Just the Way It's Supposed to Be

It was sunny and cool this morning when we sent the big kids out to the bus stop.  This is what the beginning of the school year is supposed to feel like.  And it's a good day to share some beginning of the school year reports.

Was Greta was anxious about school a few weeks ago?  I can't remember.  Couldn't be true.  No way this girl who spends thirty minutes in the morning carefully selecting her outfit (reminding me that I don't want to match, Mom), who holds the hand of her first grade neighbor friend as they get on the bus together, who chatters all afternoon about every word Ms. Ruthie spoke to her, about her new BFFs and their beautiful dresses, who cannot get her backpack open fast enough to show me the work of art she has created just for me that day - no way was that girl ever jittery about starting school.

She's always been a chatterbox.  The experiences that she has outside of home have amped that up to new levels.  There is so much stuff that we don't know about her day, and that it is crucial for us to know.  But her almost-five-year-old articulation can't quite keep up with the flight of ideas she has to share.  So after an entirely baffling dinner conversation about a tuba, we finally pulled out her class list and realized that she was trying to tell us about her new pal, Tova.  Please come to Greta's birthday party, Tova.  We will work hard on our vuh-vuh-vees.

Greta likes tights.  No.  Greta looooooves tights.  This is delightful.  We need more tights!

The first grader has some good stories too.  Did I say good?  What I meant was, I think my heart just stood still in my chest for a moment.  And it's not because I'm a distance running champ and have slowed my resting heart rate to super human levels.  Don't laugh.  This is not funny. At. All.

Noah: Mom, can I tell you something that happened at school today that made my mouth fall open?
Me [Glowing with pride at my son's remarkable (surely above average) ability to create such great mental imagery, but distracted by the need to get dinner started and not looking up from the cutting board]: Yes.  Tell me.
Noah: A girl.     Kissed me.     On the cheek.

I couldn't look up fast enough to see his face, because it had run giggling, at full speed, to the other side of the house to hide itself behind the curtains.  Later, the story was retold over the dinner table.  My heart had started beating again, and I was asked to play both the part of me, and the part of Noah in telling the story to  Kevin.  Because Noah desperately wanted him to know, but simply could not bring himself to recount something of this magnitude to Dad.  I had to whisper it in his ear, while Noah wiggled in his seat, grinning and barely holding in his nervous laugh, two feet away.  By the time I got to On the cheek, the kid was behind the curtains again.

The details:  she's a second-grader in one of the other lower elementary classes.  He sent us through twenty questions to guess her identity.  But here's the thing: he doesn't like her.  At least, he doesn't like her like her.  When I asked him if he did, I got the most incredulous and resounding No! I had ever heard.  He looked at me like he couldn't believe someone would even ask such a ridiculous question.  Without a doubt, Noah does not like girls.  Not yet.  He knows enough to be all kinds of fidgety when a girl kisses him on a playground, but he doesn't really get why it's a big deal.  So says the mom.  Anyone who feels otherwise can just keep their mouth shut.  Thanks.

Getting on the bus.  No biggie.

One for the road.  While the big kids were at school, the baby picked herself up and started walking.  Someone else has promised a video with an epic soundtrack.  We will all have to patiently wait for that.  Here she is with her post-afternoon-nap rosy cheeks and bedhead.