My kids are pretty big eaters, when it comes to things they like, and I have to have a pretty full stable of snacks to keep the chowhounds happy. I dole them out in reasonable portions, insist on a lot of fruit and veggies, and try to get a well balanced meal into them at least once a day.

I always joke that "I am Ema, Keeper of Snack," because I get snack requests from the second we get somewhere, even if it's only been 20 minutes since breakfast, even if we're going to the backyard, a stressful jaunt of maybe three minutes.

Now, however, my kids are inventing things. Hallucinating really. Like yesterday at Costco. Taxman called in sick so I could spend the morning holding my pounding head and wishing for death, but by the afternoon I felt ok. We had a long list--and they did not have Cheerios! At some point, to prevent AM from licking the cart (ew, ew, ew!), I handed him the list. He pretended to read from it in his cute little voice. "Seeweal, canbehrees, mihk." Then he shot me a look, "Appuhl juice!"

"Apple juice?" I asked. We almost never have apple juice in the house. It is, after all, toddler crack, and there are much better things to drink: water, milk, or AM's new infatuation, soymilk. 

He nodded, "Appuhl juice!"

"Let me see the list," I joked. "Where do you see apple juice?"

"He-yah." He pointed to somewhere between diapers and paper towels.

"Sorry," I said, "no juice today." But really, extra points for Teh Cute.

Then this morning I drove carpool. Miss M and her bestest pal A were in the third row of the van, when I hear, "A, do you want to come over after school for doughnuts?" 

"Miss M," I called back, "we don't have doughnuts! A is welcome to come over after school, but there are no doughnuts."

"But I like doughnuts," she explained.

"I know," I said. "But we don't have them all the time. They are for special occasions, like last Sunday when Ema ran her race.*"

And then AM piped up, "Doughnuts, me? Me doughnuts!"

"AM, I'm sorry. We don't have any. Your sister is hallucinating."

Then the light turned green and everyone, thankfully, was distracted by the heavy construction equipment tearing up the street and slowing our way to school.

* A bribe to get the kids out of bed and convince her to get dressed before breakfast, which is not the usual ritual around here.

So it is not so surprising that Miss M committed many books to memory and sits and "reads" them. To herself. To AM.

A little more surprising (to Taxman, anyway) is that her sight vocabulary is huge. I had suspected as much, so the other morning I left her a note in her bed.

"Miss M,
Please put away your books.
Love, Ema."

She read it fluently. Taxman almost passed out.

So now I write her a lot of notes.

"Good morning! Today we are going to play in the backyard and bake a cake!"
"Tell Abba what you ate for lunch today."
"Please play nicely with AM."

She can figure out the meaning of sentences by skipping the words she doesn't know and filling in (or guessing a synonym) based on context. She has NO interest in sounding things out. Which is ok, I guess; phonics is just one fish in the sea.

Can't explain it, of course, but my mom tells stories of me doing the same thing. So the big words, the unknowns, will come to her too. If Taxman can just stop mourning the loss of innocence--any second now we're going to have to stop spelling. But really, I think he's proud.

Does this really need elaboration?

My in-laws would probably die on the spot to know that not only did I allow this, but encouraged it.

• They were playing so nicely!
• Miss M offered him the headband from her very own head!
• With absolutely no prompting!
• No way I was going to say no to that!

Really, imaginative play is just that. My children are facing a lifetime of gender expectations and stereotypes. I'm happy to push it off for just a little bit, subverting and re-educating when appropriate. 

At least he was wearing his manly "little hero" firefighter onesie underneath. Right?

Of course, we weren't elected. She didn't choose us. And heaven help us, this regime is nothing close to a democracy; as the years have progressed the balance of power has shifted from her being entirely the boss (when she didn't know the power she had) to something more traditional for a preschooler (she has limited power; she knows it; and it distresses her mightily). I like to believe that we are willing to hear objections, ignore said objections when they get too vociferous, give in when appropriate, and try to reach workable solutions that are in everyone's best interest.

It doesn't always happen. There is a lot of yelling. There are a lot of tears, tantrums, lost treats, skipped television viewings, and, when things get really bad, the cancelling of bedtime stories.

This year has been a challenge, starting from the desperate potty dispatches from last June 18th. That actually went remarkably well, overall, but I am not at all sorry that we have targeted next week, rather than today, as The Final Frontier in Nursing. No reason to have her birthday be traumatic two years in a row.

The challenges of "three years old" have been mostly of the mental and emotional variety.

Preschool this year hasn't been the unicorns and rainbows and bubbles that I had hoped it would be. She's had as much trouble following rules and listening to instructions there as at home. "Red flags" were mentioned regarding her attention span and her ability (desire?) to take direction, along with "you should have her evaluated for...something, I don't know what." As recently as two days ago she made a scene at dropoff. Some of the girls are cliquey. Some of the boys are outrageously wild. It's made me, by turns, angry, sad, and frustrated.

The question remains: How I can love someone so much and at the same time want to lock her in her room until she's 22, because maybe by then she will say please without being prompted. (Oddly, she always says thank you; it's usually spontaneous and usually hilariously overwrought and breathless.) And stop with the tantrums, because, dude, I have had enough.

So while the daily grind can be hair-raising and lengthy and full of explanations--"But why?" was big this year--at the same time, she is a wonder. Her exuberance. Her readiness to dance, to spin, to jump at every opportunity. Her creative spirit. Her capriciousness in sibling relations, which you all tell me is normal; one minute hair-pulling and hitting, the next minute reading together in the glider, or taking AM's dictation, one letter at a time, in chalk at the playground. And that hair. Still.

I can't even imagine where the next four years will take us. It should be quite an adventure.

June 2004

May 2008

(I hope whoever dreamed up shorts sewn into skirts is making a killing from girls like mine, who want to wear dresses--skirts are actually always second best--but have a penchant for swinging high, turning upside down, and "unladylike" maneuvers. As I often say, "There's no reason for everyone at the park to know what color underpants you have on.")

(Knowing that Y's mom is drowning in a four-year-long flood of toys for both Y and her sister--and a third baby soon--I ran gift ideas by her ahead of time.)

"No, I'm going to get a book for her."*

"I would like a toy for my birthday."

"Hmm, really. You know, you already have lots of toys, and you don't seem to like playing with them all that much."

"I think I would like a toy for a present."

"Well, I've already bought your birthday presents."

And it's three books, all of which were hard for her to return to the library in the past.

It's funny how the books around here are constantly spilling--and being spilled--off the shelves, but somehow there never seem to be too many.

* I did buy a book, which I immediately wrapped, because Miss M has encountered it in the past and really liked it and would covet it to no end.

But this morning, after his breakfast, he marched into her room, babbling, and climbed into her bed, which woke her. I peeked in and saw them snuggled together under her comforter, and she was reciting Curious George and the Firefighters to him. I don't want to ruin it--I am not even going to remind her to pee. (Although I hope she gets out of bed if she has to go!)

I suppose it's normal to see the two sides of sibling relationships, even at this age. Right? (Please say yes, because an hour later she was stepping on his hand.)

Cake

Presents

Sweet dreams with a fuzzy friend

It hasn't always been easy, but now he makes me laugh every day. That's a pretty big gift.

A couple of months ago we spent Shabbat with friends. Their kids are 5 and 7 and offered us hope in the arena of being able to play and be around each other like civilized human beings, with minimal adult intervention. They even bragged about staying in bed until 9:00 on Sundays--the kids are allowed to serve themselves "treat" cereals and milk if they leave the adults alone.

So some day I am sure Miss M and AM will be in such a groove. In the meantime, I leave you with the following humorous anecdote:

AM approached me as I was, um, on the potty.* And indicated that he would like to sit on the potty. "Really? You want to sit on the potty?" He does, from time to time. Usually when his diaper is still warm from his most recent pee. He nodded, so I said, "Go get the potty ring from Ema's bathroom." He hesitated, so I told Miss M to help him find it. They dashed off and I heard the sound of the other toilet being fiddled with.

I managed to get there in time to see the potty ring in place and Miss M bent over AM, unfastening the tape of his diaper. "Um, what are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm helping AM. I'm taking his diaper off," she explained.

"How is he going to get on the potty?"

"I'm going to lift him up."

"Oh," I said. Like hell! "You know, I'll lift him. I think maybe he's a little bit too heavy for you."

So, we had a rockin' good time singing the ABCs for a few minutes. No yield on the potty, as he was saving it for the shower, where he peed on my foot.

But really, did I need another situation where I had to contemplate the idea of someone getting hurt? Paging common sense! Maybe when she's 5...

* It should go without saying that the bathroom door was open.

Chorus of every adult in the living room: "No! Not yet!"

(pause) "But I want Shabbat to be over."

I had a large bag of raisins but no way to distribute them in small quantities.* I found some little cups over by the drink machine and snagged two. I guess they are supposed to be used for sampling the TJ product of the day, but nevermind. As I started to put raisins into the first cup, Miss M piped up: "Me first! I'm the mommy!"

"Oh, honey," I said regretfully, "The mommy always gets served last."

"But I want to be first," she explained.

"I know," I sympathized, as I gave the cup to AM, "but the mommy goes last."

* Left to his own devices, AM would eat the entire bag and still ask for more, so I have to control the portion.

Meet Sprouty. He is a lima bean, lovingly sprouted and planted in a tissue-paper decorated juice container by one Miss M.

Prior to Sprouty, my success with plants was minimal. Taxman would love to personally regale each and every one of you with the sad embellished tale of Zoe. She was an aloe plant I bought to decorate our first apartment. I did not realize that Zoe was essentially a cactus. I killed her with love overwatering. (At this point in the story, Taxman will turn to me and say, "Murderer!")

Last year, Miss M attempted this very same project. It did not go well. There was beanicide, on the way home, no less.

I applied my Lessons Learned* and carried Sprouty home myself. Miss M offers reminders for watering. I do it every 2-3 days.

But here's the rub: a flourishing, although leaning, bean sprout, attracting bugs** (fruit flies? whatever they are--ew, they are in my house! in my kitchen!) and nowhere to put it. No garden. No yard. Just a preschooler very attached to school projects. In fact every scrap of paper she brings home, as well as the ones she produces here six days a week. I have learned, the hard way, that winnowing must happen when she is absent or unconscious or watching Super Why!

Taxman votes for a slow kill, withholding water. I think it might be better to rend the Sprouty-Miss M bond all at once. I just don't know if I have the guts.

Could anyone use a lima bean sprout?

* Why, yes, I have worked for the government; why do you ask?

** Just to clarify, I have no issue with insects in general. Outside they do good work. But I don't want them near my food.

Oh, and I have no idea why I have assigned genders/names to plants. I don't mean it in a cute, Martha Stewart-y way. At all. 'Cause ew, worse than the bugs.

Yesterday, I picked the girls up after school (Ariella's mom is at that point in her pregnancy when she has to go for doctor's appointments approximately every five seconds), sliced up an apple for them, and turned them loose with a stack of construction paper, markers, and stickers. They were drawing contentedly, with occasional squabbles over the stickers and markers, when I overheard Ariella seemingly dictating a letter to Miss M.

"Can you write, 'I miss you, T [her sister]. I wish you were here.' ?"

Miss M obediently wrote "I," then followed it up with her usual "writing," which is something along the lines of "R I A N C A Y D D I C V W X." As she did it, she slowly recited, "I wish you were here."

Ariella studied the paper for a moment with a puzzled look, but came away seeming satisfied. 

My baby. I don't know whether to be proud her or if I should sell her to the GOP.

Miss M was very excited to wake up on Friday morning and see D sleeping in her room. "Ema," she stage whispered as she sat on the potty, "D is my best friend." 

They were chatting as I herded them into the living room and went to see about their breakfast. "Ema," Miss M called after me. "I didn't nurse yet. I want to nurse." Then she turned to D, who did nurse as a baby but is now three and very attached to the more traditional milk of preschoolers, and offered, "Do you want to nurse too?"

(Uh. At least her heart was in the right place.)

After Shabbat, D's parents packed up to head for her grandparents' house in New Jersey, and our kids got ready for bed. Miss M, as her parting gift, gave D a hug and one of her recently trademarked, inappropriately intimate open-mouthed kisses. Reserved only for really good friends and blood relatives.

It's very nice that you volunteer your time at the Maritime Aquarium. You've obviously earned the respect of the organization because they use you in their promotional materials.

But perhaps it's been a while since you've had quality time with the toddler/preschool set. Yesterday, a school in-service day, my friend and I blitzed through with our kids. Their ages are 4 years 2 months, 3 years 7 months, 22 months, and 21 months. We had four kids, two strollers, food, sippy cups, diapers, coats. (What we needed were valets and a sheepdog, but really not your fault.) We managed to get the kids interested in the touch tank. Not to actually touch things, because they were not feeling so brave, but to look at the little creatures right up close.

"Oooh, starfish!" exclaimed the older girls, thankfully pausing in their frantic inspection of the large tanks (in 10 second chunks).

In the interest of being scientifically accurate (I am assuming), you said, "Actually, we call them sea stars, because they're not fish."

To which I did NOT reply, "Are you KIDDING me?" But I wanted to. I just could not think of a polite way to dress you down while respecting your volunteer commitment, setting a good example for the preschoolers, and preventing AM from diving in with the otters.*

Kids this age are little sponges and will soak up what you have to say, but they've got to stop whirling like tops first.

Please enjoy the rest of your afternoon.

Cordially,

One Tired Ema

* He couldn't have gotten in. But damned if he wasn't going to try.

My little boy. So much to say, but no words.*

I love him even when he throws his trains. And legos. Lately he's brought mimicry to a whole new level of sophistication. No longer content to merely crawl under the dining room table with his brush and dustpan, he empties the detritus into the trash. One grotty piece of cereal at a time. Armed with dirty clothes, he trots to the washing machine and actually loads it.

In the bath, he demands equal treatment--he wants to wash himself, thank you very much, and don't you be too slow or too stingy with the babywash. One of these days he is going to insist on washing Miss M's hair because she is the self-appointed washer for him. He wants to sit on the potty like her, and, for good measure, helps himself to her underpants and tries to put them on. (He's partial to a pink pair of Elmo undies.)

Then there are the phones. Loves 'em. There are a couple of old ones floating around the house, but really he prefers the real ones, the ones that beep and light up and call people. Cell phones are good too. Lots of fun things to do with those.

Yesterday I went to pay a condolence call. Normally, this is the kind of thing that kids do not attend, but I didn't have a choice and knew that it would be ok. I arrived laden with snacks, trains, and a book for AM. This kept him quiet for a bit, but eventually I passed him my cell phone. After an accidental speed dial connection to Taxman, he did his usual button pressing and head tilting. Then he snapped the phone shut, lifted his shirt, and held the phone to his belly. It looked like he was giving himself an ultrasound, but he's never seen that done before.

"Oh wow," I murmured a minute later, right before I melted into a puddle of maternal ooze. "He's trying to clip the phone on to his pants." So.cute.

* DQ'd from EI. Its own story.

Then I will tell her the following story. If she doesn't find it funny, then I didn't tell it correctly.

We were away for Shabbat, visiting friends who used to live down the block from us but lit out for the suburbs when they were expecting their second baby. The kids had a great time, especially Miss M, who had the run of the playroom (full of toys and paraphernalia that goes with girls who are 5 and 7--kitchen! dollhouse! princess dress up clothes!) and the basement (trampoline!) and a horde of other guest kids to play with (ranging in age from 4 to 10) on Shabbat afternoon.

Taxman and D got to relive their pre-child years for a single hour on Saturday night, when J and I magnanimously allowed them to go out bowling while we fed the kids dinner. Finally, an hour past normal bedtime and dressed in sweats, Miss M and AM were trundled back into the car, where they fell asleep on the Cross Island Parkway and graciously transferred to their own beds without protest.

Until 6:30 the following morning. When Miss M was horrified to realize that she had slept in her clothes. "Ema," she wailed, "I'm not wearing pajamas!" We tried, in vain, to reassure her that it was ok, that she had been wearing comfortable clothes, that she had slept all night without waking up. "I didn't sleep in pajamas!" she shrieked, absolutely beside herself. 

So, after a potty trip awash in tears, she opened her top dresser drawer and gratefully pulled on a pair of pajamas. "I have pajamas on," she said, all smiles. "Now," she demanded, crawling into bed with me, "I want to nurse."*

* This, of course, set off AM, who feels that my breasts are solely his property, despite daily evidence to the contrary.

(Aside, am I really that habituated and boring? Alas, it appears so.)

As long as he's sleeping, though, I am going to continue freaking out about this afternoon. I've scheduled Miss M's first haircut for 3:45, and I must complete my tizzy now, so that she will be calm and open to lollipop bribery.  I've been saying for about a year that she needs a haircut, but now it's very true--if only to get rid of the dead ends that snarl every ponytail holder in the universe. I will repeat, over and over, "It's just a trim." I don't want it short; I like the option of putting it up. Miss M prefers a little top knot "and curly in the back," but this makes her look about five and breaks her father's heart. I like two little poufy pigtails because it's adorable or a tight, ballerina-like bun because it keeps the hair out of her face the best when she's eating yogurt or using glue. But when it's not too frizzy (maybe 2 days out of 7 in the winter) I accede to her wishes, if only to avoid the inevitable tantrum, with howls of "Ema, I want ONE!"

Anyway, this rite of passage has been pushed back far too long, and now I am too invested. I am beyond vain about her hair (and AM's eye color, just so that nobody thinks I am playing favorites), as evidenced by the above freakout and willingness to spend probably more money on this afternoon's adventure than my past three haircuts combined.* I need a good smack, clearly. But at the same time, her hair is the first thing people notice about her, so I feel responsible for getting it right. Ack, the pressure, it's all too much!

I must go eat a brownie.

* Full disclosure: Taxman cuts my hair, so it's free. But I never liked to spend much; in college I used to wait until I went home and my stepmom took me to her salon. Great haircuts, but I wouldn't have wanted to pay for them by myself!

Rather spontaneously, I decided to take the kids to the holiday train show at the New York Botanical Garden. We're members, we have about six years' worth of free parking passes, and even though it was too late to reserve timed tickets for today on-line, I doubted that the show would be fully booked, as I am sure it is on weekends and during Christmas week.

Predictably, both kids went nuts over the trains. (I personally would have liked to spend some more time looking at the replicas of famous NYC buildings, constructed out of plant matter. But trust me, neither of my companions had the slightest interest in my opinion.) AM, riding on my back in a BabyHawk, did a huge amount of excited yelping. Given the acoustics in the Haupt Conservatory, everyone in there must have, uh, perceived his joy. Miss M liked the trolleys in particular and kept demanding to know why not all of the trains were running.

But one part freaked her out. A single piece zipping around its own track, it looked like a small oval cookie tin and was painted to look like a ladybug. I kept expecting her to notice the ladybug features, but it moved past us, several times, rather quickly; I finally pointed it out, and she twisted away, burying her head in her shoulder. "Ema," she said darkly, "I don't like the bug train." Ok, fine; there was plenty else to see, and we did.

Instead of braving the wind to eat snack al fresco, I decided to pack it in and come home for AM's nap. All the way back to the entrance, Miss M was reiterating her revilement of the ladybug train. As we passed through the gate, a NYBG employee said goodbye, adding "Leaving so soon?"

I explained that we were members and could come any time; we had just come for the train show. "Oh," she replied. "Did you like it?" she asked Miss M.

"Yes!" exclaimed my pigtailed princess. "I did!" And then the kicker. "I liked the bug train!"

So all the way home, in between demands for more pretzels, I heard about how much she liked the bug train. She told our doorman about it. She left a voicemail for Taxman singing the praises of the bug train.

And what about me?

I am pretty damn confused.

Potty? Check.

Following directions? Check...if you are her teacher.

Love-destroy-love your sibling? Check.

But we're still working on some.

Like the days of the week. Honestly, for a kid that knew the alphabet before she could talk all that well, she is having a really hard time with this. Almost every day she asks if it is Wednesday. Wednesdays at school they have music, which she loves, and pizza for lunch, ditto. So Wednesday, understandably, is popular.

This morning, she woke up crying. This is not unusual. I went in to encourage her to get out of bed and use the bathroom, and she was sobbing, "It's not Wednesday, it's not Wednesday!" I told her that it was, in fact, Wednesday and that she was going to have music and pizza today. Instead of turning her mood around, she continued to cry. "Tomorrow's not Wednesday!" (Aha! Maybe she is getting it!)

"No," I said, "Tomorrow is Thursday."

"On Thursday I'm going to cry at school because I'm going to miss you," she hiccuped.

"Ok," I said. "Now can we please get on the potty?"

And then there's marriage.

After the days-of-the-week hullabaloo was taken care of, we were lounging in bed, watching AM and Taxman starting to stir.

"Ema," she said, "when I'm four I'm going to get married."*

"Really?" I said. "Who are you going to marry?"

"Myself!" she exclaimed.

"Honey, two people get married to each other. You can't marry yourself."

"When I get big I'm going to marry myself," she insisted. "When I'm 10."**

"Isn't there someone else you'd like to marry?"

"I want to be a wife! I'll marry AM!"  AM, by now awake, sitting up and blinking, showed her a toothy grin. Oh dear.

"Uh, sweetie, people don't usually marry their brothers. There must be someone you know you'd like to marry. A friend?"

"I know! I'll marry Y!" Y is her first cousin. Her only first cousin, at least for the next 3-5 weeks.***

What will we tell the grandparents?

* Not random, I promise! In school they have been discussing the weekly Torah portion. We are smack in the middle of Genesis now, so lots of husband-wife things; Isaac & Rebecca; Jacob & his merry wives.

** Miss M thinks that being 10 years old is the pinnacle of grownupness because I once told her she had to be 10 to use a sharp knife in the kitchen.

*** My family has gone two straight generations without first cousins marrying. This doesn't seem like the time to decrease the gene pool again, now that it's getting so large.

****************************************************************************************************

Additional funnies!

I set her up with playdough after school in an attempt to get a jump on my Shabbat cooking (book club tomorrow!). As I'm mixing sweet potato pie filling I hear, "Ema, can you be excused from your work and come see what I made for you?"

And then as I'm nursing AM I hear, "Ema, you will clean up my playdough and then I can watch something. Is that true? Is that the truth?"

Now, Miss M was, and is, rather attached to me. When I step out for the evening to go to book club, she gives Taxman an earful and is.NOT.happy about the turn of events. About one day in every four she announces on the way to preschool, "I'm going to cry because I'm going to miss you, Ema." Ok, point taken.

But, oh, my baby son. The attachment is so in extremis you just have to laugh.

We spent Shabbat with my in-laws. Friday evening before dinner, my father-in-law was reading to the kids--Curious George Makes Pancakes, I believe, a favorite of both. Taxman was lounging on the couch reading Harry Potter Book 7.  I flopped down next to him for a chaste cuddle. When lo and behold, our boy-child looked up, spotted an encampment on his territory, and hustled down from the armchair.

He vaulted up on the couch, staking out a piece of Taxman's chest where his head was directly between us, eye-level with me. The body language was, uh, rather clear.

As I said, you just had to laugh.

Or, as I also said, I kept waiting for him to rip off his diaper, expose his little boy bits, and pee all over me to mark his place.

Hmm. Maybe next year.

Breakfast took an hour as she dawdled over yogurt with Cheerios. She likes them separately but put them together. Again. Even though she knows she doesn't like it. So I made her finish if she wanted a snack before lunch. (The amount of waste around here drives me wild.)

It took her so long to clean up her toys before our lunch company came she didn't get to go out to the playground.

As we were all gathering at the table, she remained in the kitchen, reached up to the counter (a big no-no in our house), and knocked a pitcher of strawberry soup to the floor. Ok, it was a plastic pitcher and only half-full. But still. (Aside to 3d and Shanna: No.Cut.Paper.Towels!) Even before I got there she was hysterical, socks bloodied with soup.

She was cranky and clingy. She was mean to AM. She was so whiny I actually checked to make sure her fever from Wednesday had returned. (She wasn't sick, though.)

She barreled into AM accidentally-on-purpose at the park, knocking him to the ground and causing our swift exit.

I shipped her to shul with Taxman at 5:30 because I was feeling mean myself.

It was a relief for everyone, I think, as it grew dark and bedtime arrived.

I hope everyone gets up on the right side of the bed tomorrow! Maybe in Australia...

It's 95% blessing, 5% curse. So you know what's coming, but oh, crap, now it's here and it'll be over soon, but for right now it's here.

Today AM is 18 months. And boy, is he ever. Everything's gone to hell: Sleeping, which wasn't great to begin with. Pooping--don't ask, but ewww, gross. Eating, which has recently consisted of a lot of throwing things on the floor with great glee and very little actual food consumption. There are the temper tantrums, styled completely after Miss M's. A lot of twisting during diaper changes, thrashing during teeth brushing, and oh, the demands!

But the demands are so cute it is hard to say no. Throwing books into your lap and nodding animatedly. Pointing at the stereo in hopes of hearing the siren song of his beloved, Laurie Berkner. Opening the fridge and attempting to vault to the shelf where we keep the grapes.

Actually, I could do without the fridge climbing.

The other night, after a long day of corralling and swing pushing and reading and nursing and squawk interpreting, I related my tribulations to Taxman.

"All he wants to eat are grapes," I whined. "He won't eat anything else. I thought maybe he just didn't want to sit in the highchair, so I let him wander around with a cup of rotini. He ate two, dumped it on the floor, and started playing with it."

"Won't he eat when he's hungry?"

"Yes, but only grapes." I started to giggle at this point and he joined me. "Seriously, I think that's pretty much the only thing he ate today. Oh...he also ate a cheese stick."

We laughed even harder.

But the tipping point was when I, mentally scrolling through the day, recalled the other thing my baby consumed. "Wait! He also ate raisins!"

Three minutes later Taxman scraped himself off the couch to bring me a glass of water.

We'll get through with our humor intact, at the very least.

At 7:00 in the morning, I had the following conversation with Miss M.

"Ema, can I watch something?" [I DVR Curious George and Reading Rainbow for her to watch when AM needs to go down for a nap, or on Thursday mornings when I am trying to straighten up for the cleaning lady.]

"No, Miss M. We're going to get up and have breakfast and get dressed. You have school today!"

"Waaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"Miss M, I'm sorry, there will be no television this morning."

"But I...don't...wanna...go! to! school! WAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Oy vey. And there were two hours until school actually started.

So there was a lot of crying. And lots of circular arguments. She didn't want to go to school because she was cranky. She was cranky because she was sad. She was sad because she was crying. Nothing in particular that she did not like at school, or was afraid of; she just did not want to go.

Nevertheless, we packed up at 8:50 and made our way down the block, with her blubbering the entire way. The teachers met us downstairs; after more hugs and reassurances, I peeled myself away from her and backed out. I heard her calling for me as she was led up the stairs, and another mom reported that she was crying so hard that she was making herself gag. Sigh.

I took AM to the park, clutching my cell phone and steeling myself for a call. When an hour had passed, I then wondered if I should call, just to make sure she was ok. But I knew that they weren't going to tell me to come get her. This wasn't camp, understaffed with 20-year-olds. These teachers have been doing this for a long time. I didn't want to look foolish. I trust them, plus if she was really upset, would I want to know? I'd hear about it later anyway.

Oh, the guilt. The frustration. The rock. The hard place.

So I called my mom. [Just as an aside, how much do I love technology? My mom was not at home, where she often works, nor at her office, but rather had just arrived at the San Antonio airport, in Texas on business, and was waiting to meet a colleague's plane.] I told her that Miss M was a mess at drop-off and I was feeling stuck about it. And I wanted my mommy.

"Oh, honey, she comes from a long line of criers. You cried every day of preschool! And you were a year older! I cried every day of kindergarten, and so did your grandmother. This is much harder on you than it is on her. But obviously with what you're paying you are not going to give her the option of not going. Plus it would set a terrible precedent. [Pause.] I feel for you, though. I've been there."

We agreed that she'd be fine. It was just nice to hear it from a veteran.

And indeed she was fine. Met me at 2:30 with a big smile and a hug and a list of what she had done during the day. (Which, by the way, is so much better than what I got out of her last year. Usually at the end of her day, when I asked what she had done at school, the answer was "eat lunch," because it was the last thing she did before pickup.) The teacher reported that she had cried for a while, but when she had snapped out of it, that was it for the day. She also suspected that the tears were, in part, for effect and would lessen rapidly. "We're old and jaded around here," she said. "This isn't new for us."

This morning was still tearful, but already better. (Perhaps it was my bribe of safety scissors for the first morning she goes off without a fuss?)

Only 15 or so years until the roles are reversed, right? And I am the one crying as she marches off to school?

But they have to be re-inspected by whoever gives credentials to preschools, so the projected opening date is (grab your smelling salts) September 17th. (Boo!)

The teachers are back, though, putting their rooms together, and I wanted to visit with Miss M--after the camp fiasco, I wanted to try to plant good associations with that sort of environment.

Her classroom was in disarray, naturally, but I pointed out the cubbies and the shelves full of toys and art supplies. We said hello to her teachers, old and new. Everyone knew her and was happy to see her. As we were leaving, I sought out the head teacher of the 3-year-old class, Morah R.

Me: This may seem silly, but I wanted to let you know that I think Miss M is officially on the roll as "M." It's her legal name, so that was how I originally signed her up, but she really only goes by that at the doctor's office [and, of course, that is what my dad calls her]. I didn't want it to get confusing because I know there is going to be another "M" in the class.

Morah R: Oh, I already took care of it! I got the class list last week, which was alphabetized by first name. I saw "M" [ourlastinitial], and I didn't realize it was her. But I did ask myself, "Where is Kate and Taxman's little girl?" Then I matched up the last names. I changed everything to "Miss M." Everyone calls her that anyway.

Me: Right, except for A [the school secretary, who oversees most of the paper going in and out of the office].

Morah R: Oh, I already made sure that A knows that her name is Miss M.

I already liked Morah R, but now I am very excited for school. Only 18 more days.