Tempest On Time

The preschool director warned us. 

"Your children might be fine at drop-off now," she said that first day. "But don't be surprised if they have separation issues later. We typically see it around two weeks."

The silver lining in the gut-wrenching, heaving sobs this morning then: my child is punctual.

I saw the meltdown coming like a train screaming down the tracks. 

Miss "I'm A Big Girl I Can Do It Myself" wanted me to get her snack bag from her backpack. Miss "I Don't Need Any Help" insisted that I put the pack in her cubby.

  [chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga]

"Stay with me," Josehpine said as I started to give kisses and farewells. "Stay with me. Stay with me."

  [chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga]

Her voice quivered and quaked and she wrapped her arm around my leg. 

[CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA!]

She followed me across the class. Another little girl was wailing, wailing, wailing. The cries felt so loud my eye sockets would burst. Her cries fed the drama unfolding in our own corner of the room. 

"Don't leave," Josephine said. "Stay with me."

[CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHOO-CHOOOOO!]

And then the girl who pretends to be a fairy princess and flit about the room twirling her skirts turned into a wild tiger backed into a corner. She clawed at my leg, dug her nails so deep into my thighs she reached bone and growled. 

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!"

I detangled myself from her arms, handed her to the teacher and walked away as quickly as I could. Just rip the Band-Aid off, right?

I rounded the corner and stopped just outside the door where I bent over and struggled to catch my breath. 

Oh my God. 

I stood there for five minutes at least, maybe more, and could hear her furious roar. 

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!"

My heart fell out of my chest this morning and seems lodged somewhere in my belly.  Used to be, that parents complained wild tantrums and angry outbursts marked the Terrible Twos. A friend told me recently, though, that "Three is the new Two."

Josephine celebrated her third birthday yesterday. 

Like I said, she's nothing if not punctual. 

My Volcano

The toddler volcano exploded again this morning but instead of lava it left piles of golden brown ringlets in its wake. 

These ringlets. 

For the second day in a row, Josephine insisted on a sleeveless winter dress. And I insisted that she wear a shirt beneath it. The days are chilly now and she complains of being cold when she bounds to the porch in summer dresses. 

Crying about the dress - and the injustice of wearing a shirt - turned into tears over yogurt versus apple sauce. 

She was determined to make decisions of her own and fighting against the ones being thrust upon her. 

Once Esme left for school, we managed to settle the demons. She picked an outfit and remarked proudly that with her shirt beneath a dress it looked as if she had a uniform. Just like her big sister. 

She went off to pick a bow for her hair and I sat at the table to eat my breakfast and take a quick look at a story in the paper. Interestingly, it was a tearjerker about parents dropping their kids off at college and the heartbreak of seeing them enter a new stage of life. 

Josephine came back from the bedroom beaming. She told me she styled her own hair and put in her own bows. 

She and Esme frequently "comb" their own hair and decorate it themselves with comical results. 

But today, I looked and looked and couldn't find any bows. Not even hidden beneath her mountain of curls. 

Then I noticed something curious: one long curl hanging about six inches below the others. I wondered whether Kent put extra conditioner in Josephine's hair last night and deflated that particular ringlet. I worked through scenarios quickly the way someone about to die sees their life play before their eyes.

As her confident smile began to crack, I realized almost instantly that OH MY GOD SHE CUT HER HAIR!

And when she saw that I knew what she knew the volcano erupted. 

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! "

I pulled the curl and others fell. I went to Esme's room and saw the scissors on the bookshelf. And more curls on the floor. I went back to the front room where she had buried her head in a chair. And pulled more hair. 

I was silent all this time. I wasn't angry but rather horrified. Not at the loss of her ringlets but at the torment that made her do it. I felt such sorrow for her pain. I tried to hug her. She wanted nothing of it. She arched her back and screamed. 

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! "

I walked away and let her find her own calm. And she did, after a time. 

We combed her hair (even more fell out).

 

She picked a bright green bow with spirals. She told me she had tried to get the bows from Esme's room but couldn't. 

Esme, seeking her own independence these days, has created a kind of curio cabinet on her bookshelf. She stands at the shelf for long stretches coloring and cutting. She uses bits of tape to post pictures and drawings and knickknacks from school. She decorated a jam jar with her name and filled it with bows. She lined up bird feathers, dried glue balls, rocks, glass, junk.

 

Esme guards the shelf and her possessions on it. Like little sisters everywhere, throughout time, Josephine covets the treasures. So, this morning she tried to get into the bow jar and couldn't. She cut her hair in frustration? anger? rage?

Want to know what finally made her bounce with happiness again? We found a jar and filled it with bows. Lots of them. Colorful ones. Sparkly ones. And walked around her room to let her find a place to store them. She settled on the tippy top of her bookshelf. Far away from everyone. 

"I'm gonna show Nona my jar," she said, talking about her grandmother and full of her spirit again. 

A few minutes later, she sat on a chair in her room and finally let me hug her. 

"I love Josephine," I sang. "I love Josephine. I love Josephine. I love her yes I do."

She smiled and pushed away a few inches, just enough to look directly into my eyes. 

"Mama, I'm a wild thing who eats you up!"

From the inside out, little woman. From the inside out.

Seventy-Five Degrees & Sunny

Our porch 

A discovery

The flavors

 

A treat

 

A memory

A mother going upside down

 A child climbing, another crawling, a father watching

A sister laughing.

On an unhurried weekend at the end of summer.

Dishwasher Dance

Delivery Day #3 came, then went. Without the delivery of my new dishwasher. 

Alas, I am no Dooce.

We still have the rotting corpse of the old machine, though I tamed the stench with half a box of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda. 

Moving on to last resorts, we attempted a dance to the dishwasher gods.

Behold!

Dishwasher Dance from Dana Damico on Vimeo.

Now, does anyone else think Tobias might be the one who broke the original machine? Did you see how he attacked the camera?

"Get Your Goddess On"

I was my usual morning mess when I walked to the coffee shop at the crack of dawn today -- wild bed head, wrinkled clothes, bleary eyes. I think I may have actually brushed my teeth.

As I tied Uma's leash round a pole, I spied a coffee shop regular sitting at an outdoor table. We traded hellos. I followed with the obligatory "How are you?" and expected a variation of "Ok, Good, Great."

What I got instead was this: "I am divinely wonderful."

Now that will get your attention. 

I actually stood up from where I was working the leash and peered over the flower planter to get a better look. I laughed and told her I hadn't heard that one before. 

I see this woman nearly every morning. In pouring rain, snow, terrible heat. She's one of a handful of folks who drip into our neighborhood coffee house at the same time. We're the 7 o'clock crew. Or thereabouts. 

I imagine there's an entirely different cast of misfits who frequent the joint at 7:30. And another wave that sweeps in half an hour later. On and on, throughout the day.

Anyway, this woman walks with her husband and usually their small dog too. They carry their own travel mugs. She's ridiculously beautiful: lean, fit, lovely gray hair, a happy, healthy face. 

Like the others in my "morning crew," I don't know her story. Not really. 

Her name is Bobbie. I don't even know how to spell it. Don't know if it's her given name or a nickname. She has a daughter. In college, I think. She likes Obama. She may work on the Hill. She once taught aerobics and got out of a ticket by batting her eyelashes at a cop. These are the details I've gleaned over short conversations to and from the shop in and out of seasons. 

Her husband is a looker too. My favorite barista calls him Hans Solo. 

I loved her answer but wondered whether she was being ironic. "Are you serious?" I asked. I mean, how often have you encountered someone who said they were divinely wonderful.... and pronounced it in the most delicious way possible?

"Di-VIIIIIINE-ly"

She was in fact absolutely serious, she said. She told me that she believes we create our own destiny.

"You are a goddess," she told me as I went in for my drink. "Walk in your goddess glory."

I walked in about two feet taller. Smiling insanely. I told her husband what she said and he offered this: "She hasn't even had her coffee yet."

When I came back out, she was still fired up. She shimmied her shoulders and told me to throw mine back, walk proud. 

"Walk in your goddess," she told me. "Get your goddess on."

And for three blocks, I did. 

I felt great. And damn if I didn't look good too. 

Then I walked in the house as Esme was being scolded for misbehaving. The others were shouting. Josephine might have been crying about not being able to get her dress on. Or that may have been some other morning. 

You get the picture though. It was back to life as normal. 

With a fetid, broken dishwasher to boot. 

And just like that, I lost the goddess.