According to our fridge, it's officially commencement season. Our eldest even got in on the action earlier this month and is now the proud owner of a preschool diploma. Open house invitation to follow.
Along with said diploma, her bright red two-pocket folder contained a progress report (seemingly the only skill she needs to master to officially be "kindergarten ready" is tying her shoes. Do kids really still wear shoes with laces?), a few worksheets her teacher must have thought we'd want for posterity and a long list of questions that you ask young kids for the sole purpose of prompting amusing responses.
For instance, C thinks a Happy Meal costs $25. She knows without question that I am 35 and my husband is 36, which is fortunate because she keeps me straight when I round up (most days I feel 135, so what's another few months?) or forget how old I am.
She wants to be a teacher and "maybe a mom" when she grows up, and it wouldn't surprise me if that's exactly how things played out. She definitely enjoys being in charge and seemingly loves the academic process.
If she had 100 legs she would walk with them (what else are you supposed to do with legs? Shave them?), and she claimed that she would "like it" if she had 100 sisters. I guess she's envisioning our house as a salon and spa, as she asked me last night when her baby sister would be old enough for them to give each other makeovers.
Except for the miscalculation on the Happy Meal, there was nothing exceedingly funny about any of C's responses. Until I got to page four and learned that my daughter fancies my husband a saint and me a socialite. Specifically:
"My dad likes to . . . help people."
"My mom likes to . . . go to dinner with her friends."
What?!? My jaw literally dropped when I read those phrases. Now, there's nothing inherently untrue about either statement. My husband, a teacher, coach and all around good guy, does like to help people (ahem, so do I.) And I do enjoy catching up with friends over dinner (double ahem, he also enjoys hanging out with grown-ups every now and then.) However, those words in isolation on the funny questions paper imply that he is selfless and I am selfish.
I tried not to read more into her response than was there. Just a few weeks before the preschool graduation packet was compiled, I went to Boulder for a few days with my best college girlfriends, two of whom I also meet for dinner, oh, once a quarter if we're lucky. The weekend trips occur every 730 days.
C was miffed that she didn't get to join me on my girls' trip, especially since she thought that, as a girl, she qualified for the outing. Perhaps reiterating how important it is for grown-ups to have play dates stuck with her and manifested itself on the funny questions paper.
Or maybe I'm doing something wrong. Maybe I'm not showing the kids how much I enjoy playing Octonauts and chasing them around the yard while toting their 17-pound sister in my arms. Perhaps I should temper my enthusiasm when I'm heading out for an adults-only evening (perhaps if they happened more frequently I wouldn't be so daggone ecstatic when they did) and pour more into the kids.
Nah. I just need to save that paper and bring it out of the vault when her daughter accuses her of being a lady who lunches.
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