Like the sky.

Last week when we were at Nana and Papa's house, I was no longer on your to do list. I barely got a sideways glance. The break was nice, I suppose, but I began to miss your cuddling and demanding I chase you. Dad explained that I am like the sky to you -- always there -- so you don't worry about not giving me attention for a bit; I'll return your love when you're ready again.

And this week, you've been especially loving. Tonight, you played with my necklace and said, "this is my mommy, you are my mommy" in this soft voice. I melted. You are so dear to me, in your fleece pig pajamas and hair smelling of California Baby bath soap.

I might not be writing to you every day (at least not for a bit) but, like the sky...

Deep thoughts: Groovy Girls

Today you were playing with your Groovy Girl. You've had her since your first birthday, but have only recently been interested in involving her in your doll escapades. I've seen many Groovy Girl dolls in shops (even at the grocery store) and admired all of the clothes and accessories one can obtain.

A few months ago, you really got into changing your dolls and by "changing" I mean "getting the clothes part way off and then screaming for me to finish the job and put the new clothes on." So my perspective on doll clothes has shifted a bit; when I see the little pants and shirts and dresses at Target, my eye starts to twitch in anticipation of the work entailed in keeping all of that stuff accounted for.

This afternoon, you finally realized that your G.G.'s clothes could come off! You went about undoing the Velcro until...the shirt and skirt wouldn't completely detach. I looked closely at the doll and (with a sense of relief) saw that they are actually stitched on. And not just one little thread, either. I considered digging out my seam ripper and freeing the vinyl skirt, but then changed my mind. I guess I wonder why the manufacturer would put that much effort into keeping on the original clothes yet so aggressively market the additional wardrobe.

Man, it'll be great to have a job again soon. I love it with you -- I wouldn't trade it, but the fact that I even had this dialog with myself (and dad) is somewhat disturbing.

NaBloPoMo

If anyone else is following along here (besides you, my dear and my other dears), I'm thinking they must tire of reading my patient rants for you. It's not that I want you to have more freak outs, but sometimes the sweetness is overwhelming. What am I saying? It's great -- give me more! I just wonder if the repetition sheds any new light.

As I come to the end of my month of writing every day, I've learned a few things. First, I enjoy writing every day. And feeling the pressure to do it adds to the interest, at least for me. Second, I've realized how much I haven't written down in the past. Some of it may seem redundant, but I know I won't regret it in the future. I have felt some sadness for my lack of paper journal writing; in the basement lies boxes of my unfinished books. Third, I think I do appreciate you more. I take a breath and sort out our moments.

Today I found out that the father of our good friend passed away. And there is a shadow of more bad medical news coming down the pike. You are too young to fully understand this now, what it all means -- this life and death stuff. There's a part of me that wants to shelter you from it, but I know it's not possible, or even advisable.

Today your biggest sadness was when I didn't understand how you wanted to eat Gorilla Munch cereal. I finally figured out that you wanted to sit on my lap and eat a bowl with me, which you've never asked for. As we sat at the table together, enjoying something so simple, I realized I'd never eaten cold cereal this mindfully before. Thank you for this practice.

Setback.

Two years ago, we made a mistake while on Thanksgiving vacation. You were 6 months old and had been sleeping out of our bed for a few months, but we thought it would be "better" if you slept in bed with us at Nana and Papas. It didn't work out so well. First of all, it was very uncomfortable in the double bed, especially with you kicking and squirming and nursing all night long. There weren't enough pillows and the mattress is so squishy, one almost tumbles right over the side. The second part of our error was revealed when we returned home. You no longer wanted to fall asleep in your crib. We were back at square one.

Full disclosure -- at 6 months, you weren't sleeping all night in your crib, but you started out there which makes a huge difference. You were doing so well -- slowly spending more and more time in your own bed.

So you spent the month of November starting your nightly sleep cycle in our bed and moving, at some point, to your crib. By December, we'd learned our lesson and you slept in the portable crib when we visited family. I can't distinctly remember what happened last year, but there was some issue with the transition.

Now, we are at year three. It is almost 10:15 and we've spent over 2 hours getting you ready for bed. I just rocked you and tucked you in again; you told me you were sad because you miss Nana and Papa. Earlier, you told dad you missed football -- you want to watch the guys kicking the ball. Even though the last two nights have been rocky, I'm thankful for language. I'm able to calm you with words, and you understand! We can talk about why you are sad, and we can work it out together.

Each night I rock you, your legs fall lower down my lap; your body feels heavier on my chest; the fingers that play with my hair grow longer and more agile. There will be many more transitions, and I can't begin to imagine them all.

Home again.

We are so happy to be home again, with our cat and rituals. Tonight, at bedtime you said to Myra, "I love her, she is my sister." I guess that lets us off of the hook for a human sister then? Currently, you are fighting bedtime with dad, something you never do. I wonder what the rest of the evening holds.

You certainly enjoyed almost 5 days with Papa and Nana and cried when we drove away.

[Interjection -- I have just returned from your room, where I rocked and then tucked you in again. Now you are playing with your lips and humming. The neighbors are revving their engine outside of our house.)

Where was I? Oh, yes. Thanksgiving. You ate turkey hot off of the new barbecue and hid in the living room while the rest of us ate. The attention was great, but football was more appealing. You Love football which baffles me. You don't really watch t.v. and we aren't big sports people, but somehow you have an interest. The only thing that trips you up is the amount that the players crash into each other and fall down. You are so concerned with their well-being and so this is what I hear: "Uh, oh! He fell down! Owie! Okay, he's okay. He doesn't need a doctor."

Going home is always interesting for me. Luckily, I have a great relationship with Nana and Papa and so there is a limited amount of drama. I hope our relationship is similarly close and healthy, but I'm realistic that you'll feel that same odd sense of push and pull I experience. I also hope that, by the time you are 31, I have new drapes and have gotten rid of your long-forgotten stuffed animals. When I talk to Nana about how difficult my entrance into the world was for them, I have a renewed sense of appreciation for my family, for you, for the ease of your existence thus far; maybe there is a reason for that drawer still filled with old cloth diapers and baby bonnets.

When we went to lunch this afternoon, you ordered sausage and peaches. When the waitress, set down the plate in front of you and bustled away, you said, "I want to say thank you." I assured you she would be back and as she returned, you leaned away from the table, looked into her eyes and said, "thank you so much." There is so much to be thankful for.

Out on a date without you -- before leaving, a cracker-mouthed kiss. "You'll be back," you confidently exclaimed.

--

Mobile Email from a Cingular Wireless Customer http://www.cingular.com

Real quick!

Visiting friends! Long nap during football -- more of Nana's pigtails. You are playing, I hear you with people you see in pictures.
More soon, of course.

Turkey eaten. Finally napping. You looked lovely in new pink slippers, pigtails. More to come...

--

Mobile Email from a Cingular Wireless Customer http://www.cingular.com

Off to give thanks.

Okay, I admit it. I've been writing here every day because the lure of free stuff is just too much to silence my muse. That's a little dramatic, I suppose. And it's only the possibility of free stuff, not the promise. I hope your future self is not offended by this.

I read other websites where people pour themselves out onto the screen about so many things -- parenting, cancer, television, education and celebrities, to name a few. There's a lot out there, both serious and fun. I've been moved to tears over things I've read. Something I don't understand, though, is the people who seem to hate what others have to say...and they share that anger. And then it's like a snowball growing bigger and bigger as it tumbles down the page. Sometimes, it's over something that's important -- you'll understand someday -- there are so many social and political issues; you will investigate and make your own decisions, create your own ideology. But the point is, sometimes the things people get riled up about are so small. There are good intentions involved, most of the time, sure. But then there are the times where those intentions go awry. I know you will encounter this at some point in your life and I hope we can prepare you adequately. Please just remember the value in everyone's opinion -- and play nice.

We are off to spend Thanksgiving with Nana and Papa and maybe Grandma N. and the crew down south. I'll be writing here for sure -- I mean, there is the free stuff to consider -- but it won't be extensive. I love you so much, Lucy. I am thankful for so many things, but I am thankful to be your parent -- to be a parent with your Dad -- for health and happiness. It is simple, and beautiful.

Tunes.

Your dad and I have commented about how much hipper you are when it comes to music. When I was a kid, I liked some really dorky stuff. You like "rock and roll" as you say, and this includes Led Zeppelin, The Police and The Presidents of the United States. We have inspired a love of jazz as well; you even have preferences when it comes to jazz -- you like the experimental stuff and Coltrane, to start with.
Because you don't really watch t.v., we've been able to stay away from the really annoying stuff (The Wiggles and Barney), but you do like Raffi, a children's standard since the 80s. It's actually pretty tolerable. One of your favorites is Dan Zane, and he definitely rocks. You love The Beatles -- especially (predictably) "Lucy in the sky with diamonds." I've downloaded and checked out as much cool music for you and you've been receptive; once in awhile you surprise me by asking for something I'd choose if I was hanging out alone.
In my iTunes library, I have 3 or 4 renditions of a few favorites like, If you're happy and you know it, The itsy, bitsy spider, Wheels on the bus, This old man and Old MacDonald. I've got two "jazz for kids" albums which are well-executed and not cheesy.
I think your music tastes reflect your tendency toward sweetness and I'm happy to play Woody Guthrie singing Bling Blang 10 or 20 times, if that's what keeps you dancing.

Burping the baby.

I can't remember if I've mentioned this before and, frankly, I'm too lazy to look at this moment.

A moment ago, I was sitting at my computer eating a leftover Halloween Tootsie Roll. You were playing with your baby Jo, wrapping her in a receiving blanket and tucking her into bed. As I was scrolling through e-mails, you appeared by my side saying, "look at the baby, burp the baby!" I smiled and looked lovingly at the baby in your arms, swaddled tight. As you bounced her, saying "shh shh shh," I heard you swallow to make "Jo" burp. I had to laugh at your little belch and so you demonstrated again and again. This is something you learned from Papa and I'd hoped you'd forgotten. Thanks, Papa. Hopefully you can teach her other things too -- like how to find a wall stud and why one should appreciate college wrestling.

Fubonn Market.

Today we had a nice family time that included a trip to an Asian marketplace nearby. Within the mall, there is a bubble tea shop, a Chinese bakery, a tea supply store and Fubonn Market. Although we had no quarters, you enjoyed sitting on the mechanical horses. You were so good as we strolled around; agreeable as you rode in the shopping cart. We found special rice cake crackers and a new melamine soup bowl for you. The excursion reminded us of Taiwan; we found steamed pork buns that we'll eat for dinner tonight. As we finished up our trip, you and dad discovered an altar complete with a Buddha statue, candles and food offerings. You stood before it and bowed, because that's what you know to do. I don't know if you really understand what it means, but witnessing your reverence is beautiful.

Message in a bottle.

Listening to songs on your dad's computer is on your Top Ten List. He's happily downloaded a few songs into his iTunes especially for you; one of the songs is a live rendering of Police's "Message in a bottle." You are especially into the drums, which are more prominent than in the album version (we have that one too -- you like to compare). One of your favorite parts is looking at the album cover. You always ask us to "see it bigger" because the band is jumping in the air with these wild looks on their faces.
Like many girls and women, I find Sting to be very...attractive (by the time you read this letter, this comment will either be funny or very uncomfortable -- maybe both!). It doesn't matter that he's twice my age. Yesterday, when we were listening to the song for the eighth time, along with the cute cymbal noises you make, I heard another sound. At first, I thought I was mistaken, but when I saw you put your lips up to the screen, making telltale "smack" and "mwah" kissing sounds, I had to laugh. You heard me and said, "I'm giving kisses!"

Pluckiness.

So here it is, you are stronger than us: definitely in will, maybe in physical ability. We are trying to work out how to get things done, and despite our best intentions, sometimes our behavior goes...awry.

In graduate school I've been learning that, as a teacher, I should have a procedure for everything. Undoubtedly, having a plan for handing in papers, dealing bathroom passes and arranging group work will save a lot of stress in the classroom. So we've got some "procedures" at home. A few work, and a few do not.

For some reason I find it difficult to write about this -- I have higher expectations for myself as a parent. At the end of the day, when you are standing on the bed resisting pajamas -- or when you are running away while I'm trying to dry your hair -- or when you are kicking me while I am brushing your teeth -- I lose my cool, so to speak. There's not an outward expression of my anger in voice or physical action, but I feel myself growing cold and silent.

You are such a good girl, overall -- you capture everything we say, and don't say; you take it to heart. I think you perceive your antics as a fun time -- you are not malicious. But your pluckiness is bigger than mine. To some degree, I am jealous of your energy -- of your lightheartedness. I'm trying to work it out, to understand how to do this.

As with teaching, there are a thousand theories and ideas about parenting. There are models that attempt to understand and control children. I agree with much of what I've seen, but I don't want to read books to "get" you. I certainly don't need them to love you. Where do we go from here? Thank you for the lightness and the questioning -- may questions never bring darkness.

God?

A dinner conversation, recounted --

Dad: Lucy, do you know what God is?

Lucy: (Thinking, head cocked) Ummm....

Lucy: I God a sausage!

(via Dad)

Month 30.

Right now I am sitting in the rocking chair in your room, listening to Dan Zanes for the 808th time and watching you eat corn chips. You are sitting in your very own rocking chair and I am your d.j.. I tried to put on Feist, the Andrew Bird, but you weren't having it. So here we are together on another wet, Fall evening.

You are officially 2 & 1/2-years-old today. Because I haven't been saving up moments to document, this entry doesn't feel as momentous; but your development is still amazing. Today, you put on your coat by yourself for the first time. Last night, you identified the letter F and made the sound; you'll be decoding, then reading in no time. You can count, realiably, into the teens. You love to identify colors; you see colors and numbers everywhere. You are really clued into the fact that things cost money. For some reason, you'll point to a sign or an item and say, "that's 20 dollars!" This makes us laugh, but your interest in your play "debit card" is slightly disturbing.

You've been so demanding lately, but 90% of the time your requests are related to a grasping for independence. You'll say, "my turn!" when you want to put on your pants, empty the dishwasher, brush your teeth and put away your toys. Sometimes, this push-pull we have turns a perfectly happy afternoon into a meltdown complete with kicking and screaming. I think we have similar tempers, actually, which only adds to the fire. Who wins we both want our turn?

In the next 6 months I hope you'll try more vegetables. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a diaper-free third birthday. I hope we find a good way to talk about loss with you, because right now I'm out of ideas. As we near the end of 2006, I will be finishing my night classes and I am so happy to know I'll home with you in the evenings. Next Fall, I'll be working full time again, for the first time in almost 3 years. Most days, I feel okay about that. Right now, sitting in your room, listening to music and fetching you snacks, I'm not sure I could find more contentment.

I love you, my little sack of sugar.

Your big sister.

You have a unique and loving relationship with our ten-year-old cat, Myra. There have been times in the past year where we considered sending her to live with Nana and Papa, but as your friendship has grown, we've realized how much we'd all miss her.

When you are crying or upset, Myra always comes to make sure you are okay. She'll lay down in your room and let you pull her tail. I am amazed at how passive she is with you, most of the time. Myra did lightly bite you a couple of times (not nearly enough to break the skin), but you've seemed to come to an understanding; you both use more caution now. Of course, we monitor you closely and gently re-route you if things look sketchy. Sometimes, even when Myra is annoyed, she still wants to hang out with you -- we think she likes this tension.

You sit on the couch, petting her, touching her tail and telling her, "I love you, Myra. So cute." You like to feed her treats and peek at her through her basement cat door. When she's taking a nap, you say, "Shh! Myra's sleeping."

I hope we have many more years with our black and white, beautiful companion Myra -- lovingly referred to as our first baby and your big sister.

Eardrum.

Today our naturopath made a housecall. She called to check up on us because we'd cancelled an appointment a few weeks ago and when I told her we were car-less, she came right over. You aren't sick, but I've been and how great is a housecall on a rainy afternoon? I love our doctor.

We discussed your colds and asthma attacks and she changed your supplements a bit. I enjoy having options for you: you have your inhalers, and you have your vitamins. It all fits together well -- thank goodness for health insurance.

Dr. R. wanted to listen to your lungs and look in your ears for good measure. At first you were nervous -- your bottom lip poked out and fat tears rolled down your face, dampening the collar of your sweater. But then she told you she was looking for a butterfly in your ear and you allowed her to peek in. When she was finished, Dr. R. said, "no butterfly in there...but I saw a drum." You looked interested, yet confused.

About an hour after she left, you came to me and said excitedly, "I have a drum!" I wonder what you picture in your ear now; hopefully you don't hit yourself with the toy mallet in an effort to make music.

You are a person!

Yesterday, we were driving in the car and discussing our future plans. Dad and I were talking away in the front seat when, all of the sudden, you made a comment directly related to what we were musing about. I stopped cold and said, "J, I think Lucy understands 90% of what we are saying, even when were are not speaking for her benefit." Dad replied, "make that 95%." Then you chimed in, "I'm a person!" Of course you are; you are not our cat and thus you understand our language. Yes, you are a person...and our very smart girl.

Into my arms.

This afternoon, Nana and Papa came to the house for a visit. They joined dad and me for some afternoon theater while you stayed home with Beth. Upon coming home from our afternoon adventure, you ran from your room, to the front door. Out of all of the people waiting for you, you ran into my arms. As I swung you up, your head on my shoulder, I took a deep breath, happy to be home with you. Sometimes, it feels good to be your favorite.

Big girl panties?

Overheard this morning:

Lucy -- What are you doing?
Dad -- Getting out my clothes.
Lucy -- Those are your big girl panties!
Dad -- Um, well...sure. Actually, no.
Lucy -- Yes, daddy's big girl panties.

Sadness.

Although I usually write about the wonderfully quaint things you do, sometimes, there is sadness. It's not a grief wrapped up in you, but I periodically feel bent under the pressures of responsibility and knowledge of loss in the world.

Over the last year, our family has learned of so much illness -- and known it ourselves, to some degree. After our car accident last year, we spent many weeks in doctor's offices. Then, we've been working on controlling your asthma which has been a challenge. Both your grandmother and your nanny-caregiver are dying of cancer. I secretly imagined that we'd be able to gloss over it for you, but you are the type of child who is so aware of peoples "owies" and the need for doctors. When you ask to see Julie and talk about grandma being sick, I sometimes feel overwhelmed? How am I going to explain death to you? Is it appropriate at your age?

Honestly, I just don't want to cry about it anymore. The gift that Julie gave us, as a family, was a great one: she took you under her wing when you were 3 months old and gave you all the love she had. She is clear about the outcome of her cancer and for this I am grateful. I am glad I can sit across from her at lunch and talk about the end of her life. But it is surreal. You asked her to hold you and...she couldn't really. I had to turn my face toward the door to avoid crying in public. You wanted to ride in her car, too. I sure you think there's just a break in the schedule; amazingly, you remember the schedule you used to have with her.

But here I am, sad again and the tears are more for the questions you will ask than for my own, if that makes sense. I want to be honest with you about life and what is real. And I want to give you what you need, and what I need and what dad needs. I want you to be content and fulfilled and the happiest you can be.

When friends come for a visit.

One of the coolest things about you is your friendliness. Today, our friend E. came over to chat and talk business. You've only met her once before, but took an immediate liking. She used to be a kindergarten teacher, and you seemed to pick up on that vibe right away.

Within one hour, you'd given her a nickname and then, in the second hour, you peeked up over the couch and said, "I love you!" Your voice had this tone, like you'd just discovered a new person to say this phrase too. It's hard to describe, but so sweet. E. was really honored by your affection. You seem to understand who is interested in you and generous with their affection; who you should trust. Of course, when you asked her to change your diaper, we determined she wasn't that close; that was the only offer she turned down.

When E. was packed to leave, you were ready for a nap; you showed her how you collect your dolls and climb under the covers. Thanks for making me look good, kid.

Hoody.

Right now, you are eating corn chips in a little dish. It was hard-won battle: the Choosing of the Snack. Sometimes there are so many choices, it's difficult to make one. I totally understand your angst, and I hope your problems remain that simple!

Today is election day -- a day where everyone realizes politics isn't simple. There are so many factors to look at, and decisions are not necessarily black and white, even when we want them to be. I want to raise you to look at all sides of each issue. For today, it's snack decision 2006: crunchy or soft; sweet or salty? And how lovely we can provide you with those choices.

May you always have a choice.

Blustery.

(So I had a picture all ready for today, but you'll just have to imagine it: Lucy in her salmon-colored, hooded sweatshit, eating a late lunch at her little table.)
You love the blustery weather, but only enough to image getting soggy going down the slide. Before your nap, you spied the mailman's car outside. You said, "I'll get the mail after I'm all done sleeping." Although you had protested, you were happy to lay down under the covers and close your eyes. The very first thing you asked to do was to check the mail. I slipped on my shoes and we stepped into the surprisingly warm and windy weather, rain blowing into our hair. I love the balance there on the porch -- you collecting the mail as I fish it out, turning your rested and ruddy cheeked face to smile at me; I feel you growing heavier on my hip as the changed leaves blow onto the porch. The best part is coming back inside with you, even though it is not always easy.

I like this house!

Today we were out looking at houses in some new neighborhoods nearby. You were so patient, going from door to door; we saw 6 houses total. In all of them you were happy to run around, laughing at questionable decorating. One that we all liked had a room that you declared "just my size!" You stretched out on the new berber carpet, sighed and said, "this is my room." Perhaps, perhaps.

No hippies.

Dad: Let's get your pants and socks on.

Lucy: Go for a walk!

Dad: Yeah, we're going to walk on Hawthorne. And see the hippies.

Lucy: No see hippies!!

What's that?

"What's that?" you ask about sound outside. "It's just a car driving by," dad says. "What's that?" you say again. "It's the sound of the cat, asking for her dinner," I answer.
You ask a lot of questions using this "what's that?" format. I wondered where you got it from and then I found myself, the other day saying, "what's that?" directed toward a mysterious sound below the window. (It was just a bush, brushing up against the siding.)
I love your "what's that" and know you will soon add "why" to your repertoire. These questions make things more interesting -- they help our conversation flow. It's nice to give you words for things; I enjoy the clarification.

Tonight at sleep time, after you gave your love, you shuffled to your bed and climbed in. I watched you arrange yourself, finding it difficult not to help you in some way. I'm glad you still need me to tuck the blankets around you. Every day, a new part of your independent life is revealed -- what's that?

The end of an era.

At the beginning of October, I read a fellow mom writing about her last days nursing her daughter. Wood described herself as "a closet extended breastfeeder." I remember reading the post and really relating; at nearly 29 months, you were still breastfeeding before bed, and sometimes for a nap in the afternoon. The sessions rarely lasted longer than 2 minutes, and of course you were able to forgo any substitute when I wasn't there. You didn't even want a small cup of rice milk. Not many people knew I still breastfed, but I wasn't totally closed about it either. I had decided that, as long as we were both happy, our nighttime ritual was okay with me -- I did hope that, by 3, you'd be finished. We had our little dialog about nursing, though. You'd sit in your chair and we'd "talk about nursing." We discussed how tiny babies needed milk from their mothers, but that you are a big girl and were therefore ready to be finished. For many weeks we'd end the conversation and you'd still ask me to nurse.

Then, last Wednesday night, it just felt right to hold you on the floor and to really mean it -- to really be finished nursing. I held you while you cried, "momma nurse you" until you fell asleep. I didn't cry then, but after you were limp and gentle in my arms, we put you into your bed. I immediately went to the couch and fell asleep; it wasn't yet 9 p.m. Then next day, you did announce you were all done nursing when I picked you up from Montessori. My heart broke there, in the car, as I asked you, "are you sure?" In that moment, I realized the extent to which...I was breastfeeding for myself. I mean, I didn't want to be the mother that breastfed because of my own inability to recognize that my daughter is growing up and needing me less. You did nurse before your nap on Thursday, but I could tell you just weren't into it. At bedtime, you were really done; you kissed and hugged and giggled your way into bed.

I don't know why, but I thought it would be more difficult for you. Did I want it to be? This transition is like many others have been -- when you've been ready to do something, whether it be walking or starting your first day of school -- you've done it with confidence, with a sureness of yourself and those around you.

So, on Thursday night I wept at the table as you happily drifted off to sleep, comforted by your cadre of dolls. I cried because this growing up is bittersweet -- inevitable -- beautiful. You are becoming the person I want you to be: independent and loving. I hope you never misunderstand my sadness at these moments. May there always be enough between us that you'll confidently walk away, yet know I am here for you when you look over your shoulder.

Shall I...?

Prelude --
Shall I try to write here every day? For awhile I've thought it would better if I just wrote instead of saving everything up (everything being a relative word; I never get everything down). So..I'm going to attempt, since it is NaBloPoMo.

Since beginning graduate school over a year ago, I've written about 100 "reflection papers." I am thankful for that writing, but ready to focus my attention on writing something that is meaningful to me on other levels. I mean, education theory and Best Practice are important to me; you will surely grow up hearing our ongoing and endless discussion about our profession. But, again, it will be nice to sit down knowing that I can beginning writing longer pieces that have nothing to do with a grade. Because I'll have so much time to write when I am a teacher...right?

One --
For the last month or so, you've been preceding questions with "shall I?" in this endearing little voice. So you'll say, "Shall I pet the cat?" or "Shall I wear a sweater?" or even "Shall we change my diaper?". It is so proper and wonderful; we think you learned this manner of speaking at Montessori preschool. You also shake our hands at bedtime and say, "Nice to see you!". Although one may think these manners would help you become more polite, these manners are not fully extended to the cat: right now you are putting clothes on Myra's and "leading her" by the tail. I should rescue both you, right now, before Myra permanently moves into the basement.