Now let’s talk about Rachel.
She is growing up so much, so quickly.
She’s doing all the regular four-year-old things: beginning to recognize and sound out words, writing her name, riding her bike (when weather permits), doing chores and understanding how things work. After some final realtor business Saturday morning, we played Disney Princess Barbies and Disney bingo and Legos and Polly Pockets and Crayola Glow Station and read stories all weekend. It was great – after weeks and weeks of home improvement projects, cleaning projects and general de-cluttering, several hours of play interrupted only by a need to make dinner or go to church or take a nap was phenomenal.
After nearly two weeks at home (or with relatives) over the holidays, she was ready to get back to school last week. She missed her friends and couldn’t wait to tell them that she was four now. She expressed the same sentiment last night as we were getting ready for bed.
But this morning was the polar opposite. Already up for more than an hour, I was downstairs pulling clothes out of the dryer when I heard her wailing upstairs. She didn’t want to go to school. Her friends were mean to her. She wanted to stay with mommy and daddy.
I wanted to give in to that desire – I am leaving tomorrow morning for Atlanta and won’t see her again until Sunday afternoon. I wanted to take the day off, curl up with her and have a repeat of the weekend. Giving in would only make coaxing her out of the house tomorrow that much more difficult.
I held her for awhile, absorbing her sobs while I rocked her back and forth, amazed that so much despair could come from her over something she was looking forward to not 16 hours earlier. After a few moments of silence, she helped me fold the laundry and I cajoled her out of her woe by trying to slide into her blue jeans and putting her father’s underwear on my head.
She giggled at my silliness. And I consider that a success.