School Days

Dear Riley,

This morning I dropped you off for your first day of your third year of school. I couldn't help but think that you are half way to kindergarten. How is that possible? I'm pretty sure this is supposed to get easier each year, but so far it hasn't.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that your school is closed for two full days before the new school year to allow the teachers to prepare for the new school year. Two full days which I gladly take off of work to spend with you no matter how heavy my work load is. The extra two days make me realize how much I'm missing when I'm at work and how nice it is to have extra special time with you.

This year, those two days were particularly strange. On Thursday, you had the beginnings of a cold and were not feeling your best. Instead of letting you sleep in as I would normally do, your mean old mom woke you up early, frantically rushed you through your morning routine, barked commands at Winston and Wrigley, grabbed every misplaced possession laying around the house and threw them in my car, and then had the nerve to make our family spend the next four and a half hours walking the streets of Ardmore as complete strangers inspected every single inch of our house - the only home you've ever known - to make sure it is as sound and charming and wonderful as we all know it is.

As always, you didn't miss a beat, not even when you weren't feeling your best. You still insisted on walking (running, really) almost the entire way to Starbucks instead of letting me push you in your stroller, which would've been easier for all of us. You still managed to put on a big smile at the park and play with all of the other kids who are lucky enough to be at the park with their mommies every day. You still wanted to stop in the baseball field to spin around. You still wanted to throw Wrigley's ball for her. You even wanted to walk up Joann's driveway to talk to her and tell her about your day.

The good news is that the people who came to inspect our house that day loved it and have decided they want to buy it. The bad news is that we have four days until we leave for Maine, then 8 wonderful days in Maine, and then have one week after we return to move out of that sweet house on Elizabeth Avenue.

And so those two extra week days with you and then this past weekend were somewhat bittersweet, as I enjoyed our time together, but also had extra time to experience the joy of this neighborhood with you and Daddy and the dogs while knowing that we don't have much time left here.

And now here it is, Monday morning, and I just left you in your new classroom with your new teachers who I barely know. Unlike the last two years, this year you weren't up for the challenge either. You clung to my legs and sobbed, and when I left you, I could hear you crying, "Mommy, mommy" as I walked away from you down the hallway to my car. It was so awful, and I seriously considered turning around, picking you up, and quitting my job. But I didn't, and I know after a few days (or maybe a few weeks), you'll be glad I didn't. You'll get to know your new teachers who I know you'll adore (and who I know will adore you even more), you'll make new friends, you'll play and draw and read and sing and learn. You have "graduated" to the big kid playground, you get to go on field trips to the library, you will work on potty training (or so your paperwork tells us); you know, all of the "big kid" stuff that you are so eager to do even though I just want you to stay my baby forever.

That said, and since I have been keeping a tally since your very first day of school when you were just 3 months old, but with the addition of a new category, the official record for the first day of school stands as follows: Mommy - 0; Riley - 2; School - 1. There's always next year...

Limits on Growing Up

For the most part, Riley reminds us every day in little ways how much he wants to be a big kid. He calls his stool a "big boy chair". When we tried him in Pull-Ups a few weeks ago, they were his "big boy pants". He calls the older boys on the street that he loves playing with "big boys".

So I was relieved the other night to finally get a glimpse of him still wanting to be little. After his bath, he was completely uncooperative in getting dried off. "No towel, mommy." Instead of letting him run around the house drenched and naked, I scooped him up in his towel and started signing "Rockabye Baby." Not exactly sure why, since I'm pretty sure I've never sung it to him in the past 2 years when it would've been more appropriate. Nonetheless, he loved it and has requested "More baby" the past few nights at bedtime. He insists on me wrapping him up in his blanket and holding him across my arms and rocking him as if he is still 8 pounds instead of 30. He starts giggling as we near the end of the song when I sing, "I'll catch you Riley, cradle and all." I think he thinks it's awesome that a song has his name in it. He requests "more baby" a few more times and I am happy to oblige. Looking down at this huge kid in my arms, grinning as if I'd hung the moon, is a sight that I hope I never forget.