Sunday Funday

Things that happened today:

1. I was woken by a voice saying, "Mommy, I am going to give you a beard." Then I heard the sound of scotch tape, and sure enough, someone was taping a beard on my mouth. The beard was actually a Magic Bag. It didn't stay on when I sat up.

2. We went skating at our favourite little arena, and for the first time Spilly skated without her trainer-thingy. This was mostly because Simon had just skated without his for the first time, and we were all making an excited fuss. The spirit of competition is alive and well in Spillsville.

3. We saw a deer run right across the highway in front of us. Luckily it narrowly missed several cars. It then jumped unbelievably high over a fence and vanished into the woods on the other side.

4. Spilly held a "Martin Luther King ceremony" in her bedroom this afternoon. We weren't allowed in until it was ready. There was a sign taped on the door that read, "CULOSD." When she finally let us in, every toy she had was marshalled in neat rows on the floor. Monty and Ribbon were both wearing hair accessories. She said a few solemn words. Then she asked that we take pictures.

5. Spilly cracked the eggs for the custard this evening, and they went into the bowl.

6. After her Daddy had carefully removed several outgrown items of clothing from Spilly's drawers, and put them in the discard pile, Spilly came upon them and was highly distressed. We later discovered them all back in the drawers. When asked about this, she explained she had done it for Donna. When asked who Donna was, she said, "My daughter, of course." Apparently Donna is going to wear Spilly's old underwear. I pointed out that it's customary not to share underwear, but Spills told me she was going to put it into the freezer until Donna used it, and it would be FINE.

7. Spilly informed me that Monty and Ribbon are husband and wife, but used to be brother and sister.

8. Daddy and Spilly had a difference of opinion about putting stickers on walls. Daddy finally said, "Now, who owns this house, anyway?"

"I do," Spilly said.

Daddy explained that in fact she didn't own the house; she just lived here.

A few minutes later, Spills came stamping down the stairs with twenty dollars given to her by her grandmother. She gave it to Daddy.

"NOW I OWN THE HOUSE."

Running the Show

So Spills received her little award today, and hubby says it was a very nice assembly. There was a choir with a soloist, and a presentation about Martin Luther King, and all of the kids getting certificates were called up one by one on the stage.

I asked Spilly this evening, "What did it feel like when they called your name?"

She said, "I jumped up like a Smarty out of a box!"

"Did you have a feeling of excitement?"

"No," she said in her are-you-crazy voice. "I had a feeling of PEACE."

"Oh. I see."

"And do you know what my certificate was FOR?"

"What was it for?"

"It said that I got to be the little-girl Principal for a day."

"Oh really? And what kinds of things did you get to do?"

"I got to say, SSSHHHHHHH to everybody who was talking."

Her Daddy says he missed this part of the assembly entirely.

Incredible Music

So Spilly had her little Friday music class again. Apparently Mr. Fantastic was there. He was wearing a Spiderman shirt.

Hubby asked him, "Are you Mr. Fantastic?"

"No," he said, with some scorn. "I'm Mr. INCREDIBLE. See?" And he shot off along the hallway in a really incredible run.

We like his style.

After-School Concert

It was a grim, stressful day. Not enough sun, temperatures far too frigid, kids crazy, report cards looming, marking pile threatening to fall over and smother me. And an EQAO meeting after school, as if there wasn't enough on the old plate.

When I got home, there was no sign of hubby or Spills. So I took my bad mood up for a quick bubble bath. By the end of it--and a hair wash--I was ready to face the world again.

I heard the door open, and voices in the hallway. As I headed downstairs, I could hear Spills saying, "But why isn't Mommy HERE?"

"She'll be here soon," her daddy told her.

"Until she gets here, I'm going to pretend I have an imaginary Mommy," Spills was saying gloomily. At that moment, I leapt out into view.

"MOMMY!" my kid shrieked. There were many hugs. Then she added, "You look like Sanjaya."

"I do? Really?"

"You have a hat like him. Can I wear it now?"

I still was wearing the towel around my head from my hair-wash. "Well, it's drying my hair right now, so I don't think you should," I said.

"When you're done, can I?"

"Maybe we'll get you a dry one right now."

Moments later, we were on my bed, and she was dressed in full princess regalia (gown, slippers, scepter), with a towel wrapped around her head.

"And now I'm going to do a concert for you."

"Great!" I said, perched against the pillows.

She left the room. A great silence followed. Then she burst through the door, singing the entire song, "Ain't no mountain high enough..." It went on and on. It involved elaborate dance moves.
At the end, she began to climb onto the bed. I clapped enthusiastically.

"Mommy! I'm NOT DONE YET. I'm just climbing up the mountain."

"Oh, sorry," I said.

"But it's not high enough. DON'T LAUGH."

Sweet, Sweet Music....

Today I got to chaperone a middle school dance. If you offered me the choice between being repeatedly clubbed in the head or chaperoning a middle school dance, I would be hard-pressed to choose (but the clubbing might have a slight edge). At least my tour of duty was only an hour long; but by the end of it, my head was pounding, and my eyes were sore from squinting through near-total darkness in the school gym (there were some laser-y kinds of things dancing around the ceiling, but they didn't provide much illumination to those of us below).

Spilly enjoyed some music today too. She attends a little music class on Fridays with her friend Robbie. Today was extra-special, apparently. She told her Daddy afterward, "There's a new boy in our class!"

"Oh?" said her Daddy. "What's his name?"

"Mr. Fantastic!"

Daddy was slightly taken aback. "What's his real name?" he asked.

Spilly glared at him. "Mister. Fan. Tas. Tic."

"Did you see Mr. Fantastic?" I asked Daddy later.

"I actually did, for a minute."

"And did he look fantastic?"

"Well--kind of," said Daddy, after thinking about it.

Sounds like Robbie, Spilly's current main squeeze, is going to have a run for his money.

Let me Count the Ways....

I said to Spilly today, "I love you a little bit, you know."

"Just a little bit?" she said.

"Well, I love you a lot bit."

She thought for awhile. "Do you love me...thirty-seven pounds?"

I got down on her level so we could see eye to eye. "I love you THIRTY-SEVEN POUNDS."

"Good." She smiled, perfectly satisfied.

Small Miracles

Love it when something unexpectedly wonderful happens, whether it be great or small.

Spilly started a little music class today. She was quite worried about it. She was worried that she wouldn't know anyone, that she wouldn't know who the teacher was, that she would be attending without Daddy, that it would be scary. She thought maybe she wouldn't go. Daddy patiently tried to address each of her concerns, but they were still floating around when she arrived at the class.

They walked into the building, and Daddy says he saw a lady standing at the door of the classroom. She had a stroller. There was a little boy standing beside her. Daddy thought they looked familiar.

And as they walked closer, the little boy started jumping up and down and shouting Spilly's name.

And Spilly started jumping up and down too. "Robbie! Robbie!"

It was only the boy she is planning to marry, son of our closest friends.

Spilly took his hand. "Come on, Robbie, it's time for class."

And in they walked together.

Harsh Experiences

So Spilly walked into our room at about 6:05 this morning, said, "I think I have something in my stomach," and then promptly threw up everywhere. Hubby helped clean her up while I threw together lesson plans and called in my absence to the school (although hubby works at home, he was in meetings and also trying to meet a very tight deadline, so this latest Spilly illness couldn't have come at a worse time).

She slept for awhile, then woke up starving for cinnamon toast. There was no further sign of sickness. We coloured and played board games and read books. We sang songs and danced to "Zipper music" (a mysterious ritual she and her Daddy engage in each day, which involves throwing themselves around the living room as vigorously as possible while dancing to the Ramones; on the cover of the DVD is a zipper, hence the name). And she ate a full lunch.

So...we sent her off to kindergarten. And that seemed the end of all trouble. In fact, I had a perfectly lovely stolen afternoon, enjoying the fact that it was snowing heavily outside and I wasn't out in it. Nice all round.

But when we collected her from the bus stop later on, she was in tears. "Helen says she doesn't like me! Why doesn't she like me? Why did she say that?"

And then I was the one who felt sick, and it was like I was catapulted back to my own childhood, to the hurtful nature of the playground, to the subtle meanness that only young girls can adequately dish out. And we sat on the stairs together in the front hallway and talked it all through.

I said, "Maybe Helen was having a bad day. I don't think she could possibly mean it."

"She did mean it. And she doesn't like Fraser either."

"Did she say that?"

"Yes, and I said I did like Fraser."

"And then she said she didn't like you?"

"She said, and I don't like you."

Many more tears, while I tried to fumble my way through this unfamiliar ground. And dreamed passionately, for a minute, of homeschooling my sensitive little soul.

I have a feeling I am going to have an even harder time with these schoolyard negotiations than she will. And it's a family thing, I believe. Because when I dealt with these sorrows as a kid, my mother struggled with it too.

Which is why we called Grandma shortly thereafter, and Spilly told her the whole thing (along with a lot of other things too numerous and eclectic to mention).

And now Grandma and Grandpa are coming for dinner and a sleepover on Saturday. Because Grandma gets where Spilly is coming from, and she gets where Mommy is coming from too.

Peaceful Saturday Mornings (not)

I love Saturday mornings. I love lying there and realizing that no alarm is going to go off. I'm happy thinking about the long hours ahead, the lack of pressure, the many cups of coffee to be drunk.

And then I hear the click of the bedroom door next to ours. And the footsteps in the hall. And our door being opened ever so quietly. And a little voice by my elbow. "Mommy! I'm up! Can I have a back rub with your fingernails?"

Then all my fantasies (because that's what they are) vanish, and I realize it's show time.

Today, for example, the following things took place next:

1. Spilly turned into Mr. Kiss, our euthanized cat, and pounced around the covers meowing playfully.

2. She took all the things off my bedside table and made an alternative bedside table in the hallway.

3. She bashed me in the nose with the back of her head while trying to get comfortable on my pillow.

4. She pretended to be "Sanjaya with Joe Parrot" (we think she meant Joe Perry) and did quite a nice job.

5. She balanced Ribbon on my nose and mouth.

6. She wanted to know when we were going to make Ribbon a new ribbon to replace the old one that vanished a long, long time ago. She wanted to know exactly how we would do it. And at what time specifically.

7. She asked what would happen if the chicken we were about to eat turned back into a live chicken. What would I say? What would we do? What would we do next? What would the chicken do? Why would it do that?

8. She was curious as to when we would be getting up, and what we would be having for breakfast, and whether she could help to make it.

9. She wanted to know why she couldn't wear my glasses anymore (this is actually the thing that finally got me out of the bed).

10. She pulled Daddy out of bed and then sat on him.

Raucous New Beginnings

So I dragged myself home after school, having sat through a particularly long staff meeting. I was prepared to drop like a pile of debris in the front hallway. But instead I was met by shrieks and giggles, and two apparitions who were wearing at least five or six costumes between them. Our little friend from down the street was back, and spirits were beyond high. (Spilly's spirits are quite high enough at the best of times.)

My first thought was, "Oh dear." Then it was a kind of resigned, "Oh well." And after a few minutes I started realizing it wasn't the end of the world to walk into a warm, happy, loud house after the cold drive home with tailgaters biting at my ankles the whole way.

"What are you guys up to?" I asked.

"We're the kids, and you're the KID CATCHER!"

I sighed a bit. Then I shouted, "Grrrr!" and pounced.

Lots of shrieking later, her dad showed up and we asked if she could stay for dinner. He said she could. Then we all stood around the front hall and gabbed for the better part of a half-hour, until his daughter pushed him out the door so that she could get on with the excitement of Staying For Dinner. But first her dad asked if we could come over on Friday night. And we said we could.

And I started realizing that a new friendship was staring us in the face if we wanted it.

Which was a good deal better than anyone could have expected at the end of a long day and a longer staff meeting. Just goes to show that once in awhile the universe intervenes a bit and brings shy people together.

Feelings that are Too Strong

Every so often a moment happens, and you have joy and grief mingling at the same time, joy because it is so precious, and grief because you know that it is already half-over, destined to keep its meaning in memory only.

Spills and I sat in her rocking chair last night, in the dark. We told some silly stories together, and talked to Monty and Ribbon, and had a cuddle. Then I said, "Do you know that this is the part of my day that makes me the very happiest?"

In her sing-songy, dramatic little way, she said, "Oh, Mommy, do you really mean it?"

"I really really do."

"Oh, that makes ME so happy!" And she stuck her arms around my neck. "Mommy, do you remember about strong feelings?"

"What about them?"

"About when your feelings are so strong, they make tears come in your eyes?"

"Yes, I remember." We had had a complicated talk once about why people sometimes cry even when they're happy.

"I'm having the strong feelings."

"I am too," I said.

Pudding and Milkshakes

It's been like a mini-Christmas around here today, only the Big Event has been a playdate rather than a while-you-were-sleeping visit (it would have been impossible for Rip Van Winkle to sleep through this). Spilly's bus-buddy Sarah came to play--her first visit--and it was as though Santa himself had condescended to come by, or the Queen, as far as Spilly was concerned.

Spills began the day at 6:00 a.m. or so, planted in our doorway saying, "Mommy, did you remember something important about today?"

"Wha--?" I said. The migraine pills were only just beginning to work.

"Did you remember that Sarah was coming to play today and she was going to have a milkshake?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I did."

"Well, we'd better get up then."

"She's not coming till after lunch."

At this point, the Spills sat herself dejectedly down in the hall and said, "But I told her she could come ALL DAY."

"That's okay," I said. "By the end, it's going to feel like it was all day."

The morning was spent doing variations on, "Is it time yet?" This despite such exciting activities as cleaning the family room and joining Mommy in a vigorously delightful exercise routine. When it got to the part in the video where we were to do weights, Spills ran and got herself some pudding containers to lift up and down (Mommy used cream of mushroom soup cans). But it was only momentarily entertaining, because it wasn't Sarah. And it wasn't milkshakes.

When the climactic moment arrived, it was as though someone had shot a starter pistol and my kid had been given instructions to yell, run and hand things to people as loudly and quickly as she could. She apparently needed to live a lifetime immediately. And poor Sarah was, I believe, in shock for about the first half hour.

But she rallied, round about the time the sugar from the milkshakes hit her system. And then there were two banshees. And puppet shows. And dress-up. And dances. And a lot of pelting around saying, "Aaaaaahhhhhhh!"

Par for the course, you'd say. Except that we're shy people and so, for all her bluster, is the Spills. She's also markedly in her own little universe a lot of the time, as far as other kids are concerned (for example, her theory about how the Christmas turkey was killed is that it was hung on a wooden cross). And Sarah's lovely family has reached out to us (they took us all to a movie yesterday), and I am feeling decidedly grateful toward them for that. They are decent, intelligent, balanced, funny people, and they want my kid to be their child's friend. It warms my heart to see two girls play as crazily as these two did today.

Makes me look toward 2008 with the hope that we will have many more days like today.

The Big Day

Well, the long-anticipated day has come and gone, the wreckage was strewn all over the living room and is now partially contained. The kid's enthusiasm for the season seems to be continuing unabated, only now it has nowhere to direct itself, kind of like a hurricane on a bender with no logical path.

Maybe other parents can relate. Today, the day after Christmas, we've had hours full of perpetual motion, a small person pretending to run into walls, rude variations on Christmas carols ("'Come,' they told me, bum bum bum bum bum," followed by hysterical giggles), and any number of characters, ranging from a mysterious guy named "Teasy the Germ," to a variety of princess/evil stepmother figures. We haven't had tears--yet. But we had the most annoying dinner ever, watching small hands try to make sushi rolls out of stuffing and green beans and then show them to people.

I guess this is our first taste of the post-Christmas burnout. Last year she was too young to anticipate it all; she knew it was coming because we kept telling her, but she didn't particularly have anything to compare it to and didn't miss it much when it was gone. She liked the gifts though. This year, she has been on a slow build since around Remembrance Day, and she's all dressed up today (literally, in a whole slew of fine creations) but with nowhere to go.

On Christmas Eve, I got the first big sign that it was going to be different this year. At bedtime, I think she began to consider the spookiness of the idea that a kind of elemental wood-fairy was going to come down the chimney and invade her home. She got quite quiet about it all, and a little nervous, and went to bed with very little argument. I think, honestly, she didn't want to come face-to-face with the Claus, didn't quite want to know what was out there in the dark. The flipside of Santa is the Boogieman. And that was the sign that she was weighing it all, taking it all in. (Made me love her quite a lot, my sensitive and thoughtful girl.)

Christmas morning continued the trend. She was quite tentative, taking it all in, clearly awed that He Had Come and had even brought her a rescue pet. But she rallied, oh yes indeed she did. By the end of the first hour, she was a pro. And knew she liked it. And wanted it to Go On and On and On and On and On.

Only, today is the day after Christmas. I wonder when the hurricane will blow itself out??

Brand New Experience

Well, we took the mighty Spills to her very first movie today! After reading a gazillion reviews, and weighing the pros and cons, we took her to see Enchanted. And we all loved it! I prepped her for it by telling her virtually the entire plot in detail (leaving out the ending, but asking her to predict what she thought it would be...). She probably annoyed everyone around us by whispering, "Is this the man she's going to go and live with?" or, "When is the mean queen going to come to New York City? When is she going to turn into a dragon?"

She was impressed by everything, starting with the model of the aliens in their flying saucer, hanging from the ceiling of the theatre's lobby. She enjoyed the coming attractions, although she kept whispering dismissively to me, "ADS--they're trying to sell us stuff" (that's what we do at home whenever there is an advertisement on TV). She thought it was a brilliant idea to actually share pop and popcorn during the movie. She's only had pop about three times in her life. And she adored the songs, the New York City setting (she has an obsessive thing about New York City, although she's never actually been there), the chipmunk, and everything. At one point, when it got a bit scary, I leaned over to her and whispered, "Ooh, I think I'm getting a little scared."

"Oh, Mommy," she said, "I'm not scared at all. Only my foot is scared. See? It's shaking." And it was.

Since we've been home, she's treated us to the entire plot several times over again, dressed in a princess outfit with a tiara. Periodically she hurls herself down on the floor and shouts, "Oh, I've been poisoned! I need true love's kiss!" Then her father or I give her a kiss, and she springs back to life.

It's mandatory for the audience to pay attention during these living room performances; when I fell asleep at one point, I awoke to an audio tape being partially inserted into my mouth, and the stern words, "Mommy, I love you. Stay awake."

The Big Picture

I think today had a definite theme to it, and it's only starting to reveal itself to me now.

First, there was my student who pulled off an A+ on his math retest, after having failed the first test. As I handed it back to him, I said to him privately, "Well, I think we've learned that there are some battles worth fighting and some battles you ignore. For example, I am not even noticing all of the scribbles on the front of your notebook there, and I have totally missed the fact that that pile of stuff just fell out of your desk." I tactfully stopped short of also pointing out how he had knocked over our Christmas tree earlier in the day. "Because YOU JUST GOT AN A+, MISTER. That's the battle worth fighting. Now - do you think we won or lost that battle?"

"We won it," he said. And the look on his face was priceless.

Then there was the student who got a D- on this same test. He too failed the first test. He tried his hardest. His D- was at least worth the other guy's A+. He sobbed his eyes out, heartbroken. I sat beside him and fed him chocolate kisses and told him how wonderful he was (because he is). I said to him, "I know something about what you will be like when you're eighty."

"What?" he said.

"You won't be thinking about this test."

He was somewhat interested in this argument, I could tell. So I pressed on. "I also know something about what you will be like when you're twelve."

"What?" he said.

"You won't be thinking about this test. Because do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Don't tell anyone," I said, "but THIS TEST DOESN'T MATTER AT ALL. It definitely doesn't affect the way I think about you. I thought you were great before and I still do. What matters is who you are, what kind of person you're growing up to be. That's the big picture. And you need to know I'm very proud of the person you're growing up to be." I said other stuff, but I'm not sure what. Mainly I wanted to obliterate that momentary horrible blip in his life and restore a little of the optimism that an eleven-year-old, goodhearted kid should have.

Two totally different big pictures. Both growing out of the very same situation, and both utterly valid.

And now for the "freaky" big picture moment of the day. It really happened, really, really, really.

I was driving home in the car thinking about my students and of course worrying about my young guy having an existential crisis about his self worth...and feeling rotten that I was indirectly the cause of it by giving him a crummy, horrible test. And I was wondering about my value on the planet and stuff like that.

And an ad came on the radio for Atlantic lobster--the first I think I've ever heard on the radio. And I said out loud, "Oooh, I'd LOVE to have lobster for supper!" And then I started laughing darkly at the thought of trying to convince my hubby to take us out for lobster (maybe after a ride on the space shuttle).

And I got home, and my husband said, "Look in the fridge."

And in the fridge was a bag. And in the bag were four lobsters, along with smoked salmon and
some sort of potato dish.

And I was staring at it, feeling awash in The Big Picture.

"It came to the door," he said. "Fed Ex brought it. I'm not sure who sent it to us. I think it might be my sister though."

True. It's TRUE. A freaky-deaky bona fide gift from the universe. Kind of like a little nudge along the road, to encourage forward movement, a message that it's the right direction even if it doesn't always feel like it. More big picture stuff.

....And Spilly's big picture moment? It came at supper. She was watching us eat the lobster (she did not care to partake), and asked, "Are lobsters dead?"

"These ones are," said my hubby.

"Were they alive before?"

"Well, they were. But you wouldn't want them alive now, because they'd be running around the table."

Spilly stared at the lobsters for awhile. Then she said, "I've never seen dead animals before."

My hubby and I looked at each other. The big picture. Should we tell her or not?

Finally my hubby said slowly, "What's that on your plate?"

She looked at it for awhile. Then she said in a grisly, Halloweeny kind of voice, "A...dead....chicken."

I waited for what I thought would be an outcry of disbelief and horror at the unfairness of the way things are.

But after a moment she said, "Let's all pretend to be dead chickens, Mommy." Which suggested to me that the big picture had not quite infiltrated her tiny, happy world. Either that or it had, and she had managed to put it into perspective quite happily.

...Which is a gift, it seems to me. Because I grapple with the big picture daily. And I can guarantee that I know something about what I'll be like when I'm eighty. I'll still be up to my shoulders in it, still grappling.

Fraying at the Seams

Everywhere I go, kids are starting to lose it.

At school, my students are barely coherent. I gave them a math test today that they'd had two weeks to study for; almost all of them failed it, except for the tiny handful who all got A+. I was forced to play the ogre with them and threaten to withhold all Friday Christmas festivities unless they all did brilliantly on the rewrite on Thursday. Even with this hanging over their heads, they were only briefly downcast. The "Riverdance" performance on my portable steps told a far cheerier tale. (I asked the kids to kick off all excess snow before entering the portable, and several of my boys shouted, "Riverdance!" and began doing a hideous parody of Irish stepdancing.)

At home, Spilly is as close to buggy as it's possible for a four-year-old to be. As I write this, she's dancing around her dad and shouting that he was once a nutcracker who wore orange pants, but that she broke the spell. She wants to know if we can get him some more orange pants. I've just said I'm sure we could find him a pair (Daddy is giving me a dark look). Oh, and now she is getting a banana to put on his head and is saying it's his crown. Earlier, she and I watched the beginning of "The Polar Express," which led to her leaping around pretending to be a pack of ecstatic children (or wolves or dingoes or whatever--it was hard to tell). My job was to pretend to be Tom Hanks giving everyone hot chocolate, shouting, "We got it!"

Repeat all together in a shaky voice: "How many more sleeps till the Big Day???"

Christmas and Chaos

Pardon me if it's difficult for me to concentrate right now....Spilly is dancing around my desk saying, "Ohhhh, ohhhh, Fernando!"

Well, my raspy voice and I were back at school today, and tonight was our Holiday Concert--a longish day, from 7:30 a.m. until 8:00 p.m. I help to lead the Primary-Junior Choir, so had to be present for their performance obviously but also to babysit them throughout the rest of the concert. It was somewhat nightmarish, as there were four grades crammed into the library with not as many teachers supervising as would have been ideal. It is amazing what being at school at nighttime with a pending performance will do to the average kid's adrenaline levels. My ears are ringing, and not just because of the bells used by the choir for "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

Spilly and her Daddy came to join us in the library, as she preferred the idea of hanging out with "the big kids" to actually sitting and watching the concert. As the big kids were all watching the movie "Cars," that's what she did too. And this viewing of "Cars" went better than the one in the car on the way to Halifax this summer, when she turned to me halfway through and said mournfully, "WHEN is this movie going to start?"

Glad to home. Glad for the silence. Going to have a glass of wine now.

The Power of Positive Thinking

When Spilly got up this morning, she said to me, "I think I'm very sick today. I have a sore throat and a cough and throw-uppy in the bed."

After a hurried check of her bed turned up nothing, I said, "I think you are okay. What do you want for breakfast?"

"But my foot is very sore," she said. "But it's getting better."

It didn't take long for the truth to come out, once we were sitting together over Cheerios. "I think I should stay home from school this afternoon," she said. "I think I should stay home with you."

You see, I have been home for the past couple of days with total laryngitis (the worst thing that can befall a teacher--or the best, depending on how tired and overworked you feel--because you are utterly unable to do your job effectively; it's kind of like a carpenter losing the use of his/her hands). Spilly has been enjoying having her Mommy all to herself each morning. Daddy has also been enjoying my enforced holiday, as it has meant that he could actually get some work done, in his online job as a technical writer. Most mornings he hangs out with Spilly, then gets to work when she heads off on the afternoon bus to junior kindergarten. Then he works well into the night (I am the afternoon-and-evening parent usually).

"Is that what you think?" I said, in my endearingly raspy way. "But what about storytime, and arts and crafts, and costumes, and counting, and everything good like that at junior kindergarten?"

"Ohhhhh," she said in the airy, can-do, sing-song way of a four-year-old. "I can do these things with you."

We had a lovely morning. We coloured a great picture of Elmo with hot chocolate. We identified which snowman pictures matched, and drew lines between them. We learned what "og" sounds like, and figured out a whole pile of words after that. We traced some "e's," making the pencil come out of the driveway and around the block. We danced to the Jingle Cats. We dressed up like the Easter Bunny. We wrote "Sanj" with fridge magnets (we didn't have another two "a's", unfortunately, and the "y" was too high for the Mighty Spills to reach, otherwise we could have spelt The Best Word in the World).

Periodically, Spilly said, "I have good news, Mommy. I am not going to school this afternoon."

And I would say, "I have good news too. You are going to school this afternoon."

"What if I ask Daddy, and he says yes I can stay home?"

"Daddy will not say that."

This went back and forth until the phone rang. It was Spilly's school. This next part is "no word of a lie," as my Maritime hubby would say. Honest. It really happened this morning.

The nice lady on the other end of the phone said, "This is just a courtesy call to see if you were aware that some of the buses north of here [well, she said the exact name of the area, but I figure I'll not broadcast it here] were cancelled this morning. So there will be no afternoon kindergarten today." My daughter's school is a country school, and entirely bussed by this particular busing company.

I said, "Oh, no, I didn't know that." (I didn't think until after I'd hung up to ask why they were canceled, what with the blue sky and all. There must have been some rotten weather early this morning at the time when the school board makes this kind of decision.)

I hung up the phone, and turned to the Raving Spills, who was busy coloring candy canes bright yellow.

I said, "Well. I have some news."

"What is it?"

"It's serious. You'd better sit down."

Looking very solemn and big-eyed, she did. Then she whispered, "What is it, Mommy?"

"That was your school." I said it sadly, as if the school had just died.

"What did they want?"

"Well. It appears that you have gotten your wish." I sat down on the floor beside her. "There. Is. No. School. This. Afternoon."

It took a second for it to sink in, and the eyes got even bigger, and then the shrieking started. "We can bake COOKIES, and make SQUARES, and do PAINTING, and make a SNOWMAN, and have STORIES....."

I wish I could say that the joy lasted and lasted. But it quickly turned into campaigning:

"I definitely do not need a nap today, because I'm a big girl."

Bathtime and Sanjaya

My four year old, Spilly, is having a conversation with Sanjaya Malakar while sitting in the bath tub. He is squeaking in a high falsetto, and so is she. From what I can tell, they are discussing her plastic cow, who is wearing a stretchy squid toy around its waist. Every so often, I can hear things being thrown around.

All right, so Sanjaya is not actually in the tub. But he might as well be, because he is certainly talking up a storm in there. Spilly has quite a thing for Sanjaya, after meeting him by accident last year around this time, in our living room, well after bedtime. She'd wanted to see what we were doing. We were watching American Idol, and as the evil fates would have it, Sanjaya was performing at the time.

She stood in awe, clutching her stuffed pets Monty and Ribbon, obviously wondering why we hadn't told her that someone so marvelously talented came on television after she went to bed at night. After that, we taped an episode for her and she watched him perform over and over again (without watching the judges' commentary, of course, which might have spoiled the magic). She also started talking to him, and he began talking back. And singing, and dancing in our hallway. And having outrageous adventures, all of which Spilly requested in her reading chair at night, when the lights were out, as the last ritualized step in the long road to bed.

From the point of view of parental peace, we know we shouldn't have taped that first episode. We also know that we probably should not have driven our kid six hours into the USA in order to watch Sanjaya perform live, and should definitely not have purchased the Sanjaya poster and fridge magnet that adorn our house. The toy guitar and microphone were a big mistake as well.

And now, almost a year later, we are still paying the price, because we share our house daily with Sanjaya. He also comes with us in the car and probably hangs out in Spilly's junior kindergarten class too. Well, he and Buddha, and the Beatles, who are also favourites.