It’s going to be a long life like this, I know.
Crying, over the last day of school of two’s program? Really??
So much has happened since you started in September.
I remember it all–the orientation meeting on that warm early-September evening when your dad came home from work early to attend and afterward we went out to dinner; being so excited to find that butterfly backpack at Home Goods, it was the perfect size–like it was yesterday.
(Sniff. Blink. Tear.)
When we began school you guys were barely understandable, only to each other, heavily speaking your “twinese.”
This morning as we drove to school I listened to a long story about when you took my car to the carwash, Baby Boy. And when The Tubes’ “She’s a Beauty” came on the radio, Baby Girl, you cried, “oooh, good song! I LIKE this song. Mama, I’m soooo hap-peeee!”
And aren’t we all so happy–after all, its summer vacation.
Nothing but beach, pool and bbq’s on our hands.
Well, and camp, which starts in July, and which you don’t know you’re going to–yet. Soon I’ll begin my next big sell, as I did with school, “I love school, isn’t it so FUN!”
–Camp is AWESOME!–
I wondered this morning laying in bed, one arm around each of you watching Dora the Explorer, did I do the right thing signing you up for this? Maybe it would be nice not to have to hustle us anywhere, no plans, just winging it everyday…
And then I remembered: Yesterday. In the rain. Inside. All day. We baked a cake. Batter was everywhere. Those twenty-eight minutes it took to cook were the longest twenty-eight minutes of Baby Girls’s 2 1/2 year life. “Mama, I eat it now!” No, baby, it’s not done yet. “NO! I eat it NOW!” No, it’s not done. “NO! I eat it!” It’s actually impossible for you to eat it, because there is nothing yet to eat. The cake needs to bake. (At which point you threw yourself on the floor in your tutu and tiara and starting rolling around on the ground like Madonna in a wedding dress in “Like a Virgin”) “I EAT IT! MAMA, I EAT!”
…Come to think of it, camp three days a week for two hours in the morning is truly AWESOME.
Those mornings in the first few weeks when I pulled into that school parking lot with my heart clenched, thinking is today going to be a screaming while you get pried from my arms type of day? Gone. Remember the morning we fell in the mud puddle? Gone. And let’s not forget the adventures with the minivan, when I couldn’t figure out how to close the doors and I drove through the lot with them open, the diorama on wheels. Good riddens.
When I greeted you at the door to pick you guys up a little awhile ago, you held out your parting gifts, shovels and pails, so proud. Look, Mama, we got bubbles! As we lumbered into the car, and I did the dance of seatbelts and fishing you from the front seat when you break free and jump over, Baby Boy, and are you really in the trunk now, come on, your sister told me a million stories at warp speed, from “spinning” with her friend to how she made a “stinky cookie.” That’s great, baby. When I finally strapped you in, you threw an absolute fit because you wanted to open bubbles.
“No, we can’t open them now,” said I, Cruella DeVille, “not while Mommy’s driving, it’s dangerous.”
“NOOOOO!” you wailed.
The windows were down. The sun in my face. I started the ignition and a gust of cold air from the air conditioning gushed along with The Head and the Heart’s “Lost in my Mind.”
I turned up the volume, tuning out everything, any nostalgia, frustration, ridiculous cries–“MaMA, BUBBLES!!!”–and as Baby Girl babbled still.
There’s a line in the song, we can start moving forward…
And I pulled out of the lot and drove us home keeping in pace with the rhythm of life, doors closing and opening.