This morning, as I was eating my breakfast and listening to Leila chatter to herself (and perhaps me too) while she brushed her teeth, the peace was broken with a startled cry. All of a sudden she came running from the bathroom, panicked and mouth bloodied.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know this could happen!”
In a split second I went from trying to figure out how she silently smashed her face (there was no crash) to realizing she’d lost her first tooth. It took a few minutes of rinsing and a cool cloth on her tender gum, but eventually she transitioned from terrified to ecstatic. Just yesterday she was asking me when she’d lose her first tooth, and I was assuring her it would happen eventually.
I didn’t even know her sweet tooth was loose, and this morning was one of the few times that I felt I truly failed as a parent. It helped when I confessed my ignorance to her teacher, and she smiled and said, “That sounds like Leila.” When I was younger my preschool teacher said, “You have to really want to know the answer to a question before you ask Saba.” It seems my daughter is my exact opposite.
She could not wait to tell everyone she knew, so I suppose we are not that different. On the way to school Leila Face-timed with her grandparents to share the amazing news, and she wished we could be to school in “one second” so she could immediately tell her friends and teachers.
As for the tooth, we think it was lost to our plumbing system. I suggested Leila draw a picture with a brief note explaining the situation to leave for the tooth fairy. Of course I completely forgot that plan until after prayers were done. Thankfully the momentous milestone seems to be reward enough for our little one.
Hello kindergarten! After a summer that already felt like it would never end, followed by a two-week delay on our particular school’s opening (some Houston kids have to wait even longer…) I was ready for the first day of school! Well, in my mind I was ready. In reality, despite a 5:45am alarm and a pretty efficient morning, I was snappy and anxious about getting to school on time and remembering all the things. And by the time we got into the car 14 minutes after I’d planned and it wouldn’t start I was downright frazzled. And then Allen Parkway was closed and I was sure I’d need to just leave my car and run my child through the school doors. And then a MOVING TRUCK perfectly blocked me from being able to park my car in usually fail-safe/uncrowded area of parking. And I put my car in park, turned on my hazards, and practically threw my five-year-old onto the sidewalk and told her she’d have to get started walking to school on her own. But then a barely penetrable space opened up and I rammed through and bonked a garbage can and grabbed her backpack and nap mat and power walked her past the doting parents taking photos, right through the crowded front doors and on to her classroom. Without a hug, or barely a good-bye. And then I walked right back to the car to haul the class snacks back to the room. And I took a moment to actually pause and give her a hug. And she was already beaming. The glow of kindergarten had already descended up on her sweet face.
This afternoon I’ll let her stay and play, and tomorrow I’ll give her the epic, early-to-school, unhurried morning she deserves. For now, I already saw her delight and got an report that she was having fun on the playground. And she got to school on time, with a lunch, and nap mat, and snacks for the whole class, and show-and-tell, wearing her new favorite shirt. It’s more imperfect than I imagined, but I’ll take our start to kindergarten.
“I’m thinking about a picture of all. Like colored leaves! Like what I think is the REAL fall!”
Leila: “Look that baby’s sleeping in a cage.” Mommy: “That’s a crib.”
At a store, “I wonder why they have Halloween stuff on. It’s funny because it’s not even close.”
“I did a magic show. But I didn’t show. I telled it!”
Discussing the different piano keys, “There’s a medium one that can play medium. A dark one that can play scary, loud music. And a soft one.”
While dancing around the silent living room, “I have the music in my head.”