The inevitable: It finally happened. Yesterday, the last day of our first full week of school, Heath came into my room, chipper, excited, dressed, and ready to go. Dressed in Spider-Man pants. I'd barely had any coffee, had quickly grown accustomed to his relative good mood about going to class, so my mind began to search the rolodex for reasoning and possible trickery I could use to get Heath out of the forbidden school wear and into something more appropriate without awakening the beast.
So, with maybe only a slight waver in my voice, I said, Oh Heath, we can't wear the Spider-Man pants to school. You can put them back on as soon as you get home, but they want you to be Spider-Heath. Short and sweet. I handed him some blue shorts, quite certain he was not going to buy my explanation. At all. I waited for the moans, the siren-like screams, the flailings, the end of a joyful week to come crashing down in an emotional avalanche.
But nothing happened. Well, not nothing. He took the Spider-Man pants off, put on the blue shorts, and went about his business of eating Pancakes. Done.
Fortunately for me he failed to notice the fact that Stella was wearing a Curious George t-shirt. I like to think that the adventuresome monkey falls into the category of a highbrow character of literature. George may be skating on thin ice now that he's gone commercial, though. Cat in the Hat, too. Silly PBS.
The Lady in Red: Last night, the kiddies were bathed and pajamaed, having a few moments of quiet race car time before bedtime books, while I put some clean clothes away in Stella's drawer. While it was open, she spied something she wanted. A vibrant, silky red nightgown that we got on our last trip to Charleston. She pulled it out, and with quivering arms and legs, tried to get her princess shortie pjs off as quickly as she could. Dis on, dis on, she repeated, shaking the nightgown at me.
She was thrilled with her lovely, long nightie. Heath took one look at her and said, You look like a singer in that, Stella.
I'll Have What He's Having: I learned last year that bombarding Heath with questions after I pick him up with school will have two effects: 1) We will both be driven batty. Heath, because I won't stop asking. Me, because he won't give me any answers. So this year, I have kept the question to a minimum. A simple How was your day? And I get a simple (and delightful) answer of very good. I can tell you that it does seem very good. Lots of road building with the blocks inside. New friend making seems to be taking place. Old friend re-bonding is happening. And he pretty much races from the car to class, with barely a look-back to see where I am. I couldn't be happier for Heath.
And 2) I usually wind up hearing information that I don't want to hear. I pushed so and so. So and so took my such and such. I peed on a tree outside.
But Thursday, after a week of mum being the word, I got a little nosier and began asking additional specific questions. Three questions in (and unanswered) I gave up and watched Heath stare glassily out the car window. Then suddenly, he perked up and said, I want those squirty yogurts, like so-and-so. He squeezed the imaginary Gogurt tube between his fingers. And honey on my sandwich. Not peanut butter. Pirate Booty. I need Pirate Booty. Hummus for my pita chips. Not milk. Apple Juice. And not the brown kind. The kind from Trader Joe's.
The list of what other people have in their lunch box, and how he needs to have the same thing, went on and on. I had been feeling pretty good this week with the variety of foods I had packed for someone who likes nothing and everything all at the same time. His barrage of food items, and just how wrong I'd been in preparing his lunch, made me realize two things: 1) I need to go back to the grocery store. 2) How was your day? will suffice.
Mountain Grandmama: After our six-miler on the greenway this morning, we stopped by to see Papa, HeHe, and Granny. I asked Granny how she's doing. Her answer: Oh, just old and feeble. There's an old song about that, but I done and forgot what it is.
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