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Today is picture day. Right about now Ryley is posing for his picture, since Kindergardners go first. I hope that he will smile his big toothy grin, even though he is not wearing his beloved tie.
Ryley has always loved this particular tie–a navy blue clip-on model. He wore it during his preschool Christmas program two years running and he has worn it on Easter. If Ryley senses that a day is special in any way, he digs his tie out of the toy box, shoe box, from under his bed, from wherever a little boy stashes his treasures, and clips it on, proudly. Today was a tie-day, to Ryley.
To mommy, it wasn’t. Here I sit second-guessing myself, though. What harm would it have done? I suppose that I battle the urge to send my kids off to school looking like Mr. and Miss Elementary School, especially on picture day. I can’t help it!
Thankfully, though, I had wisdom enough to let him wear his tie around the house this morning before school. I took a picture–this was a happy compromise.
I will most likely hang Ryley’s official kindergarten picture on the wall and distribute it to grandparents. But this picture captures Ryley as Kindergartner much more than any school photo ever could–he is still little enough to go wild over a navy blue, polyester, wrinkled, dusty, 8-inch long, clip-on piece of neck-fashion. That little scrap of fabric makes him feel so big! It doesn’t take much, and I love that.
Yesterday I went clothes shopping, which is finally enjoyable now that all that my baby-weight X 5 is gone. I wanted a new pair of jeans and anything else I picked up would be a fun bonus.
The seven of us headed to Belmar, a new outdoorsy-concept mall, where a New York & Co is located. I had a coupon for 30% off my entire purchase, so I was giddy. Lee and the kids stayed outside so that I could shop like a normal person who isn’t yelling “Sammy, stop lifting the mannequin’s skirt!”
I found a pair of jeans that fit well. But they had a dowdiness to them that didn’t fit my “cool mommy” image (ha!). So I looked at the displays of several different styles of jeans and the giant posters of models wearing the jeans–they all looked like they were having a carefree blast and I wanted that too. So I chose the “Downtown Flare Stretch” jeans that features a “flared leg, slimmer fit through hip and thigh, and contoured waist”. I did not try them on.
This morning, the time came to face the day and I thought hey, I will wear my new cool-mommy jeans. I put them on and they felt okay. A little different than any other pants I own. Sorta low, but I figured it would be okay as long as I chose my shirt wisely. I went on with the routine, getting kids ready for school. I did notice, though, that I was battling the urge to constantly hike them up and I began to question my Downtown jeans. Did my jeans have my best interests at heart? Would they betray me? Only time would tell…
I decided to ask my one and only girl (age 7) for her opinion–“Hey Aidan, do you like my new jeans?” She looked me up and down and said, “well…they go all the way down to your shoes…”
Soon it was time to herd the kids to the minivan. Thankfully the bigger kids can handle their booster seats and seatbelts. But Tommy (age 2.5) sits in the back row, center, of the minivan and I have to strap him in. As I hoisted myself into the van and bent over to buckle him, I felt the crisp breeze of a golden October morning caressing extreme lower back…my extreme “lower back”…
But I had to plow ahead and be brave–very, very brave and remember to remain fully upright at all times. It made the preschool drop-off hug awkward and stiff, and it made the trip to the grocery store a nightmare. I need to start buying better brands–national brands that can afford placing their products on the mid to upper level shelves. Getting the Kroger-brand Snoopy fruit snacks from the bottom shelf was better than any yoga class. Putting the groceries and the little guys back in their carseats bordered on the obscene.
Yet here I sit, still wearing my Downtown jeans. Feeling “cool” in more ways than one. It is amazing how many goosebumps pop up on the extreme lower back…
Last night at our church’s marriage study group, one of the other couples told me that they had spent the last four weeks thinking about something I had said the last time we met. I thought, gosh, I must have important spiritual insight!
No, it wasn’t that. I am no Mother Theresa or even Tammy Faye. Weeks ago I had told the group that I was glad to be there because it was nice to have adult conversation. That particular day I had actually told Sammy (age 4) that “cheese is not a toy!” My point was that I spent my days saying phrases that should never have to be uttered, ever. Like “cheese is not a toy!” The other couple got a chuckle out of the phrase and had to let me know.
Then I started thinking. Was “cheese is not a toy!” a lie? The day in question Sammy had been wrapping his Thomas the Tank Engine trains in slices of American cheese. Since American cheese is so malleable, it was only natural that he would decide that his little wooden trains needed to be rolled up like burritos in orange faux dairy. To make the cheese stick, he squeezed the trains in his dirty little mitts. Percy, normally green, became orange, as did the formerly blue Gordon and the bright red James. But he didn’t stop there!
He laid out more pieces of cheese on the end table in the living room and drove the engines’ plastic wheels through the slices, carving little tracks, blazing little trails. Cheese got bunched up around the wheels and ground into the grain of the wood. I used a spatula to scrape the cheese off the table and the engines got a bath.
Just when I thought that Cheese Day was drawing to a close, Sammy tore several pieces into small squares and applied them to his face. I hunted for the digital camera, only to discover dead batteries. The cheese dried rapidly and began to fall off. I got the batteries changed and thought about recreating the event by personally sticking cheese back onto his face. That seemed like a “bad mommy” kind of thing, though. I could picture him telling his preschool teacher that “mommy smashes cheese on my face”, so the photo op came and left.
I realized last night that maybe Sammy was a genius. He had a point. Anything could be a toy…yes, anything. American cheese is non-toxic (some may disagree), a sunny color, and has sort of a funky smell (but so do kids). It is basically dairy-based Play-doh.
This Christmas, cheese in everyone’s stockings!
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