It has been interesting to watch her drawing evolve.  First, obviously, it was just plain old scribbling. Then the arm motion changed, and it was more of a swirling, circular scribble.  Since she started school, a lot of what she brings home seems more purposeful, if pretty abstract to my eyes. But the bits of color have become increasingly discrete, clear that she’s putting each mark in a particular place on purpose.

When there are coloring sheets, there is a noticeable effort to color in the vicinity of the lines. (This one was later embellished, to my wicked delight, with the Plague stickers.)

Previously, she would sometimes assign meaning to a drawing after the fact, finding a particular shape in amongst the scribbles (“I made a triangle!”).  Or she will claim she is drawing a particular scene (“this is Daniel jumping on the bed”), though the visual can’t be fully appreciated by an artistic low-life such as myself.  But, still, the drawing continues to be much more purposeful from start to finish. (The brown one, she will have you know, is the “really bad guy,” Darth Vader.)

And then, I spied something on one of her coloring sheets, and asked her to draw me some more.

She made flowers. Multicolored, totally recognizable flowers, with grass and everything.

I love art.

Today I’ve hit one of my favorites: 34 weeks. The point at which, if I go into labor, the doctors won’t go to any great lengths to stop it, nor will they bother with steroid shots for her lungs.  The point at which I can comfortably deliver at my local hospital instead of going downtown to the one with the Level-III NICU.  The point at which, 32 years ago, I was born.

Don’t get me wrong. Uncomfortable and cranky though I may sometimes be, I don’t want this baby to show up this week. It’s still too early. I want at least three more weeks and two more milestones (36 weeks – when my twins were born; and 37 weeks – officially full-term), if not the full five-and-a-half weeks to my scheduled c-section.  And it’s not as though I’m completely relaxed. I’ve become a little obsessed with kick counts and wondering if she’s moved enough on any given day.  I’m still having contractions, though not as close together as the night of irritability, and still painless.

But, still, it’s nice to be that much closer. Nice to feel that much more calm that, if she decided now was the time, she would have every likelihood of being just fine.  I’ll still worry about the one-in-a-million things that could go wrong, of course, but it’s a little easier to focus on the other 999,999 chances that she’s practically perfect in every way.

And yes, that photo is from this morning, as dressed up as you will ever see me during pregnancy. We were going to brunch at a friend’s house, and I was even wearing earrings! Look out!

I then came home and crashed for an hour-and-a-half nap. What?

M and I attended the “New Parents Meeting” at the kids’ new preschool on Tuesday night, and I was, indeed, bursting and breaking all at once.

BURSTING

… with information on drop-off procedure, snack duty, sick policy, and the rest.

… with excitement about this fabulous school, the awesome teachers, the draw of the Montessori curriculum, the programs they bring in for enrichment.

… with pride over the idea of my big kids going to school.  The people they’re going to meet. The things they’re going to learn.  Every parent thinks so, but damn.  My kids are smart and observant and curious and sweet and wonderful, and I cannot wait for their teachers to meet them, and for the kids to explore their new space.

BREAKING

… the bank, learning about the “Parents’ Guild”, whose primary purpose is fundraising. It’s like when they ask you to contribute to the “Senior Class Gift” in college, before you’ve even started paying off your tuition loans.

… our usual morning habits of dawdling at breakfast and helping with clothes and shoes, which they really need to learn to do themselves.

… my heart, in the most bittersweet way.  Three years it has been the three of us, all day, every day.  I coordinate every activity. I am present for every class, every playdate, every TV show.  Yes, I have tried to give them independence. I don’t hover, I let them run off and play. I have had a regular babysitter, I have left them with family and friends.  But when it comes right down to it, I am there for nearly every experience. I can decode every jumbled story they tell, because I was there for the source.

Not anymore.  This is something they do without me.  Other kids I don’t know. Stories I haven’t read. Activities I haven’t done.  A big part of their day that they do on their own.

I am excited, I really am, and not just because that’s 15 hours a week to myself that I didn’t have anymore (at least, for the next six months, until I start over and give all of my time to someone else).  I am totally pumped about this school, and really and truly overjoyed for them and the things they get to do.  And I know it’s only a few hours.  Still lots of hours spent with me, still lots of time for me to see what goes on, still lots of activities and time for me to plan.

Regardless, I am getting teary-eyed just writing this post.  I will probably get misty on Monday for the orientation day, when the parents sit in the room for an abbreviated first day.  And I will try my damned-est to hold it together in the drop-off line on Thursday morning, hopefully at least waiting until they’re out of the car before I start bawling. And hope my eyes won’t be too red, three hours later, when I pick them up from their first day of school.

I can’t wait to hear the stories.

My kids are starting preschool in less than a month.

The envelope I’d been waiting for showed up last Thursday.  A welcome letter. Details on start dates and phase-ins. 16 pages of emergency contacts, vaccination records, parental consent, and even a questionnaire about when they started sitting and crawling and walking and what their favorite foods are. Class lists with the names of kids I’ve never met before, and a quick count that shows the rooms to be more than 50% boys.

As a Montessori school, they’re really big on independence. And while I have long thought of my kids as fairly independent children, I’m suddenly realizing the things we need to work on them being able to do by themselves.  They’re mostly able to handle the potty by themselves, but seem to still want me to be a big part of the process. Still, without me there, I think they’ll get the hang of it pretty quickly.

My bigger concern, actually, is the fact that they specify wanting the kids to be able to dress themselves. I know it’s developmentally appropriate, but it’s something my kids have never shown any interest in doing. I know, right? I don’t have that story of finding my 18-month-olds stripping all of their clothes off, nor do I find them post-nap wearing an odd assortment of pajamas, skirts, and socks on their hands.  Just not my kids’ thing.  So, now I’ve got four weeks to make progress on the self-dressing front. They’re looking at me like I’m nuts when I ask them to try putting their underwear on by themselves.

In the meantime, there are labels to affix to all of their shoes and shirts and jeans, new backpacks on their way, and I have to find a pair of non-character-branded slippers for them to wear in class.  We need to tweak our wake-up time and morning routine in the hopes of making it on time for school at 8:30, and maybe buy one more carseat so Daddy can handle drop-off sometimes.

Oh, and I need to come to terms with the fact that, after doing every single activity by my kids’ side for every single day of the last three years, they’re now going to have five mornings a week of learning and playing and doing all kinds of things without me.

You’ll understand if I’d rather focus on finding the right slippers than dealing with that particular reality.

While I know there are plenty of kids, boys especially, who train at an older age, I was just plain tired of changing Daniel’s diaper.  It was clear to me that he was capable of using the potty, if perhaps a little under-motivated.  And, with preschool starting up in the fall, I know they would prefer that he be trained, so I at least wanted to make another serious attempt before then.

Sunday night, I looked at my calendar for the week, and then for the next six.  I realized we are completely between activities at the moment, and had literally nothing on the calendar for this week.  But, after this week, things start to really pick up again.  New classes, big outings, travel, the whole nine yards.  It was very obvious that this was the biggest stretch of free time we will have until probably mid-August.  Time to suck it up, Mama.

And so, this week has been Potty Boot Camp, Take 2 (or whatever “take” I’m on now, lord only knows).  The first day was, in a word, discouraging.  What bothered me the most is that the accidents didn’t seem to phase him in the least.  Especially the poop ones!  And there is nothing quite so delightful as trying to remove and clean a pair of toddler-sized underwear full of poop.  Wow.

But I changed my reward strategy this time.  No M&M jar (not only ineffective, but AWFUL for me to have them around), but a sticker chart.  Earn five stickers (and yes, I’ll give them out for as little as about half a teaspoon worth of pee in the potty), and you get a special treat.  Popsicle, ice cream, Trader Joe’s star cookies.  Your choice.  And to try to keep Rebecca invested in the process (and not resentful of the attention Daniel was getting), she got a treat when he earned his five stickers, too.  My little mama-girl thought it was great that she could “help teach Daniel to use the potty.”

And…

Progress. Dare I say, some enthusiasm.  Initially, there was certainly happiness over the stickers and the potential for popsicles, but a notable lack of disappointment when an accident would cause him to not earn a Thomas or Cars sticker.  But in the last day or two, I feel like I’ve noticed a subtle shift.  He seems to be shifting from “poop anywhere, anytime, in the undies, who cares?” to “save it for the naptime diaper.”  In my world, that’s a notable improvement, and one I can totally work with.  And, though he might sometimes poop in the diaper, I’ve noticed it suddenly staying dry…  This morning, as I was downstairs psyching myself up for an early-morning run, I hear a door and footsteps.  I waited.  A few minutes later, down comes Daniel, looking for me.  Pajama bottoms and (dry) diaper in hand, informing me he had gotten up to use the potty.

I could care less that it was 45 minutes before his Good Nite Lite was scheduled to turn yellow, that was a HUGE freaking breakthrough.

Other accomplishments this week include staying dry at: Trader Joe’s (where we have an unfortunate history of Daniel and poop accidents), the MOVIE THEATER (he sat through the entirety of Toy Story 3, told me he needed to use the potty with two minutes to go, and actually waited for the credits before we bolted for the bathroom!), and an entire morning at the playground.

It really feels like we’re turning a corner, thankfully.  And, to be fair, I think my mindset is different this time around.  The first time I did boot camp with Daniel, I had done the same with Rebecca only a couple of weeks earlier.  For one thing, she was relatively easy to train and I was able to back off of her relatively quickly, once I could tell she “got it.”  Daniel seemed to “get it,” and then had an enormous backslide about a week later.  I couldn’t handle all of that mess and the inability to go about our usual business, especially combined with the fact that Rebecca, while pretty reliable, was still fairly high-maintenance on the potty.

This time around, I barely have to think about Rebecca at all. She’s almost entirely self-sufficient on the potty and, despite a strange uptick in overnight accidents, is very low-maintenance.  Not only do I have a bit more energy to focus on Daniel, but I have also shifted the mindset and know that I’m going to have to stay a lot more proactive with him for a lot longer.  While I’ve noticed major improvements, he’s always been the kind of kid who gets very easily distracted and, when involved in one thing, kind of tunes everything else out.  So, if I’m constantly nearby and asking him if he needs to use the potty, and asking how the undies are doing (“clean and dry!”), he’s good about stopping and telling me.  If I leave him to do his own thing for a while, that’s when I’m more likely to see an accident.  Forgive the comparison, but it reminds me a line about house-training puppies in a book I read when I first got our dog: “If they have an accident, you’ve given them too much freedom, too soon.”  And while there are certainly more complexities to potty-training a kid than housebreaking a dog, there’s an aspect of that that rings pretty true.

Though, seriously, crate-training was awfully effective. Are you sure I can’t do that with toddlers?

I know this isn’t over.  I know he’s not going to be the same as Rebecca.  But I am cautiously optimistic that we are on a good path, and I’m very much hoping that the move to underwear is a permanent one.

I sat him on a stool, M attempted to entertain/distract him, and my sister-in-law held the camera.  No, he wasn’t injured.  Though from the way he was carrying on, you’d think I was using those scissors to stab him in the back.

And you know what?  It looks like shit.  I mean, the mini-mullet that was bugging me is no more.  But there’s a reason people get training to cut hair.  And it’s so their hair doesn’t look like their idiot mother decided to do it herself.

So, for anyone thinking they’ll spend the $10 on a pair of scissors instead of $10 at the barbershop or kiddie salon?  Don’t.  Just don’t.  I’m resisting the urge to pick up the scissors and attempt to “even it out.”  I have come to my senses, and next time will just leave it to the professionals.

We were at our friends’ house, visiting and making dinner for them since they’re now expecting their third child.  Rebecca has been more and more confident with standing in the last week, and very insistent on me or M helping her walk around, but I wasn’t sure how soon she’d up and do it on her own.  Even when she was standing on her own, she preferred to do so while holding onto a beach ball.  I’m not sure why.

Anyways, yet again, animals provided the final push of motivation.  When she first crawled, it was in an attempt to chase the dog.  This time, she was already standing with her hands on our friends’ long-suffering cat.  The cat decided to go elsewhere, and Rebecca was so focused on it, that she just went right along.  We all cheered wildly, and proceeded to make her walk back and forth between us for the rest of the day.

Yikes!  A walker! We’ll see if she remembers her newfound ability tomorrow morning, or how long it takes her to just do it on her own.  I suspect it won’t be long and she’ll be tearing around the house on two legs shortly. That also busts my initial prediction that Daniel, though he crawled more than two months later than Rebecca, would be the first walker.  Ah well.  No rush, really!  I may have to bust out those little backpacks sooner than I thought…

Anyways, they were so happy to see the grandkids, and toasted up a nice grilled cheese for them.  Scott, the son of the original owner, has been there forever.  He remembers your entire order without writing it down, repeats it perfectly to the short-order cooks, and whenever you get around to it (like after you’ve eaten), he repeats it again and adds up the total in his head.  Naturally, we had to get a picture with Scott to commemorate the kids’ first trip to Herm’s.

Rebecca and Daniel with Scott at Big Herm's

They’re full of imitation these days.  Raspberries are always a favorite, but you can also get Rebecca to do a little clicking sound with her tongue, and Daniel will work on emphasis with “ahhhhhAH.”  It’s a bathtime favorite.  But her quasi-recognizable sign for “fan” may be the first word connected consistently with its actual meaning.  Of course, it might be that she’s trying to tell me all sorts of things, like “da-da-da” means dog and “da-DA-DA-da” means “I prefer cheddar to mozzerella, thank you.”  But she’ll have to forgive me, I’m a little slow on the uptake.

But I’m going to go out on a limb and declare that my daughter’s first recognizable sign is, indeed, “fan.”  Now if she could just master “change my diaper,” we’d be in business.  I guess I have my motivation to keep signing to them, though.