Hungry ducks, not so hungry everyone else

We were on our way to feed ducks Sunday afternoon when there was an unpleasant gurgling sound from the back. "Uh, K spit," M commented nervously.

And so began our week with the stomach flu.

On the plus side, we're saving a lot of money on groceries, since we're mostly living on white bread, applesauce, and jello (even those who haven't yet got sick, because it's only a matter of time that what goes in will all come out). Then again, we're spending a lot of extra money on endless loads of laundry.

I keep thinking we'll get back to those ducks, but that requires the kids to reliably keep things in at all ends and me to be able to walk more than three feet without faltering. All of this sounds like a job for next Sunday.

The windup of a really good bath

B: Who do you want to rinse you off: cup, lion, or duck?
M: Lion and duck.
B: Okay (awkwardly uses both animal washcloths for the final rinse). Now which towel do you want to use?
M: Lion and duck.
B: You want both towels?
M: Yeah.
B: Which one do you want first?
M: Lion, then duck. This is gonna be good. This is gonna be really good.

Ducks to the... oh, nevermind

We're under unofficial lock down here as both kids waffle between fevers, so I had to think of an outdoor activity without a lot of interlopers. What better place to go than our duck pond, the one by the library where no one ever goes?

Except today, when there was a mom and daughter there, saturating the less than hungry ducks (it was noontime, and hot) with white bread. And there I was, corralling M as he littered the ground with food and K as she tried to quack up a conversation, my irritation growing. How could they pick today of all days to be here, right now, sucking the life from the one event that was supposed to make our day of sickness and misery a little brighter?

But here's the kicker: they were feeding the ducks white bread. While I, on the other hand, had wholesome cracked corn. Who really belonged, eh?

Yes, I stooped to duck diet condescension, the mother who once copped to feeding them Kix. That's really precious, isn't it?

I can chalk all this up to the fact that was both peed and vomited on last night, and that I'm running on less than three hours of sleep, and that I really love ducks. But yeah, I still feel badly.

Preschools

That's my one-word explanation for why I've neglected my blog. Preschools. It seems like every waking moment of my life had been devoted to researching, calling, visiting, or pondering M's preschool possibilities. And I wasn't even going to send him to preschool next year until I realized that it might be good for him to have a little more time away from me. So the quest began, rampant and unrelenting and unsatisfying too, since nothing was good enough. And then...

I was watching M this morning at his final soccer class. Yes, they have soccer for two-year-olds. Yes, it's a bit like herding ducks. Still, they have fun, and it's a different gross motor activity for us. At the end of his class, the coach asked all the kids to sit down with their hands on their heads. A few minutes passed (envision ducks again) and I noticed that only M was doing as asked. Then the coach asked them to come up one at a time, M first. He came up, sat, and put his hands on his head. The rest of the kids jumped up too, even though they were still supposed to wait. We got it all sorted out--meaning M stood up and the rest sat down--and he stood there politely receiving his medal, stamp, and high-five. Then he bowed out of the way for the rest of the ducks--er, kids.

So what this have to do with preschools? Well, as I watched him, I realized that he had grown into a little boy without my even realizing it. He could follow instructions--someone else's instructions--and behave well with others. Really, he was doing fantastic for an age so similar to Cheerio-eating, wing-flapping, head-dunking waterfowl (this is my way of being cute with my duck analogy, but I guess when you feel you must start explaining it, the analogy has flown south). How did this happen? How could I possibly find a school that continues him on this path of inadvertant success? How did all this happen without such a school?

Then it dawned on me: he is in such a school. He gets constant, individualized attention. His skills are met regularly with difficulty to match and push their growth. He gets love, encouragement, and education from a person he trusts to lead him in these areas: me! I am doing something right after all!

I know--what does this have to do with preschools??? Okay, I have spent so much time trying to find that preschool, one just like the one I now realize he's already been since he was born. But maybe that's not the point. After all, wouldn't I just keep him here if that was what I was really looking for? So maybe what M needs now is something slightly imperfect. It's not that I don't want him in the best preschool I can find, because I do, but there won't be any perfect preschool. And that's okay. It might be good for him to not have constant, individualized attention. It might be good for him to have to find his own way instead. It might be good for him to learn that he can trust himself in the same way that he trusts me. It won't be perfect, but thank goodness that we don't always need perfection.

Let it go, let it go, let it go

Today, much to my surprise, has been a great day. I know, why so surprised? Because Tuesdays of late have been royally lousy, starting with an gym class where we don't do gym (let me clarify: the rest of the class does gym while we sit on the side because M gets the choice between participating and sitting quietly until class is over, the latter of which has become his standby) and a speech therapy appointment where we don't do speech (again, he can talk, if only he wanted to). In between I rush madly to run errands while K cries in her car seat and M whines along with her. Need I go on?

But today I did something that I--anal, type A, multitasker galore that I am--rarely do. I let it go. I let it go. The very repetition of that phrase brings a sense of peace to my weary soul. When M didn't want to do what the teacher asked in gym, we found something else fun to do instead. When I was hot, I stopped for a big drink even though it meant a little extra time and driving. When I could have been rushing around running errands, we went to the duck pond and library instead. At lunch, when M got up after a half chicken nugget, I just wrapped up the plate and put it in the fridge for later. Even now, the house is a mess as I was half-through with six projects (there's that pesky multitasking for you) when K woke up unexpectedly, and I settled down with her as it was the only way I could get her to continue her much-needed nap. When all those nagging little thoughts about rules, efficiency, and do-it-all duties reared their ugly heads today, I, for whatever reason, swept them aside. You know what? Everyone seemed more at peace than we have in a while. In the end, it just didn't feel like the sweep-it-under-the-rug failure that I'd always envisioned. It felt like cleaning out a very dusty room, where I now have shiny floors and crystal windows and an open space in which to sit, rest, and breathe.

I like this room. I know I won't stay here forever, but I hope I will remember this feeling, maybe even encourage someone else out there to find a equivalent room of one's own, and to visit it often enough that even time there's a little less dust, a little less to sweep away. Who couldn't do with a little less cleaning anyway?

Labels, etc.

I'm going to have to get into labels, because I'm starting a list of things things that moms should know before giving birth. Today's query? What do ducks eat? I certainly hope Kix and Chex both fall on that list, because that's what I had in the car and so that's what the ducks ate, but I'm sort of worried that we'll go back next week and find them all dead, and then I'll have to explain duck-death to a traumatized toddler who will continue to sign "Ducks Eat" long after I'm finished.

For the record, the title issue reared its ugly head again last night and I've decided to give myself a one month probation before I can consider another change. I know, how can a miscellaneous title cause me grief? Oh, maybe it's too long, or a cop-out, or too quick a solution. The whole thing prompted me to look up "neurotic" just to make sure I wasn't using it inappropriately: "a person suffering from a relatively mild personality disorder typified by excessive anxiety or indecision and a degree of social or interpersonal maladjustment" (dictionary.reference.com). Sounds appropriate to me.