Some Warmth amid the Cold

It was the mother of all rotten drives home tonight. The snow hit out of nowhere, and the roads got greasy beyond all expectations. Even the tailgaters backed off. And the huge Mac trucks crawled along, trying to stay in their lane. There's nothing more fun than wondering if the mac truck coming toward you is completely in control or not.

And I should have felt absolutely horrible. But, you know, I've been nursing a very happy little secret for a couple of days, and it has really helped to colour the bleak world around me.

And what is that secret, you ask? You'll never guess. Okay, I'll tell you. This week, completely out of the blue, I received a couple of very special emails. And they came from someone I never expected in a million years to be emailing me. And who do you think it was?

Sanjaya's mother!!!

And I am touched beyond words at the kindness she has shown toward my Spilly. The child has been on a bender ever since. And so have I, feeling like I'm in the twilight zone. I really can honestly say I never expected to be typing, "So how's Sanjaya doing these days?" and to be receiving an answer...

Spilly is particularly delighted at the fact that "Sanjaya's Mommy" mentioned she would like to hear Spilly sing. Spills' immediate can-do response was, "Then let's make a recording for her RIGHT AWAY."

"Maybe later," I said.

A lot later.

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.

The Other Side of the Fence

Spilly is getting a little award in her school assembly tomorrow. It's for "showing responsibility." She doesn't know. Her teacher sent us a note home last week telling us about it, inviting us, and asking us not to tell her.

It's funny--I've been giving out awards like these for years. And I've always enjoyed seeing parents get sentimental about them, had fun watching them tape the whole thing for posterity. But I don't think I've ever really understood how they felt. I would give anything to be able to be there tomorrow. I know I'd get all mushy and teary, seeing my own little crazy one walk up to the front of the student body and be given a certificate that represents something I love to think she possesses in her own four-year-old way.

I've gone back and forth in my mind about ditching school for the day so I could be there. I almost called in sick this evening. But, ironically enough, I have to give out my own certificates tomorrow. Mine are for "showing care for your school environment." They're being given to kids who haven't had a lot of experience at getting certificates, kids who have never found school easy but are amazing citizens of the classroom. Their parents were given cards earlier in the week, inviting them. I have no doubt they'll be sitting in the audience tomorrow, getting all mushy and teary, proud of their own babies.

Sometimes as a teacher-parent, it's a very tough call. There are no first-day-of-school rituals with your own one, because you're providing part of that ritual for other people's little ones. You have to miss assemblies. On the other hand, you have a unique perspective on the experiences your child will have in her classroom. Maybe you're uniquely ready to provide a sympathetic ear, the right kind of inspiration when needed. And maybe that's a kind of compensation.

Highlights of the Weekend

It was my birthday on Sunday, and in typical style our family celebrated most of the weekend.

On Saturday morning, Spilly presented me with some beautiful yellow flowers she had picked out (yellow is my favourite colour). She says that they are sunflowers, although I believe they are a bit too small and delicate for that. They are living in the dining room in a vase.

She and her Daddy took me out to a lovely restaurant on Saturday night. There Spilly tasted her first mussels, which caused her to retch repeatedly and nearly throw up, just at the moment when the waiter came to ask, "How is everything?"

We all went skating on Sunday morning at an indoor arena. Spills began skating two weeks ago (something my back still remembers not-so-fondly), and has made quite a bit of progress in fourteen days. The backyard rink has given her a place to practise. Yesterday she and her Daddy (who also basically started skating a couple of weeks ago) made it all around the arena together, hand in hand. Spills says she is going to be a hockey player.

We had lunch with our friends at Swiss Chalet, where Spilly announced that she planned to marry Robbie but have Simon as her boyfriend too. A very liberated perspective, I think. Not sure where Sanjaya fits into that scenario.

We had tomato soup and cake for supper, in the most remarkably decorated dining room imaginable. Spills even insisted upon a Dora tablecloth to celebrate my step closer to death. On the wall was a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game, and there were streamers and balloons.

And to cap it all off, the Oscars were on that evening, so Spills and I watched the fancy dresses, etc., until it was time for her to go to bed.

A good time, all around!

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."

The After-School Joy of it All

So I arrived home after a long teaching day followed by a slog through report cards. They're due next week. The pressure's on.

I was greeted at the door by a frenetic Grassy the Ant. Grassy said in a high falsetto, "I'm Grassy the Ant! I've made a traffic light! Come and see!"

Sure enough, a large play dough traffic light was squished onto the wall, with all the right colours in all the right places. Clear evidence that the energy was a-scattered.

"Oh!" I said. "That's a traffic light, all right."

We managed to remove the play dough and tidy up slightly, and then Grassy and Mommy read together and began to watch a bit of Alice in Wonderland. Mommy actually began to unwind from her day.

Then Grassy was unexpectedly replaced by Child From Hades, who suddenly realized that when she hadn't been looking, Daddy had set the table. Apparently this had been the divine ordained right of CFH, although nobody is sure exactly when the honour was bestowed upon her from on high.

She began by shouting with terrible outrage, "You said I COULD DO IT!" Then she stamped her little self into the dining room and began forcibly removing all of the silverware. I went into the kitchen at this point. The way I saw it, if she wanted to remove everything and replace it, that was fine.

And it would have been fine, had she actually replaced everything. Instead, she meticulously put it all away in the silverware drawer, grumbling and growling all the while. Then she closed the drawer.

"So," I said after a minute. "Are you planning to set the table?"

"We....ll," she said. "Now I don't think I want to set it anymore."

So I began to give her a lecture about how you can't take everything off the table and put it in the drawer and not replace it.

Midway through, she decided she would set the table.

"Good," I said. "I'll be back in a bit."

I went out to the living room and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally I went back into the kitchen. Spilly was fingering all of the forks peacefully.

"Are you going to set the table?" I said.

"Yes!" She jumped. Apparently she had been lost in thought. She began grabbing silverware again. In the meantime, I poured milk for everyone, and put it out on the table (Spills is not allowed to carry the glasses around).

Next thing I knew, from the kitchen I could hear grunting sounds, as if someone was lugging something cumbersome.

"What are you doing?" I called.

No answer.

Out to the dining room I went. There she was dragging glasses off the table, liquid sloshing here and there, a mulish expression on her face.

"You are spilling the milk!"

Daddy showed up at this point, less than satisfied. Turns out, good chunks of his day with Spills had been less than satisfying--tantrums over zippers, refusal to put on outer clothing, etc.

Let's just say the whole thing ended in tears. And words. And more tears. Tears throughout dinner. The tears of a tired and frustrated small person, who would like to be a good deal more autonomous than she is. And who had a supply teacher today and sat through a boring RRSP meeting at the bank. And whose Mommy came home late because she was wrestling with report cards.

We worked it all out during dinner. And at last Spilly's tears dried, and she became philosophical.

"Mommy, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

"Well," I said. "I wanted to be a kindergarten teacher, when I was about your age."

"And you AREN'T."

"Well, I'm a grade six teacher. And I wanted to write a book, and I did. And I wanted a little girl exactly like you."

"And you got me!" she said with great satisfaction.

"And I wanted to marry someone like Daddy, and I did."

After awhile she said, "Mommy, I'm not going to work when I grow up."

"Really?" I said. "What are you planning to do?"

"I'm going to stay at home and look after you."

And suddenly the day seemed a lot less dark and a lot less gruelling.