Midnight rambler

A few musings, as the house sleeps:

Today wasn't especially blogworthy, to borrow (yet again!) from Jen. It's not unusual for the muppers* to wake up in a snit when they realize that Daddyman has left the building for that four-letter word, WORK. But everyone was pretty genial today, albeit rambunctious. (Duh.) A bit of neighborhood drama in the morning, as a transformer across the street exploded, temporarily disrupting power and (no way to make THIS funny) apparently electrocuting someone in the process. Conflicting reports as to whether the victim was a utility worker or an elderly neighbor; either way, it's a tragedy.

Lacking a proper segue, I must lean on my beloved ellipsis...

This afternoon, I packed the kids into the car for a trip to WESTWOOD! This is how I pronounce it, with an exclamation point for enthusiastic emphasis, and a big cheesy grin slapped on my face. Westwood is Carter's new school, which officially begins Wednesday. I say this over and over again, both out loud and to myself: I feel so good about this choice for him, and for us. (I sometimes add, "It's only preschool, for heaven's sake," but that addendum is strictly to appease my mother, because I hold fast to the belief that it is actually the whole entire world, and perhaps even the galaxy.) Right now, all of these platitudes and myriad superstitous gestures are pulling me through my worry that Carter will Hate It and, by extension, Hate Me.

I can't quite believe that my little man, seemingly impervious to change and chaos up to this point, isn't just rolling with the flow on this newest incarnation of change and chaos. But his sunny countenance actually clouds over whenever the W-word is mentioned. This began on the second day of "camp," which was a casual introduction to the Montessori experience. Days three through five were progressively more angst-ridden. By the end of the week, I fully expected to walk into his room and find him wearing a tiny Black Sabbath t-shirt and shredded jeans, sporting heavy black eyeliner and listening to moody rock music.

Today was an opportunity to meet the teachers, which was a formality for us. But I'm guessing that Wednesday morning will be an absolute zoo, so it was great to leisurely wander the halls, chat with moms and teachers and administrators, and generally bank up on warm-and-fuzzies. Shortly, we bumped into Mrs. True, one of Carter's teachers. She greeted Carter with a warm smile and a not-at-all-forced enthusiasm. (And yes: kids can definitely tell the difference, so who I'm fooling with my exclamation point, I don't know.) She showed him the space poster she was laminating, adding that they'd be learning about space when school began, then took his hand... and they walked down the hall together to the classroom. Not a trace of angst was detected, so I allowed myself to exhale. A similar encounter with Mrs. Mendez, Carter's other teacher; she's new to Westwood (and Dallas) and seems thoroughly calm and pleasant. We stayed long enough for Carter to wander the room and point out to me the things he likes (fish, chimes, a playgroup friend in the adjoining room) and not so long that S and K were able to disrupt the entire school with their "We're now nap-ready, Mother," yelps.

C was a bit quieter than normal on the drive home, but not unhappy. Enormous shocker: he actually took a monster NAP, which occurs maybe once every six weeks, but woke up cheerful and rowdy.

It will all be fine. Actually, it will all be great and these anxieties will seem absurd in a matter of weeks... but if you want to send us a little positive energy or think an encouraging thought for Carter on Wednesday, well, that would be just swell.

Big love,

F5

*A little trivia: why do we call them muppers, anyway? When we first began experimenting with finger food for S and K, we bought the requisite container of Gerber fruit puffs. These are teensy puffs of food (think Ferran Adria for the toddler set) that have no nutritional value whatsoever and (gasp!) aren't even organic. Their only redeeming feature is that they melt almost instantly when they come into contact with saliva, so wee ones can practice the heavy lifting and masticating that will be required for Cheerios. Three-year-old Carter, with a mouthful of chompers, naturally fell in love with them (house rule: what you possess, I must acquire) and snuck enormous handfuls of them at every opportunity. He called them "mups." Ergo, the eaters became known as the muppers. I have refused to call S and K "the twins" and ultimately broke myself of referring to them as "the babies," but this nom de famille stuck and now usually includes their big brother. (Today a teacher gestured to S and K and asked Carter, "Are these your siblings?" "No," he drily replied, "they're twins.")

Maybe, if we're super lucky, our next trivia tidbit will be: why do we call S Llama? I'm still not really clear on this one. Trey?