the pieces of my life

Back in the day, when I was a new mom, I used to read the BabyCenter boards. It’s a habit I gave up once I got the teeniest confidence in myself as a mom, but for a while, I was checking regularly.

I was a lurker, and not a nice lurker at that. I’d think the evilest of thoughts about some of these mothers. “Oh dear God,” I thought. “Could they make their girls any more girly?” I’d mock their princesses and ballet dancers and divas and think, “If I ever had a girl, no way would I ever fall prey to that crap.”

Yes, dear readers, that crunching sound you hear is me eating my own words. As I create the birthday party invitations to my darling Pie’s third birthday, it is all pink and frouffy and–yes–princessy. To the nth degree. To the point that if someone else had done it, I would have thought, “Are you kidding me?” But, my friends, I kid not.

Pie is, well, she’s Pie. And the thing is, the world encourages her, no doubt about it. Now, I know I’m a mom and all, but my kids are equally adorable. Doodles, with his lovely brown eyes and his dashing smile is about one of the yummiest boys around. But when we go out, the world zooms in on Pie. Out of all her hand-me-downs, she gravitates toward pink and purple dresses. She loves sparkly flip flops. She has painted toenails. And people just can’t stop telling her what a little princess she is.

For instance, today, we went to the paper store to get paper for her party invites. The woman behind the counter ran out so fast, I thought maybe Pie had broken something. But no. She was just bringing Pie a toy to play with while we were in the store. She kept checking in to make sure Pie was okay, “Oh, what lovely painted toes you have! Oh, I love your glittery shoes. I wish I had curls like yours,” and on the way out, ran after us to give Pie a small sheet of princess stickers. I actually don’t mind it too much when it’s just me and Pie, but I always feel a little bad when Doodles is around. “Hey!” I want to yell. “He’s adorable too! And he likes stickers!” Doodles seems pretty oblivious, but it bugs me. And I’m not really crazy about the message it sends Pie.

But as they say, those who live in fairy castles shouldn’t throw toads, or something like that. So I’m off to continue planning a princess party extraordinaire.

And Doodles? He’s going to have a kick-ass dinosaur time. Roooooaaaaar!

When it comes to parenting philosophies, I think I’m closest in spirit to Tom Hodgkinson, who last February wrote this lovely article called, “Idle Parenting Means Happy Children.” So much of the article resonated me, but I think my favorite was this:

My idea of childcare is a large field. At one side is a marquee serving local ales. This is where the parents gather. On the other side, somewhere in the distance, the children play. I don’t bother them and they don’t bother me. I give them as much freedom as possible.

I have a garden. I plant things in it. When I remember, I water those plants. Usually I don’t. And somehow–fertile ground, good conditions, sheer luck–those plants thrive. I get big bouncing beautiful tomatoes at the end of the summer. I call it Gardening by Neglect.

Now, I’m not saying I’m Child Rearing by Neglect. But I do think that self-sufficiency is a good thing. The other day, Doodles and Pie were playing in the front yard, while I was sitting in a yard chair, leafing through a magazine.
Doodles: Mommy, pitch to me!
Me: No.
Doodles: Pul-lease! Pitch to me!
Me: Mommy does not pitch. Ask Pie to pitch.
Doodles: But Pie doesn’t pitch well. You pitch!
Me: The only reason I had Pie was so you could have a playmate. Now go play with her.

Of course, that probably serves me right when five minutes later I heard a thud that was the dull sort of sound that can only mean a child’s skull is caving in. The screams of agony didn’t help.
Doodles: It was an accident!
Pie [clutching a bright red cheek]: AAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAaaaaaaa!
Doodles: It was an accident! You know she doesn’t pitch well. So I got close so I could hit the ball.
I call it good parenting that he only had a plastic bat, as I refuse to buy him a wooden bat, so Pie wasn’t seriously injured. I assuaged all hurt feelings (and guilt) with a few extra shows.

But as I’ve mentioned before, Doodles is exhibiting signs of a need for independence. I respect this. I understand this. He’s getting ready to enter kindergarten and it’s normal for a separation process to begin. He’s at an age where he wants to do–and can do–many things on his own. Doodles can use a knife to cut his own French toast. He can turn on the iPod himself, but due to limited reading skills, he has to take whatever song is on. He can get his own yogurt out of the fridge, dress himself (including doing all buttons and tying up lace shoes), go by himself to the bathroom at the Res (the local swimming hole), recite his address and phone number, and countless other things that seem to multiply daily. But there is a limit to what he can–and is allowed–to do. On the no list: Driving a car. Drinking beer. Crossing the street by himself. Swimming in the Res without a grown-up watching him. Jumping from the top of his dresser. All things he will dispute. All things I stand firm on. All things that will cause a serious interval of pouting. The stubbornness and pouting when he doesn’t get what he wants and the plain old not listening is making me insane! (I actually heard Adam tell him he was being “fresh” the other night. “Fresh.” Take that Ward Cleaver!)

In a quest to conquer our stand-offs, I’m returning to a world I had left behind: the world of parenting books. But finding the right parenting books is a pain. After all, we’re cosleepers so we must be attachment parents. But wait! I let my kids scream and don’t go running at every tale of woe. So I must be a Babywise parent. But wait! I try to inject strong Jewish values in my parenting. So I must be a follower of Wendy Mogel. Pie actually went to visit the great and good Doctor Ferber, so perhaps it’s at his altar we should be bowing?

You see my dilemma? I don’t have a stand. And in the world of parenting books, you need a stand. I’m currently reading the highly recommended Playful Parenting, which tells me to do the one thing I really don’t have any interest in doing: playing with my kids. For, seemingly, hours on end. This seems to me to be an uber-attachment philosophy, always open to my children to stop, drop, and play.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m always open to a dance party (definitely in if it includes little naked tushies), happy to read stories, and can certainly be talked into doing a craft project or two. But I’m not a “throw the ball, get on the climber, toss ’em into the Res” kind of mom. But this playful parenting thing seems to go to an extreme, as evidenced even by the author who, by his own examples, frequently slips and forgets to be playful.

So I’m on the search for parenting books that fit my non-philosophical parenting philosophy. I’ve gotten some recommendations from friends (and I’m dying to know about this $115 parenting book. It’s not even anywhere in our entire library system, which consists of “35 public and 6 college libraries in the Metrowest region of Massachusetts”!) and I’m wading through the stacks on my shelves that have been ignored all these years. So, in attempt to embrace all my parenting non-philosophies, my current reading list includes: Raising Your Child to Be A Mensch; Children: The Challenge; the aforementioned Playful Parenting; The No-Cry Discipline Solution; the one my own mother swore by all those years, Parent Effectiveness Training; and just for good measure, Siblings Without Rivalry.

What does this all mean? It means in a matter of minutes after opening each book, I’ll throw it down and through a little temper tantrum of my own. “Why oh why,” I’ll scream, “can’t they just get to the point!” These books have so much filler garbage to justify the cover price and all I want is the information. You know, for the same price as I’d pay for the hardcover–no, for more than I’d pay for the hardcover–I’d pay for a pamphlet that distills all the necessary information without all the filler necessary for them to charge a hardcover price. Think about it, publishers!

So, unless anyone can come up with some easy summaries for me, I’m off to bury myself beneath the avalanche of books. Because, let’s face it, if I just stay hidden long enough, this phase too shall pass and I’ll be looking for the answer to some other problem! Meanwhile, I’ll be on the far side of the playground. Drinking my ale. Come join me!

At one point this afternoon, when Doodles was facedown on the front porch screaming and Pie was clutching at my leg wailing, my neighbor–who shall henceforth be referred to as Beetle–said to me, “This should be your blog for today.” But the thing is, as I pointed out to her, is that this stuff doesn’t translate well. You can’t see the mournful way my son quivers his mouth as he lets out his earth-shattering shriek. You can’t feel the death grip as little Pie squeezes onto my leg with every ounce of oomph that she has.

Today was just one of those days.

I should have known. I’d been having highly productive days recently, and I knew there’d be a payback day. This was it. It started off well enough. I had a great boot camp class. When I got home, contractors had started the demolition of the house sort of across and down the street and the kids were sitting on the front porch, a captive audience. But it also meant that it was impossible to get them inside, get them dressed, and out the door. We were late. Definitely late. Shoes on, people! Don’t forget, you have water play first at camp, so wear the right shoes for the job!

Me: What shoes are you going to wear, Pie? Your water shoes or your Tevas?
Doodles: Those shoes [pointing to leather sandals]
Me: You can wear those after water play. But they’ll be ruined in water play. What do you want to wear?
After much pouting and negotiation, she finally settled on the water shoes, which are an absolute bitch to get on. It seriously takes almost five minutes to cram her foot into these shoes. We’re now in the Very Late category.
Me: Okay, great, your shoes are on, everyone, it’s time to get into the car!

I let Doodles out to get in the car, and by the time I turn around. Pie has her shoes off.

Me: What are you doing?!?!
Pie: Put on shoes by my own self!
Me: We are LATE! What are you THINKING! Why didn’t you say you wanted to do it yourself in the FIRST PLACE! Let me get those back on you.
Pie: NOOOOOOOO! DO IT MY OWN SELF!

Um, ballistic might be the right word for what I went through. But let’s just say, I finally got those shoes on and the kids into the car. And no, we’re not going to listen to Princess music!

I dropped the kids off at camp, but when I went to pay after shopping at the local farm stand, I realized that their “favorite books”–needed for Favorite Book Day at camp–were still in my purse.

So I dashed back to camp to deliver them. Then I dashed to the eye doctor’s for my yearly exam. I hate going to the eye doctor. I don’t just hate. I detest. There are those who fear the dentist. There are those who fear the gynecologist. I say, “Dentist, scrape away! Gynecologist, get thee thy speculum! Heck, Dentist, scrape away while I’ve got the speculum but Eye Doctor! Away with thee! I shun thee!” I’ve always had a serious eye phobia, stemming perhaps from when I was, I don’t know, seven or eight, and while playing, sort of, accidentally, I don’t know how, got a scissors poked into my eye. (Mom was right kids! Don’t run with scissors!) Rush to the hospital, many strips of paper dipped in medicine dipped in my eye, this close to losing my vision in that eye, my stomach churning even now despite my having blocked most of it out. Oddly enough, nine years ago, I did suffer through Lasik surgery, and I have completely blocked that out, although that could do more with the extra doses of Valium they let me have than with anything else.

Okay, so let’s get back to the here and now, shall we? I had an eye doctor appointment today. I always warn the assistant that I’m not a good patient, but I’m so jovial about it, they never take me seriously. Until it’s time for the…duh duh duh…glaucoma test! Yes! Once again I made an eye assistant (technician? Nurse? what?) cry uncle and give up on me. The good doctor had to do it himself. I actually have an excellent eye doctor. Boston magazine called him “up and coming.” But I still hate going. And I have to go yearly (as opposed to the rest of you people who only need to go every other year, and I bet 99% of you don’t even go at all, lucky bastards with good eyes! Just wait! That glaucoma can really sneak up on you!) because I have “thin retinas.” Yes, that’s right. The one thing that can definitively be called thin on me is my retina. Go retina! Anyway, the point to this (a point? since when do I have a point?) is that my appointment was at 9:45. It was 10:55 by the time I got out of there. With fully dilated eyes. Which means one of my few days of kids in camp and I’m stuck with the ability to do, oh, nothing.

So I do busy work till it’s time to pick up the kids. Kids aren’t happy because they need to be picked up early to go to Doodles’s feeding group. (“Mom, they’re about to read a group story!” “Doodles, you’re about to go eat fruit!”) Since he eats at feeding group, I packed him just a snack for lunch: a cheese stick and carrots with hummus. And the boy? He ate the cheese stick. So he should have been starving. But he was so not into feeding group today. Not that he ever is, but today it was clearly more about control issues than about feeding group itself. I’m having many issues with the boy about control. He’s pushing buttons, taking names, and generally being a real pain about things.

For instance, last week at the playground, I gave the kids a five-minute warning and a one-minute warning.

Then I said, “Time to go!”

Doodles yelled, “I want to go on the slide again,” which didn’t really mean slide down; it meant have a chat with his buddies on the top of the slide, which is not a fast process.

I told him, “We have to get to [the much loved] skating class. We need to go now.”
Doodles proceeded to walk up three steps of the slide, and turned and looked me in the eye.

“Now,” I said.

He climbed up two more steps.

“Doodles, I’m going to count to three and you’ll lose your show! Get down!”

“No,” he said, and climbed up another step.

No show for him that night!

But once again, there is a point, and the point is that Doodles and I are frequently at odds these days (any favorite parenting books out there that deal with this sudden change of attitude? The “I’m almost five, I’m going to kindergarten, I can do any damn thing I want!” attitude?). The point is that Doodles is having control issues and I felt really validated when it took two people and twenty minutes at food group to get him to eat. I felt horrible as it totally crushed him–he was in tears, refusing to eat–but it made me realize it’s not just me!

So we head back to town. “We’ll make a quick stop at the Farmer’s Market and then we’ll do whatever you want!”

What did they want? To fall asleep in the car. Before I could get to the market. So I transferred them inside and let them sleep for about 45 minutes, because even that, I knew, was going to wreak havoc on their nighttime sleep. I tried to wake them gently. “Hey guys! Do you guys want to have Popsicles and play with Tab [the girl across the street]?” They both muttered no and went back to sleep. I kept working on them, chanting, “Popsicles! The big lime ones! Popsicles
! Popsicles!” until I finally got them up.

We sat on the porch with Tab, had some Popsicles in the brutal heat, and then the kids wanted to play. I made the highly unreasonable request that before Doodles play in the yard, he put on shoes. After all, there is a lot of construction going on on our street. So he went inside. To pout. For forty-five minutes. And I finally said to him, “Look, if you’re going to be in a bad mood anyway, then I’m cutting your nails,” something he hates and dreads and detests, probably as much as I hate the eye doctor. But I’m just a horrible person that way, insisting that when his nails get to be more than 1/2 an inch long that they need to be cut.

So we had a Doodles meltdown. And Pie, who was unhappy that I went inside to retrieve Doodles, decided to have a meltdown too. So Beetle and Tab are on the front porch swing, reading a Junie B. Jones book, while my kids are writhing all over the front porch, screaming the kind of screams that, if I had heard someone else’s kids screaming, I would have called DSS on the parents. And that’s when Beetle said to me, “You should blog about this today.” Which I’m doing. So blame this entry on the Beetle. I’m going to bed.

Another 4th of July, another year of missed fireworks. I used to love going to see fireworks in New York, when they set them off at the very reasonable hour of 9 p.m. Here in Boston land, they don’t start until 10:30 in order to air them on national TV. But I don’t get it–D.C. and New York are also on national TV and they put on fireworks before everyone wants to go to bed.

We had a dreary rainy day, but that didn’t stop the kids from gathering for our neighborhoods official unofficial 4th of July bike parade. It’s an extremely casual thing. Meet up at the school. Say the Pledge of Allegiance. Bike a few blocks in the neighborhood. Someone up front carries a flag. Someone in the middle pushes a stroller with a boom box blaring patriotic songs strapped in. After we’re done, back to the school where we all share snacks that we brought. Fine and dandy. Adam pushed Pie on her trike. Doodles, two-wheelin’ stud that he is, took off at the front. That kid was flying. Which is why it was no surprise that he completely wiped out and now had a bad case of road rash on his cheek. I got him fixed up and he somehow managed to force himself back to the school for snack. He promised that a Rice Krispie treat would make him feel better. Oh, wait, the Popsicle would do the trick. Nope, nothing. The kid was in a sour mood all day. Even during our ever-so-wonderful 4th of July BBQ. He perked up only to become absolutely wild with one of his friends, but the minute she left, he was back to his crankmeister self. I felt so bad about his spill that I turned a total blind eye as the kid devoured cookies, chocolate-covered pretzels, and cupcakes, but the kid was still ornery. I still felt really badly for him and told him he could stay up late for fireworks (not the Boston ones, mind you, but the reasonably timed ones on TV), but he ended crashing at his normal bedtime.

But not the Pie! She ate. And ate. And ate. And ate. She played with friends a little, and her grandmother a lot. She ate some more. She took a walk. And then had more to eat. She got to stay up way past her bedtime, and when we finally insisted after 8 p.m. that she had to go to bed, she exclaimed, “Wait! We forgot to have dinner!” She was not happy to learn the kitchen was closed for the evening.

I hope everyone had a very happy 4th. And that you got to watch fireworks. And that no one forgot any meals in your house.

Adam: Doodles! Get upstairs and get dressed!
Doodles: I can't! Pie and I are in space!
Adam: Now!

Doodles and Pie get dressed. They head back downstairs.

Doodles: We're going on a mission!
Pie, following him: Yeah, we're going to get married.

If that doesn't sum up their personality differences, I don't know
what does.

Conversation from last week:

Me: Do you want to get Daddy something for Father’s Day?
Doodles: I know what to get him!
Me: Are you going to make him a card?
Doodles: No, we should get him something.
Me: What?
Doodles: A baby!
Me: What do you mean?
Doodles: We should have another baby!
Me: Where would this baby come from?
Doodles: Your belly.
Me: By Sunday?
Doodles: Sure!
Me: I’m not having another baby. And even if I were, it wouldn’t get here by Sunday.
Doodles: Just try, Mom.

I’m at that point of parenthood where when my son asks at 1:11 in the afternoon if he can take off his clothes so he can marry his sister, I don’t even look up when I say, “Sure.”

I also say ridiculous things like, “I’ve told you! No shoes upstairs on the carpet! I want to keep this carpet clean! Now go downstairs while I finish cleaning your pee out of the rug.”

Pie’s new thing: “When I’m big…” All of these uttered at random within the past four days: “When I’m big can I drive?” “When I’m big can I paint your toes?” “When I’m big, can I have coffee?”

The most popular song these days for naked tushie dancing is Cake’s “The Distance.” Pie calls it “the flag song” and she holds a plastic Israeli flag left over from Yom ha’Atzmaut as she listens. The second “the flags go up” is sung, she raises her little flag, giggles, and says, “Play it again.” The other day, I heard Doodles explaining to his friend what the song is about: “This song is about someone riding a horse and he lost his cup.”

Do you remember way back when on game shows when one of the prizes offered was a shopping spree? Someone would have ten or fifteen minutes to run through a store and throw as much stuff as s/he could into the shopping cart. Well, that’s what shopping has become like for me. I went to TJ Maxx today to make a return, and as I’m desperate for some new summer togs, I decided to check out the clothes. The other problem was, I had Thing One and Thing Two with me. Thing Two in particular was a bit trying. I didn’t have to worry about losing her–her ear-piercing screeches (“Aieeeee!”) as she ran from one end of the store to the other was as good as any homing device.
Me: Pie, stop running. Pie, use your walking feet. Doodles, tell your sister to get back here. Pie, get back here. Pie, use your indoor voice. Pie, walking feet! Pie, you are going to lose your playdate if you don’t get over her right now! Doodles, go get your sister.
Meanwhile, I’m walking through the aisles, grabbing anything that looks remotely interesting and remotely in my size and tossing it over my arm. God forbid I hold anything up to me, never mind even try it on.
Pie: Mommy! Is that for me?
Doodles: No, Pie. It’s for Mommy. It’s all for Mommy.
Pie: Buy me something! Buy me something!
Me: You’ll get stuff for your birthday!
Doodles: Mommy can I get–
Me: No.
Doodles: But–
Me: No. For your birthday.
Pie: Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY! Look! LOOK! They have PRINCESS PAJAMAS! Mommy, can I have princess pajamas? I want princess pajamas. Can I have princess pajamas? Please? Please? Please? Puh-leeeeeeeeeeeeeease? Can I have princess pajamas? Can I?
Me: For your birthday.
Pie: Can I have them Right Now?
Me: No. For your birthday.
Pie: I want princess pajamas. Can I have princess pajamas? Please? Please? Please? Puh-leeeeeeeeeeeeeease? Can I have princess pajamas? Can I?
Me: For your birthday.
Pie: Okay. For my birthday.
Me: Good girl.
Pie: For my birthday. Can you buy them now?
Me: No!
On my arm is very random assortment of clothes. I pay for them as my kids threaten to bring down the rope barriers holding up the aisles. Suddenly, I hear another screech.
Pie: Mommy! Mommy! Look at the backpacks! Look, Mommy! Hannah Montana backpacks!
Doodles, excited: She’s right, Mommy! Hannah Montana backpacks.
I halt. I turn to Pie.
Me: How the hell do you know who Hannah Montana is?
Pie shrugs. I turn to Doodles.
Me: How does she know who Hannah Montana is?
Doodles shrugs: I don’t know. But you know, she’s a real person! She’s a real concert singing person.
Pie: Yeah! A concert singing person.
Me, mumbling, as I hand the credit card to the sales clerk for a pile of clothes that I’ll more likely than not be returning: She knows Hannah Montana.
We retreat to the car. I swear not to shop with them again. Not at least until these clothes need to be returned and I still don’t have anything to wear.

I find it hard to post when Adam’s out of town–as he is again. Normally, throughout the day, when I’m supposed to post, I think, “I can blog about X. Maybe I’ll blog about Y.” But when Adam’s gone, only one thought runs in my head, all day, the constant refrain, starting at 7 a.m.: “Only twelve hours till they go to bed. Only eleven hours and forty-three minutes till they go to bed. Only…” And then when it’s finally the magic hour, we are inevitably running behind because it always takes 27 minutes longer to get anything done than I think. And then, once they’re finally in bed, I have to convince them to sleep. When that’s finally done, I think, “Hmm, blog? Or that case of wine Adam bought last weekend?” I’ll sit here and blog till the wine kicks in.

Today was Pie’s last day of preschool for the year, and tomorrow is Doodles’s last day of preschool… forever. We had his “kindergarten chat” yesterday and the chat itself–with one of the teachers–went just fine, but when he saw all the “big kids,” he totally froze up. I felt so bad for the little guy. Adam and I talked about holding Doodles back from kindergarten, but he’s clearly ready to go. And even if we held Doodles back three years, well, he’d still be the shortest kid in the class. That’s just the way genetics work, kid.

I had this angsty moment, as I got all worked up about the last day of preschool, the end of toddlerhood, the beginning of kindergarten, and then it hit me… I’m going to be having these angsty moments now for the rest of my life. There’s always going to be that next big thing they grow out of/into. First day of kindergarten. First time they have a sleep over. First time they have a crush. The last day of elementary school, middle school, high school…. Getting ready for camp, college, first day of work. The first time they travel without me and Adam. Some of the milestones, I won’t even be aware that it’s the last time, until the pangs hit me in retrospect. The last time they’re small enough for me to carry. The last time they crawl into our bed at night. The last time they cuddle down and beg me to read them a story.

So, I’ll just do what moms have been doing for generations. I’m going to pour myself another glass of wine.

We went to Storyland last weekend. Overall it was a successful trip. No meltdowns. The kids loved the rides and the shows. We all ate too much junk food. Driving up, though, we crossed the bridge just before the New Hampshire border (in this picture). Doodles was thrilled. “Look, Mommy!”

“What?” I asked.

He exclaimed happily, “It’s the Triboro Bridge!”

Ah, the sense of direction of his father. Next time the kid misbehaves, I’ll simply spin him around three times and threaten to make him find his own way home.

End of school year time. I’m up to my ears in projects for the preschool. I should be sleeping–I miss my sleep–but I’m too anal not to do these projects right. I’m also about to have my hands full of children. However, the prospect isn’t as daunting as it seemed even a few weeks ago. Pie and I have come to some sort of unspoken agreement, and it seems to be working. (Does blogging count as speaking? If so, then it shall no longer be unspoken.) Basically, I let Pie get away with whatever she wants, and she no longer makes my life a living hell. For instance, we’re skipping the “sleep in your own bed” charade. Pie goes directly to our bed, do not pass go, do not collect $200. In order to avoid jealousy, Doodles beds down in a sleeping bag on the floor of our room.

In return, I’ve had three–yes, three!–days of no diapers. That’s right. Pie declared on Monday, “No more diapers for me, Mommy.” And she’s been an underwear girl since. Few accidents along the way, but nothing too serious. She’s also getting much better about actually speaking to me (as opposed to grunting and temper tantruming) so we have conversations in which I can understand what she wants. She’s gotten uber-polite about all sorts of things (“Mommy, thank you for getting me dressed.” “Mommy, thank you for putting a towel down for me to sit on” [that last one when I didn’t want to risk my chair for the sake of her underwear]).

And she and Doodles are getting along as well as ever. He’s erupting into kid, and as such is giving me more grief as Pie gives me less, but overall, he’s workable. There are certain things he wants that I control (TV, computer time, bike riding time, playdates), so he’s willing to work the system. He’s taking lots of “big kid” leaps–besides losing the training wheels, he can now tie his own shoes, read a simple book, jump into the pool without freaking, and he’s attempting more foods on his own.

I’ve been so focused on the progress of Doodles–end of preschool, getting ready for kindergarten–that it slipped my mind until this morning that Pie is about to leave toddlerhood. She’ll be an honest to goodness preschooler in a few months. Which is great. Because it means that I’ll have a preschooler and a kid sleeping in my room. That’s progress. Right?