Happy New Year! Thank you Georgia; thank you Stacey Abrams. Thank you to my child’s preschool. I feel grateful for every day that BB is in school.
When we started in September, we thought three days a week was good. I cannot express how wrong we were. I shot out an SOS email and we switched to four days. If her school had space, she’d be going for five.
They say Americans have been drinking more. All I know is that RB’s 4th word is “cheers.”
And in the morning she drinks straight from her pretend coffee pot, which is what I’d do if it weren’t for Captain.
Christmas was good. Only problem was that Santa brought presents for RB too.
BB’s survival instincts are unstoppable. Faced with plenty of food, love, shelter, clothing, attention, toys, she will not relent until RB is screaming because she ripped whatever it was out of her hands.
And RB has perfected the 30 second tantrum. She throws herself face down on the ground, screams, pops up and moves on.
Santa stuffed BB’s stocking full of Frozen underwear. BB asks,
“Have these been washed?”
They have been, but now I see the error of my ways. I ask,
“Do they smell like they’ve been washed?”
“Maybe Mrs. Claus washed them?”
I instantly regret that. Who am I to force stereotypical gender roles on characters I feel very ambivalent about? Neither of whom are doing any laundry.
I’ve had enough of this Santa guy for awhile. Everytime BB misbehaved, not only did I have to tend to that, but then I had to deal with her anxiety over whether or not Santa would still bring her presents. I reassure her for the millionth time,
“You’re going to get Christmas presents no matter what.”
“That’s not what M at school says.”
M is a fellow four-year-old. “I understand she thinks that, but no matter how you behave, there will be presents.”
The next day it happens again: BB screaming, then screaming and crying because of the aforementioned screaming and now worry over presents. Again,
“You will be getting presents.”
“I told M that and she said you’re wrong.”
I have fallen hard and fast. Not only am I no longer seen as all-knowing, I am somewhere below BB’s pre-school peers.
By the last day of school vacation, we’re about to self-destruct.
Despite our living room being overrun with every type of plaything imaginable, Santa did bring presents after all, BB decided to drag the lifejackets out of the basement.
RB was happy to take the lifejacket that BB wasn’t using, but then BB wasn’t going to be happy until she took it away from RB.
With both children screaming, Captain emerges from his “office,” otherwise known as the room next to the screaming. He facilitates the donning and doffing of lifejackets until everyone is happy and there’s no risk of drowning.
“I can’t wait for the vaccine.”
And you know she’s not talking about the flu. She continues,
“I’m excited to go somewhere.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere? No place in particular?”
I’m with you girlfriend.
2021? Our underwear is washed, our lifejackets are on, we’re ready for you.