Help, my littlest girl is starting preschool and I'm completely flipping out. How did she suddenly attain the ability count to twelve, write the letter "C," and run in a circle around a group of seated children, slapping them in the head and yelling about ducks and geese?
She's going to school, and somewhere upstairs in the same building her sister will be sitting in a fifth-grade classroom learning about things like ecology and geometry (and she'll be enjoying it too, because she's weird like that).
I'm now frantically finishing the cross-stitch baby blanket I started for little Gertrude when I first found out I was pregnant.
I was sitting on the couch with it yesterday, trying to untangle a knot in a thread that was supposed to be the outline of a teddy bear's head. Gert came over and poked her nose into what I was doing.
I told her, "I'm making a baby blanket for my very special little baby girl."
"THAT'S ME!" Gert squealed. "That blanket is for me? I get a blanket?"
I told her yes, and she squealed some more, and then did a little dance on her toes.
Then Matilda ran into her room and showed Gert "Baby Blank," which is the cross-stitched blanket I made for her when she was a baby. It's looking a little worn, but it's in pretty good shape considering she's slept with it for the past 10 years.
Gert said to me, "Can I have my blankie now?"
"I'm almost done with it. I just have a few more outlines to sew."
"Can I sleep with it tonight?"
This all made me feel very much appreciated and incredibly guilty. The child is about to start preschool, and good God, here I am still stitching her "first" baby blanket.
"Gert, I promise I'll be done with your blankie before preschool starts."
At least three separate times last night, Gert sat up in bed and called out, "Mom… are you still working on my blanket?"
I am, actually.
I'm working on it now. And now. And also right now. Good night, Gracie.