And that is known as irony

It was a chaotic morning. There was fighting! Yelling! Gnashing of teeth!

The littlest scholar dawdled over the television, finally appearing upstairs to get ready.

She got her clothes on without a problem, but fought us over her teeth, taking her loaded toothbrush with her to brush in her bedroom.

How many times have we told you to brush your teeth in the bathroom?

Hair was a struggle, as usual.

You're hurting me! That! Is! Hurting! Me!

By the time we made it downstairs, she had lost her TV program for tomorrow morning.

How can I earn it back?
By showing how well you get ready tomorrow morning!

At the door, she caught sight of her new shoes. Sparkly ballet flats that another girl wore to school. We had not yet decided whether hers would go, but if so they would be indoor shoes only. We were late already; the option to wear them wasn't on the table.

You can guess where this is going.

I want to wear my new shoes!

I'm wearing my new shoes!

My! New! Shoes! Now!

The shoes were promptly placed back in the store bag to tears and hysterics. With just enough time left for my husband to walk her to school.

Fifteen minutes later, I got this text:

Omfg Will has won the award for "cooperation" this month.

Irony at its best.

Of field trips and five-year-old queen bees

I volunteered to go on Will's first school field trip today. She is in a combined class of junior and senior kindergarten kids, which (for the record) is an integration I fully support. It is still nice to have a buddy your own age though, so I was disappointed when Will's main JK friend (and the only junior girl in the class) changed schools at the end of last week.

This morning I was put in charge of a group of four girls: Will, and three girls in SK. They included the twin we met in music class a couple of years ago, the girl who just got back from Disney World, and the Queen Bee.

At first the Queen Bee was only the instigator of shenanigans to just push the limit of whatever rule had been set. After being told to sit flat on their bottoms, she repeatedly half stood or kneeled and encouraged Disney to do the same. After getting off the bus, she directed the girls to hold hands in a line as we walked, or later, to link elbows. At the apple orchard, she tried to get Twin to pick up this or that rotten apple. She orchestrated seating arrangements on the train and wagon ride by announcing the girl she would be sitting beside, Twin and Disney following her lead.

She didn't actively exclude Will, none of them did, but they didn't make a point of including her either. But figuring out how to navigate these social waters is arguably the most important part of going to school - and in the process, to figure out who you are and who you want to be - so I took some deep breaths and just observed.

On the way home Will and I ended up sharing a seat with Queen Bee, across the aisle from the other girls. Will had missed out on a window seat on the way to the apple farm, and looked at me imploringly, whispering "I want the window." I told her to ask QB if she would mind switching, knowing she had sat at the window earlier in the morning.

"Can I sit at the window?"

"No."

Will looked at me and crossed her arms, her lip quivering. I decided to intervene.

"QB, didn't you have the window seat on the way here?" She nodded. "Is it okay if Will has a turn sitting there on the way back?"

"No. You get what you get."

Will started crying. I whispered to her that there was nothing we could do if QB didn't want to switch, that Will could only control her own reaction. I tried again: "I know you both want to sit at the window, so why don't we switch seats part way home, so you can both have a turn."

"No. I'm not moving."

Will kept crying. I thought some not very nice things about a five-year-old child and the child's mother, who was sitting a few rows back with her six-year-old son's class. Then the Queen Bee turned to Will: "Why are you crying?" When Will didn't answer, she turned to me. "Why is she crying?"

I gritted my teeth and kept my tone pleasant. "I think she would really like a turn sitting at the window."

"Oh. No. It's just a window."

Queen Bee had what she wanted, and she was keeping it. Until she noticed Twin and Disney giggling uncontrollably across the aisle. Without her.

She started shouting: "Disney! Twin! Hey! Disney! Twin!"

They were having to much fun to notice. That's when QB turned to me with her sweetest smile. "I want to sit with them."

I smiled back. "Oh, I'm sorry. We can't change seats when the bus is moving."

She tried again. "Please may I sit over there? I want to sit with those girls." She paused and looked at Will. "Then she can have the window."

Nice try, kid. "No. It's not safe to walk around when the bus is moving. Sorry!"

Frustrated, QB went back to shouting. "Disney! Twin! You know what? We'll play in the school yard when we get back, just the three of us! Wait until we get back! All three of us can play!"

And that's how we arrived back at the school: Will snuffling, Disney and Twin in their own world, QB desperately (and loudly) demanding to be included, and me, ready for a drink.

How will we ever make it through middle school?

Four years; Four months (okay, five months, but that doesn't have the same symmetry)

She calls herself a "goose ball", this free-spirit of a girl who finds a clearing in the woods and sings Lady Gaga for her parents and sister and all the wild life that has now been scared away. She loves to sing and dance and play dress up, her room looking more and more like a tornado has hit as she puts on and then discards every combination of every outfit she owns.

At four and a half years old, she has suddenly become a climber, perching on the edge of arm rests and bumbo seats, flinging herself off of tables and couches, willfully oblivious to our continued demands that she stay. off. the. furniture.

She is articulate, except when pretending to be a baby. Dear god when will she stop this infuriating game? (When she senses that I'm no longer bothered by it probably. So maybe never.) She could be mistaken for being developmentally disabled. Everything is a one word answer or demand, in a drawling whine of a voice. She staggers around, her arms flapping in front of her. "Bay-bee!'

She is creative and energetic and a joy to be around, unless she is tired or needs to eat. Then she is a beast who has escaped from the hell mouth. Refusing to eat. Refusing to sleep. Bereft of logic or rational thinking. Capable of throwing a screaming fit (especially if you have dared to tell her "NO") or a slow whining death (if you want her to do anything) until she is tricked into eating a granola bar or some fruit chews.

She draws the most incredible pictures and tells the most complicated stories to go with them. I am constantly in awe of her imagination and her ability to express herself.

She is generous and empathetic. She adores her sister, her cousins, her dad, me. She is excited by language and identifying words. She asks intelligent questions and wants to discuss complicated ideas.

She is our goose-ball.

This one is a delight to be around.

She wants to be in on the action, not content to be lying on the play mat, she needs to be up at the table, high in the baby hawk, part of whatever is going on.

She used to lean slowly towards what she wanted, now she has started to reach for it, with sudden, staccato flaps of her arms. She gets a hand in her mouth, the tail of a cat (if she's lucky), the dangling string from a hooded sweatshirt.

She will smile at almost anyone, especially if she's perched in my arms. She laughs hysterically and with abandon. She sleeps. Yes. She sleeps.

When I'm holding her she reaches her hand to the back of my neck: a hug, a caress. I press my lips against her temple, my voice into her ear: "I love you too."

Just another day

In art class today, Will created a mask, a wand and a persona. She is now Princess of the Sneezing Flowers. This princess wears her mask, adorned with feathers, into the garden where she bends over flowers, making them sneeze. With each "ACHOO!" the flowers release the scent of strawberries. The princess then waves her wand, bringing forth the wind to carry the smell of strawberries into the castle and around the world.

Bea has spent the day smiling, shrieking at the indignity of being put in a carseat, eating, smiling, stuffing her entire fist in her mouth, attempting to propel herself out of her carseat with only the force of her mind and the weight of her head, smiling, and snoozing.

I am just breathing it all in, filled with gratitude.

What we've been doing for the past five (!) weeks

Meet our youngest daughter, Bea. Here she is just after birth on April 2nd, weighing in at 9 pounds, 5 ounces.

Will holds her baby sister for the first time.

Almost five weeks old and taking in her surroundings.

So that is the new normal around here, and it really is the best of what I'd hoped for. Although we can't stop channeling Miss Hannigan: Little girls, little girls, everywhere I look I can see them . . .

Translation fail

But it's still pretty funny to say it out loud.

Reproduction for Preschoolers, Part 2

I was becoming a little concerned that Will didn't seem at all curious about how the baby would get out of my belly. I imagine it would be that, if nothing else, that I would wonder about if my mother was getting bigger by the day and somehow that belly was to transform into a living, breathing baby.

So I was relieved more than anything when she finally asked.

"How is that baby going to get out of there?"

"It's actually very interesting," I began.

"Will it hatch out of your belly like a giant egg?!"

That was logical. I knew Will must have come up with her own explanation.

"Um, no. Actually it will come out of my vagina. The baby's head is right here, and when it is ready, it will come down a tunnel and out. Of my vagina."

Will looked at me, her eyes wide.

"But what about your pants and underwear?"

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

As the weeks and now days count down to the birth, Will's concerns have remained focused.

"When it's time for that baby to come out, you need to get your pants and underwear off really fast!"

"But Mama, when the baby comes out, won't it fall on the floor?" (I explained that the midwives' job was to catch the baby so it didn't, in fact, fall.)

"When the baby wants to come out, get to the hospital, and then get your pants and underwear off right away!"

Reproduction for Preschoolers, Part 1

As my belly got bigger, I started waiting. I knew the question would come sooner or later: how will that baby get out of there?

But it was as if she had it all figured out in her 3 year old brain. Will showed no interest in how the baby would leave its current environment and join us in ours. She seemed to already have a theory she was comfortable with as the weeks went by.

She did need clarification on one little thing.

"How did that baby get in there?"

Her question took me by surprise as we were waking up one morning. Before I could answer, she got distracted by something and I took refuge in the Internet. ("explaining pregnancy to a preschooler" "preschooler asking how baby got in there" "reproduction for precocious 3 year olds" "HELP!!")

Will is quite nosey by nature, so I was convinced that a discussion of the "egg and seed" (which I had to practice saying with a straight face) was not going to be enough. But by god, I was ready, and of course, she waited for weeks before asking me again.

"Mama, how did that baby get in there?"

"It's actually very interesting," I began. "You see, the mommy has an egg, and the Daddy has a seed. And when the Daddy gives the seed to the mommy . . ."

Will's eyes lit up. "Then the baby grows and grows!"

"That's right!" I waited for her to ask where the egg and seed were kept, or how exactly the Daddy made the transfer.

She had other things to think about. "I wonder if the baby liked being a seed!"

"I have no idea."

Now with more crazy

I was going to blame the entire contents of this post on my daughter. I was going to describe the adolescent moodiness that is 3 1/2 (almost 4): my daughter, sweet and creative and thoughtful in one moment, stubborn and willful and cah-razy the next.

But you know, it's not all about the crazy of being three. It's that crazy coming up against the last trimester of pregnancy insanity. When those two collide? Watch out.

True events that have happened in the last few weeks:

The Bookstore Bathroom Battle
Will and I are about to leave Chapters after a lovely morning when she tells me she has to use the bathroom. We go to the bathroom. She refuses to go. We start to leave the store. She says she has to pee. We go back to the bathroom. She refuses to go. We start to leave. She sits on the floor. This scenario repeats several times until I am ready to lost my shit. I drag her back to the bathroom (not my proudest moment) and tell her we are not leaving until she pees. We are both hysterical. As Will stands in the stall singing I start weeping and text my husband that I may need to be rescued from the book store bathroom.

A few minutes later? Will pees and we go home, with my daughter narrating the whole incident as we go, a funny moment that has passed. It takes me hours to recuperate.

The battle over quiet time
Lunch is over and Will is watching an episode of "Kai-Lan" before quiet time, a time that sometimes still becomes nap time, but either way must take place alone in one's room. (Um, yeah. That part is not going so well.)

The "Kai-Lan" episode ends and the DVR shuts off, but the television has been left on a children's channel. I hear the opening of "Angelina Ballerina," which is a favourite and only 15 minutes long, and I ask Will if she wants to watch the episode before going upstairs. She agrees and we review the expectations: "What will happen as soon as Angelina is over?" Will makes little snoring sounds. "Yes. You need to go right upstairs to snooze or have some quiet time."

The show ends. I ask Will whether she wants to turn off the TV or have me do it. She screams at me. I turn the TV off. She turns it back on. I turn it off and tell her she will not be watching any more TV today. She screetches, "Yes! I! Will!" and turns it back on. I turn off the cable and tell her I cannot carry her upstairs because of my belly, but I will be waiting for her in her room.

I am a little bit surprised that she does drag herself slowly up the stairs. I suggest that she pees before quiet time, but don't insist since she probably won't sleep anyway. She gathers a few books and we sit on her bed to talk about what has happened. I ask her why she won't get to watch any more TV. She knows and tells me. We talk about being rude. I ask her whether she thinks she will get to watch a second TV show anytime soon. She doesn't think so. I leave her with her books and go downstairs.

It's quiet for so long that I wonder if Will has actually fallen asleep. Then I hear her voice.

"Mama! I need to tell you something. I peed."

There is a terrible silence before I ask, "Where?"

Sitting on her bed, reading, my angry almost 4 year old just peed. Just sat there and peed.

That child is lucky I can hold it together, even when losing my shit. She tries to tell me that "sometimes things happen" but I look right in her eyes and say, "This wasn't an accident, was it?" She shakes her head. "You peed because you were angry?" She nods. I put up the gate and make it downstairs before I burst into tears.

It took hours before I could discuss this incident with my daughter. Hours. But we were finally able to brainstorm some more appropriate things to do when we are angry. Scream into a pillow. Do an angry dance. Draw an angry picture.

A few days later Will stormed up to her room and returned with this:

Will told us these people were angry, so they were shouting into pillows. Then they left the angry in the pillows and were happy again.

An afternoon of crazy wasn't wasted after all.

A little story about consent

I may have mentioned before that I am unimpressed with Will's preschool teacher. She is preoccupied with the business of teaching - the planning and the rules - and doesn't seem to "like" the kids, or even take the time to get to know them. Most of the kids attend for two mornings a week, and yet there is a new unit every Monday, so there is no time for them to explore a topic in any depth. Dinosaur week there were toys, crafts and a couple of stories . . . nothing about meat eaters and plant eaters, or dinosaurs hatching from eggs. During transportation week the kids were practically fighting over the play centre with the big road map, but by the next week it was gone. She is obsessed with the kids sitting quietly and waiting at least three times in the 2 1/2 hours they are there, and she even bribes them with gummy bears in the circle room.

It was September when she first mentioned that she would be conducting a developmental screening test on the children, something she was unable to explain in detail even when asked to elaborate. The idea of this test made me very uncomfortable. I'm not a big fan of standardized tests under most circumstances, and definitely not in this preschool setting. I have no concerns about Will's development, and didn't want to risk a false positive score that would put her into the system. I didn't trust the teacher to administer any sort of test, especially to my child. When the consent form came home I clearly checked "I do not give consent" for my child to participate, signed the form and returned it to school.

Can you guess where this is going?

When my husband and I picked up Will from preschool a couple of weeks ago, Will started telling me about "going into the kitchen with the teacher and playing games." It didn't really occur to me what she was talking about until the teacher told me, "She did great. Twelve out of twelve." My eyes almost jumped out of my head, and fortunately my husband was there to ask what she was talking about. "The DISC preschool screen," she answered.

He chased after Will as I looked at the teacher. I hate confrontation, but there was no way that I was going to let this go. "But we did not give consent for Will to participate."

The teacher was stunned. "I was sure you had checked off consent!"

"No. We were not comfortable with the test and clearly signed that she did not have our consent to participate."

"Well, I never would have tested Will if I didn't have your consent. I mean, you can see the test and the information any time."

"I may have to look at it, now that she's already been tested."

I went home and wrote a letter to the board, outlining our reasons for refusing consent and our concern that our refusal to give consent was completely disregarded. Sure, it was a careless oversight, but a significant one.

And then I waited to hear from the teacher, assuming she would check her consent forms and realize she had violated our trust. No email. No phone call. Nothing.

I did receive an immediate reply from the president of the board. Apparently this test is standard practice in preschools across the region (that would have been something important to pass on to the parents) and apparently the teacher is specially trained to administer it (again, that would have been good to know). The president suggested that the teacher would be uncomfortable speaking with a parent about her concerns regarding a child without the test, which is bullshit. That's the teacher's job, and it is my expectation as a parent that she would approach me about any concerns she had with my daughter.

And the issue is still that of consent. No harm was done this time, but what if it was something more serious? What if I denied consent for a flu shot or a field trip and my consent was disregarded? How can I trust that my directions for my child will be respected?

Today I was duty parent for the first time since the incident. The teacher asked to speak with me privately at the end of the day. I went over my reasons for being upset, assuming she wanted to explain her position and listen to me explain mine. Instead she just offered to shred Will's test, "as if it had never happened." Of course I told her that was what I wanted. She said she "felt bad" and had learned "not to work from a master list next time" but there was no real apology.

I'm trying to look at the experience as a chance for me to practice being an advocate for my child. But looking to the years of formal education ahead of us, it really terrifies me. I know there will be more mediocre (at best) teachers and disappointed expectations. I'm trying to remember that even these experiences are important, and that there are excellent and creative teachers out there too. But oh, I can hear the siren song of the private school across town . . .

Random Monday

So today I was the snack parent at Will's preschool. Have I mentioned how much I dislike being the duty parent? Yes? Let me just add that I think I prefer "snack" to "juice" as it involves washing dishes and serving the snack instead of cleaning the bathrooms and running the bathroom routine. It did take me 20 minutes to wash all of the paint toys today, and even then they are not perfect, but I'm thinking the craft doesn't usually involve using different trucks in paint to show patterns, right?

* * * * * * * * * *

Nablopamo? Clearly, no.

* * * * * * * * * *

I have discovered the secret to all my parenting challenges: I (often) can't remain calm or neutral. She gets agitated; I get agitated. She gets testy; I respond in kind. I am perfectly capable of keeping some emotional distance much of the time during the day, but throw in a nap or bedtime or the need to get to a destination at a particular time? Not so much.

Now I just need to come up with a way to deal with my triggers before this baby comes and things get a million times more chaotic and testy. (Yes, sleep deprivation is one of my triggers.) 20 weeks, give or take, should be enough time to figure out a solution, right?

* * * * * * * * * *

My mind is preoccupied with tomorrow's agenda:

1) First dental appointment in 3 years. Yikes.

2) Anatomy ultrasound!

The best sandwich ever (with no pictures)

Step 1: If using a rotisserie chicken, shred breast meat and set aside. If using chicken fingers, cook those according to the directions.

Step 2: Make Lasha's amazing guacamole-type spread. Mash one avocado. Add the juice of half a lime (or so) and a clove of garlic, minced. Add a splash of balsamic vinegar, a pinch of salt and a half-teaspoon (or so) of sugar. Mix.

Step 3: Make some bacon. I use the pre-cooked kind that takes 30 seconds in the microwave.

Step 4: Gather additional ingredients. You will need large wraps (or bread), lettuce, tomatoes and cheese. Swiss, havarti and old cheddar all work well.

Step 5: Assemble the sandwich. Enjoy.

This is seriously the best. sandwich. ever. So good that I forgot to take a picture of even the finished product. Delicious.

Pendulum

One minute we're baking banana chocolate chip muffins and emptying the dishwasher together.

The next she's refusing to wipe the excess Penaten from her finger or put her underwear on so it doesn't get all over.

In another minute I'm wrestling her to get the damn underwear on and my only pair of maternity jeans has become covered in Penaten, a substance I have never been able to remove from any kind of fabric.

Now I'm sitting on the couch after wiping down my jeans with Goo Gone, polishing off my second muffin and pretending not to know she's at the top of the stairs.

Later, she'll be all sunshine and roses and I will still be balancing on a tightrope of nerves and frustration, unable to accept that for one of us, it's over and done, time to move on, what's the problem, Mommy?

How to eat your way through the weekend

(First, I need to tell you that I just tried to take my daughter up for her bath at 6:20 pm, as the only clocks in the house that adapted to the time change automatically were our iPhones. We are not, as you may know, a go to bed at 6:20 kind of family. So it was very frustrating to realize that there was at least another 45 minutes before I could reasonably begin the nighttime routine. Thank you Daylight Savings Time. And a real thank you to my husband who arrived home after his run in time to take Will with him for his stretching routine. Disaster averted.)

I actually had a lovely and mostly child-free weekend. My sister and I went to see "Wicked," my Christmas present to her last year. It was my second time seeing the show, and I left feeling certain that I would like to see it again.

Just as good as the theatre and the company, however, was the food. I love going out to restaurants, and my sister and I took advantage of our weekend out to enjoy some excellent fare.

Saturday Dinner: We head to a pre-show dinner at Mercatto. We split an arugula salad with walnuts and pears and some delicious risotto balls filled with mushrooms and cheese. My sister gets a pizza while I enjoy some mushroom-goat cheese ravioli in truffle oil. The best part? They sold wine by the 3oz glass, so I was even able to enjoy a tasting portion of riesling without guilt. Yay!

Saturday Late Night: My sister heats up some amazing butter tarts, which we enjoy after some havarti and crackers. While watching Tony Danza "teach."

Sunday Brunch: We drive over to Queen Street East to Table 17. We start with freshly baked muffins and coffee in cute little cups. (Note to management: leave a carafe of coffee on the table!) I enjoy Neapolitan Eggs (poached in a tomato sauce, something I have always wanted to try), while my sister tries out the Sloppy Giusseppe, basically fried eggs over a bolognese sauce. We ensure that we are completely sated by adding potato rostis on the side. We were quite pleased to not spend enough money to use my sister's groupon, as we have an excuse to return for dinner.

Crime Scene

Every few nights, my husband and I get to the top of the stairs on our way to bed and find this:

One night we left her there, thinking if that's where she really wants to sleep, why not? Of course she woke up terrified an hour later, so that doesn't work.

The worst part is the way it startles you, like a crime scene. Especially if she hasn't bothered to use a pillow or line up her friends. You suddenly see a leg, or some hair, and then a body sprawled across the hallway. Time to call forensics.

What are your plans for this evening?

I went to change the laundry last night, and found this:

Perhaps you need a closer look:

You still can't make it out? That's silly putty. All over my dark clothes.

I think the silly putty was a stocking stuffer. I do know that it has made a recent appearance in the house, and my husband and daughter think it's hilarious that I think it's cat vomit every time I come across the squashed putty. Which has been everywhere recently, so I probably shouldn't be surprised.

I guess it's lucky that it was concentrated in about three big clumps (including, of course, one of my favourite sweaters and a pair of preggo-comfy leggings) instead of stretching through the entire load.

Now I'm in possession of a spray bottle of "Goo Gone" and whatever shows are left on the DVR. It's gonna be a fun night.

So. Yeah. Pregnant.

Despite the fact that I posted the picture from my first trimester ultrasound, I'm actually just about 18 weeks pregnant, a fact that floored my husband just last week ("But-- that's-- almost halfway!"). For a slightly compulsive worrier like myself, I only really start to relax when I'm well into the mid-thirties, and by then it's time to start worrying about labour.

So far, there have been a few differences from the first time. Much more nausea and general grossness in the first trimester, enough to get a prescription for diclectin. This medication worked amazingly well for my nausea and even better as a sleep aid. It was able to knock me out, and I didn't feel too wrecked in the morning after taking just one (two is another story). I'm planning to get the refill on my prescription for that reason alone, although I'm told it's the active ingredient in Unisom, so that should work just as well.

I'm definitely in maternity clothes much earlier than last time. I'm sure this wasn't helped by the fact that all I could eat for several weeks were cheese bagels, fries, the occasional other starchy food and full-sugar coke. Add a week of Hallowe'en candy and I'm surprised you can't already roll me down the street. But I'm over the candy now. And I drank an old bottle of coke tonight and it was disgusting. So consistent healthy eating is the plan for now on.

I did have some bleeding around week 6, which I never had at all with Will. I went in for an ultrasound right away and after a few minutes of silence (there was no sound on the machine at all, so I couldn't even listen for that reassuring whoosh whoosh, and the technician was quiet) she turned the monitor to me and showed me the flickering heartbeat. Even though I've heard the heartbeat on the doppler and even started feeling little swimming movements, when I saw that tiny flicker, that was the best moment ever.

Will is quite excited to be a big sister, so far. She has also become insanely clingy and already doesn't want anything to do with anyone but me (a fun time for her dad, let me tell you). I guess it's good that she's exhibiting this behaviour with so much time left before the baby actually arrives. I can gradually move back and let her dad move in without it being a complete shock.

Of course, it's always a shock, right? And chaos. But I'm ready (gulp). And so happy.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: Big Announcement Edition

Without a doubt, that is my husband's nose on this kid's face. Along with the sweetest little kissy face in perhaps the most detailed 13 week ultrasound ever.

On preschool: duty parent edition

There are some positive things about being a duty parent at my daughter's preschool. Well, maybe just one. I do enjoy watching Will interact with the other kids in a group setting. Especially before she decides to treat me like her mother and just goes about playtime in her own way. She asks another child to play. She waits for a turn at the paint easel. Apparently yesterday she and two other kids pretended that all the animals on the farm were pooping, but I didn't get to witness that one.

Most of the time, though? Duty days suck.

1) The cleaning. Dear lord. I seem to always be the "drink parent" and am therefore responsible for the bathrooms (in addition to actually bringing the drink for snack time). I clean the bathrooms first thing in the morning. I supervise the bathroom break and handwashing. I clean the bathrooms again during circle time. (Remember that my child's preschool runs for exactly 2 and a half hours. That's a lot of cleaning.)

2) The boredom. I supervise kids playing outside. I supervise kids playing in the playroom. Today I supervised kids playing in the gym. YAWN.

3) The opening activity. If I have to hear the days of the week song again my head may explode. Or maybe it will happen when I hear, "What is the weather, the weather, the weather? What is the weather, the weather today?"

4) The moment when my daughter realizes that her mother is actually there, and tries to use this to her advantage. Today Will seemed to get bent out of shape when I was playing catch with a couple of other kids in the gym. Her shoulders slumped over and she went to sit against the wall. When she finally decided to join us, the teacher announced that it was time to clean up. On the way to put away her ball - and already in a fragile emotional state - she dropped it and another kid helpfully picked it up and put it in the bin. Will burst into tears and wouldn't leave my side for the remaining five (phew!) minutes of the day.

5) The teacher. But that's another post entirely.

Actually, the opportunity to watch this teacher in action is maybe the most important part of being a duty parent. I mean, she's fine. Not what I was hoping for, but fine. Still, it's good to be able to observe her and make assessments on a regular basis, otherwise I would be very uncomfortable with the situation.

What on earth will I do when Will starts Junior Kindergarten?

And we'll start off the month with the obligatory Hallowe'en post

I haven't been writing as much as I would like, so I have decided to participate in Nablopomo again this year. Of course, the month always starts off easy, with November 1st being the day after Hallowe'en and all.

This year, Will decided to be a fairy.

She predictably chose a costume in purple, but her favourite part by far was the make up. Especially those little sticker decals that my friends and I used to get before our ears were pierced, convinced they looked like real stud earrings. Will just used them for glamourous fairy accessories. (Luckily she forgot all about her magical wand, as I had put it away somewhere last week and have no idea where it is, even now.)

I also purchased fairy wings in the same colours for Will's feline siblings. Oliver was a good sport for a minute or two. (Or as long as I lovingly held him in a vice grip in my arms.)

Pasha, however, was less than impressed.

So much for thinking I could get a picture of the three fairies together. Heh.

The week leading up to Hallowe'en was crazy busy, but fun. Will's preschool had a costume day, we went to two special craft classes and did some spooky holiday baking. Will insisted on wearing her old tiger costume (from two years ago!) to a couple of the events, as her best friend's tiger from the same year still fits. Will can get hers on, but it was lucky the make-up was enough to convince her to stick with the fairy for trick-or-treating.

Other than the inevitable post-candy bedtime meltdown, I'd say three-and-a-half is a great age for enjoying the spookiest celebration of the year.