So it seems like something interesting happens once you embark on parenting your third (3rrrrrd) child while also entering your 10th (TENTH) (TENNNNNNTH) year of blogging: Reruns. 99.9% of your life has happened before, and hot damn, did you already done document it to death.
Friday was Ike's official "first" day of "preschool." But since the school prefers a gradual transition into the program, it basically meant he and I stayed there together for an hour, and then left.
So...not much different from the day we visited the school a couple weeks ago. So...not much to report, no matter how badly I wanted to work my insides into a nostalgic wreck and then vomit said insides all over my blog because my baby. MY BAAAAAAABY.
Instead we came home and I realized that I've written variations on that first-day-of-school entry four or five times already. Probably three times for Noah, twice for Ezra, at least. So that means I am either:
1) Growing as a person and a writer as I no longer feel compelled to wring emotional drama and emotive blog posts out of ONE HOUR at a GLORIFIED HALF-DAY DAYCARE because my kid PLAYED WITH SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT TOYS THAN THE TOYS HE PLAYS WITH AT HOME, or...
2) I dunno. Just kind of over it? It was an hour. He got REALLY excited in the parking lot and said something that sounded like "yes school yes!" He played with a ball tower for awhile and threw a basket of plastic fruit on the floor when it was time to leave. THE END!
This Thursday he goes for an hour by himself. I am kind of tempted to leave him there a little longer, because: Yeah. He's not gonna care, y'all. He's got an independent streak the size of the Grand Canyon and I predict that instead of rushing into my loving joyful arms when I come to collect him he will again hurl plastic fruit and run in the opposite direction because STOP EMBARRASSING ME BY EXISTING, MOMMMM.
(There's another not-quite-two-year-old boy in the class who spent the entire hour I was there asking for his mommy. I confidently informed the teacher that Ike would NOT do that, mostly because he still refuses to call me by name, or acknowledge that I even HAVE a name other than a sharp poke to my chest when asked where or who is Mommy. SHE'S RIGHT THERE, DUMBASS.)
Good thing he is so cute. Good thing they are all so cute. Good thing they never get tired of me telling them how cute they are, even if I can't muster up the energy to write about it for the squidrillionth time.
How we all keep swapping these cold germs back and forth, I will never know.