Hey, what's going on here?
Oh, nothing much. Just my baby checking out his new preschool.
It is true. My baby, who you may recall I just gave birth to all of five minutes ago, is starting preschool.
Our childcare woes are very close to being almost-solved: A wonderful part-time nanny will start working for us in just a couple weeks, for three days a week. Ike will attend the toddler program at Ezra's (wonderful, oh-God-we-love-it) Montessori school the other two mornings.
Technically, it's a two-year-old program, but they will accept Ike at 20 months (February 1st). I don't know if this is standard practice or if they are making an exception because they loooooove us and because Ike is amazing and awesome and the size of a two-and-a-half-year old already...or because I begged and they felt sorry for the crazy-eyed lady who just spent a morning apologizing for all the shrieking during multiple conference calls.
(It was rough going there for awhile, you guys. Occasionally the shrieking even came from one my kids!)
This morning I took Ike over for his official classroom visit, something I've done with both Noah AND Ezra at this very school, when they were closer to three. And while THEY both behaved like possessed pinball machines the entire time (running! touching! toppling! defying! No, I don't want you to show me something, I just want to DANCE!), Ike was the most perfect brilliant little angel who ever angel-ed. He played quietly with whatever the teacher directed him to, he observed the other children without getting all up in their business, he colored a picture and demonstrated both his awesomely advanced crayon grip* AND said "yes" at least a dozen times.
It was sweet and wonderful and happy. And absolutely the end of Baby Ike.
His brothers have stopped calling him that, all on their own. I thought it would be a hard nickname to shake, but...well. Look at him. He's still got the padded diaper-butt and his little mass of baby curls on the back of his head (while the rest of his downy-blond hair refuses to grow, sparing me the agony of the to-first-haircut-or-not, so far), and his hands are still too knuckle-dimpled to look like "real" big boy hands. But he's not Baby Ike, he's Toddler Ike, which just isn't quite as fun to say, so...Ike. Just Ike.
Ack. This kid. I just love him so much I can't even take it sometimes.
*Yeah, I did just brag about my toddler's crayon grip. Look. When you're dealing with a small, stubborn human who still craps in their pants, you get your sources of pride in weird places sometimes. IT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU TOOOOOOO.