and mouthed “look! a bird!” The Kidling understood and whispered to me, “They might think we’re predators, but we’re quite lovely!”
No, dear one. The loveliest. You are the loveliest.
Ah, life with The Kidling. Never do I feel my life is more absurdly charmed than when she composes a little ditty or two. Lucky for me, she wrote not one, nor two, nor even three songs this evening. Oh no, she wrote four beautifully perfect and odd little songs and sang them for me right in the middle of our kitchen. It wasn’t until the final song that I felt justified in sprinting away for a pen, so I only caught one. My apologies for that. You’ll just have to have your own kidling if you want to catch them all.
Without further ado, I present Opus 4:
It’s very nice. To love so many people. And be kind. And generous. And if you have a BFF, that’s good. And it’s wonderful to have so many people who love you.
Correction: who love the shit out of you. And yes, dear one. It must be quite nice.
Sigh. Not The Mama.
The Family had a positively gorgeous Sunday. Late to rise, but quick to embrace the day (once we got our arses out of bed), we cleaned, played, gardened, yoga-ed, and dined to our hearts’ content. One of those days for the record books, really. Well…
As the clock ticked toward bedtime, I had to give The Kidling a few straightforward instructions. Nothing my naïve mind thought worthy of a meltdown, but simple directions such as, ‘one more minute to play, then shower time.’ For those of you not responsible for a young life, this in the functional equivalent of ‘remember to alternate feet when you walk’ or ‘you have to exhale before you inhale again.’ This clearly fell into the category of basic bossing (because The Kidling interprets any moment not spent playing freely according to her whim as being bossed around).
That’s when The Shit hit The Fan.*
She screamed. I didn’t waiver. She yelled. I remained steadfast.
And that pissed her off.
“I don’t care!” The Kidling screamed with every ounce of anger she could muster.
“Fine then.” I replied coolly, “Then I guess I don’t care, either.”
You can guess how well that went over.
More screaming, more yelling, with a healthy dash of crying and whining. Mix until frothy, then add a dash of hissy fit.
It came to a head with me icily directing my obstinate child between tasks with wordless finger-pointing. Words are for people, I thought to myself, and this creature is no human being. She told me in no uncertain terms how awful I was. It was getting pretty ugly, when suddenly, The Kidling stopped fighting me. She turned to face me, held her hands up, and began to arrange her fingers.
Oh, shit, I thought. Because I knew exactly what she was doing.
The Kidling was declaring a truce.
Once she had those awkward little fingers figured out, she signed as she said to me, “We care about each other’s feelings.”
So I gave that amazing little child of mine a hug and I raised my white flag.
* I think I just introduced two new characters…
Bedtime. Snuggles. Chit chat. A question:
The Mama: What are your three favorite things to do in the whole world?
The Kidling: Ride horses, pet horses, feed horses… Can I have four?
The Mama: Sure.
The Kidling: Ride horses.
Sheesh. I get a great idea then I don’t follow through consistently. Being human is so. damn. irritating.
Per-cep-tion: noun. A social event held for the purpose of celebrating a specific occasion, typically a wedding. Syn. party, soirée, bash, reception.