Miscommunication

I've gone a little flower crazy.

I love flowers and I used to love to garden. In an attempt to put a little more balance in my life, I decided to create a giant flower bed. It previously ended right in front of those bushes to the right. I took it to the tree. (I foresee a water feature of some kind in that bare spot.)

I also built this landscape wall, which if you're friends with me on Facebook, you saw me brag about share my pride. Lots of flowers here too, and a pink dogwood tree.

And my front porch, several pots of flowers, surely to be joined by more after my trip next week.

So now my house looks like a greenhouse nursery, which makes me really happy. I can look out my office window and see all those blooms between the bushes and the trees. But with this change in the landscape, we've learned something new about Emma.

Emma loves flowers.

I guess I knew this already. I always have to plan an extra five minutes into our walk to pick up Jenna from school so Emma can stop and pick clover flowers and dandelions. Who knew all that innocent flower picking could cause widespread devastation?

>>cue ominous music<<

Where have all the flowers gone?

What did this poor plant do to loose all it's MULTIPLE blooms?

To be fair, how was Emma to know? I didn't specifically tell her not to pick the flowers and how is it any different than our daily, every other day, a couple of times a week walks?

After a minor freak out (one of my finer moments, to be sure) I explained to her that these flowers were supposed to be looked at and not picked. If we picked them, we wouldn't have lots of pretty flowers in our yard. It took a couple of times outside for the rule to sink in, a rule that she now helps enforce with neighbor kids.

Next Tuesday is Ryan and Emma's last day of preschool. This is actually on the radar of my attention because I'm going to New York City next week and I won't be here for it. Big brother Ross is in charge of the kids part of the week, a babysitter over the weekend. In any case, I'm trying to figure out who needs to be where and when while I'm gone so I can make a detailed list. Ross already feels a bit overwhelmed by his responsibilities, I figured I'd save him an item and send the teacher's gifts on Thursday.

Which meant I had to get their presents before 2:00 Thursday afternoon when I picked Emma and Ryan up. (You think I jest. Trust me, I've been known to be that late to the game.) You can only imagine the immense pride and satisfaction I felt realizing the need for gifts on Wednesday morning. (Go me!) But what to get? Gift cards would have been easy but less personal and I wanted their teachers to know how much we'll miss them. I mean, obviously you only have to look at my children's mugshots to see how happy they've been this year.*

*Not an accurate representation.

Since Ryan and Emma loved helping me plant flowers and we needed a morning activity, I decided we'd make pots of flowers for their teachers. I'd let the kids pick out which flowers they wanted then we'd come home and plant.

We got Jenna off to school and I was checking email when I told Emma that we were going to go pick out some flowers for her teachers.

"No, Mommy. You said I couldn't get my teachers flowers."

"No, it's okay. We're going to go get some after Ryan gets dressed."

Five minutes later, Ross who'd just emerged from his cave (also know as his room in the basement) said, "Uh oh."

Any parent knows those two nonsense syllables will instantly stop your heart.

I looked up and there was Emma holding these.

It could have been worse. She could have cut down the dogwood tree.

Mugshots

Little Ryan is five now. He's come a long way in the almost three short years he's been in our family. He's gone from a very quiet, shy, fearful child to a vivacious, talkative, friendly boy. But still, there's situations he'll get a little quieter, a little shyer until he's comfortable.

Ryan has been in three preschools. His first was a small church run preschool he went to until we learned he qualified for the school district preschool for speech and language therapy. But this year, he graduated from speech therapy and his school district preschool schedule was a killer. (Monday-Thursday 12:20-4:50, including bus pick up and drop off) After a lot of soul searching and prayer, I decided to move Ryan to Emma's preschool at the start of the new year.

I worried. Was this too much change for a little guy who likes structure? But he was very excited to go to Emma's school and I breathed a sigh of relief at getting two days with four straight hours to myself. The first day he was eager to start his new class, until he got there. Then he clammed up and plastered on the stoic expression he wears when he's scared. I sent him into his classroom, more than slightly worried but when I picked him up he was all smiles and mad he had to wait two days to go back.

The school year is ending and the remaining preschool days are pretty much field days and picnics so the teachers are cleaning out cubbies and file boxes. It was like a blast to the past when Ryan brought home a folder with this picture on the front:

Is it just me, or does this look like a police mug shot you'd see on TMZ?

This photo was taken the morning he walked in and while it tugs at my heart that my baby was scared and shy, I have to laugh a little at this photo.

Yeah, mother of the year.

Since I've already incriminated myself, why stop there? Because, let's be honest. Isn't that part of what you've missed about my blog posts, my lack of self-filtering?

Emma and Ryan's preschool takes school pictures in the fall just like the big kids. Ryan was still at his other school, so on picture day, I sent Emma to school in a cute little outfit and a hair bow (gah, she hates those and outright refuses to wear them now.) A week or so later I got back her proofs.

Her hair bow is missing and Emma isn't all that excited to be there.

I'm not sure what goes on at preschool, but it looks like it couldn't be much worse than waterboarding.

Most mother's would probably see these proofs and say "oh, my poor baby was traumatized." What did I do?

I burst out into hysterical laughter, right there in the preschool hallway.

Priceless.

The question was which pose to order? I couldn't limit it to just one. If money were no object (and when someone discovers that magical land, you be sure to come back and let me know where it is, okay?) I would have gotten all four. Instead, I settled on two. Poses 2 and 4, 'cause you just never know when these photos might come in handy. Emma's still my wild child. I'm smart enough to know I might be able to use these some day.

Cutting the Strings

Today, Emma started preschool. For a couple of weeks she had told everyone she encountered that she was going soon. Her enthusiasm for school put her older siblings to shame.

Last week, was Meet the Teacher Day. As we pulled up to the school, she practically squealed with excitement, something that Ryan couldn't relate to. (Ryan started his Pre-K year a couple of weeks ago with the school district early childhood center.) Emma marched right into the school and her classroom. She eagerly sat at the table with her folder.

Because, hello! Who doesn't like candy?

Emma's class is The Stable Room. Amazingly enough, she wasn't tested before her class assignment to insure the proper room placement. Talk about serendipity.

Emma and Ryan explored her new room. Ryan was very hesitant at first and Emma led the way.

Her favorite area was the Home Living Center. Notice the folder in her hand. She wasn't about to let that go!

Fast forward to today.

Not so happy.

I think Emma figured she did her 20 minute stint of preschool, it was fun while it lasted, and it was a done deal.

Uh, no.

The only thing she got excited about was her lunch box. Actually excited might be the wrong word. Let's try POSSESSIVE. All of my children have their first day of school pictures with their backpacks. Emma's is lying on the ground. She's got her lunch box looped over her shoulder.

Toudee and Foofa came along to make sure she got to school without incident. She still has her lunch box.

On her way to class. The fact she is walking on her own two feet was progress.

Toudee and Foofa had to rest in Emma's backpack while she went to class. Convincing her of this was fairly easy. Giving up the lunch box? Not so much.

Then it was time for me to go and my baby cried as though I was never coming back. After six kids, I'm supposed to be immune to such displays of hysterics.

Someone forgot to tell my tear ducts.

I walked away in tears, wishing I'd had time to give her another kiss. That I had reminded her to tell her teacher if she had to potty. But I didn't. There wasn't time.

It occurred to me that this is really life in a nutshell. I sent Trace to college and drove away wishing I had warned him to not wash his darks with his whites. To eat less Ramen and more veggies. Then Trace moved out into a condo with Cody last April, and I wanted to tell him to change his furnace filter every three months and try not to park on the street.

The truth is when you are in the moment of separating from your child there isn't enough time to tell them everything you think they need to know. Honestly, they're not listening anyway. As a parent, we're still clinging to them and they are ready to be set free. As it should be. Sure they might cry, or scream as in Emma's case. But they need to be set free.

It hurts like hell, but that's our job. It's not to cram the information we think they need to know at the last minute. It's to teach them along the way.

When I picked Emma up from preschool, she was exactly how I expected her to be. Happy.

But her teacher told me when she asked the class who wanted to come back on Thursday, Emma was the only one who said she didn't want to go.

Guess I still have some time to teach her about those air filters.