A Sign of Things to Come?

Need I say more?

First Day of the Rest of Her Life

I'm embarrassed that I have not yet blogged about Felicity going to preschool. What kind of a mother doesn't write these things down? Obviously, this kind of mother. Anyway, Felicity's first day of preschool was sort of anticlimactic. I hadn't heard when it was going to be starting, so I didn't want to tell her she was going and then have a case of Major Disappointment on my hands if it was, in fact, not. So I got her and Xander dressed, took a few pictures just in case this really was THE DAY, then dropped Xander off at my MIL's. The whole time Felicity kept asking "where are we going?" to which I kept answering "um...I don't know". She now has that my-mother-is-retarded look down to an art form, thanks to that morning. In true Hannah form we arrived at her preschool half an hour late to discover that preschool was indeed starting that day. Felicity promptly ran to the dress-up boxes as if there were some sort of three-year-old homing beacon implanted in her cerebral cortex. I decided to stick around for the morning to make sure Felicity felt comfortable and to see what she was going to need to bring every day. I'm not the most naturally organized person, so being able to see how her day would be structured really helped me be able to plan ahead.

There are two teachers, Miss Kristi and Miss Hazel. Hazel has actually been working with this program for quite a while, although she had taken a bit of a break to stay home with her kids. Kristi is (I think) the head teacher, and she is awesome. They both have so much patience it is unbelievable and honestly, it puts me to shame.

So, shockingly, Felicity absolutely loves it. After the second day, when we were putting her to bed that night, she prayed "please Jesus, thank you that Felicity goes to school, and have dressups, and tea party, and playdough, and tables, and books, and snacks, and Miss Kristy, and Miss Hazel, and all my friends, and dressups. Amen." Apparently we no longer make the list, but that's okay, because it tells me two things. One, she loves her school and she's not freaked out. Two, she knows that when she prays she's actually talking to someone, not just repeating what her parents tell her to say. Sometimes there is nothing better than a three-year-old.

On the other hand, she revealed to me yesterday that she asked a boy in her class to marry her. From what I understand at first he laughed, and then he said no, so he's obviously an idiot. At some point in this verbal transaction she either kissed him or tried to kiss him, I'm not sure. When she told David it threw him into a total conniption, particularly because she couldn't remember the little boy's name. She's kissing BOYS! On the playground!! AND SHE DOESN'T EVEN REMEMBER THEIR NAMES!!! She then told me later that her and Xander were playing the "mommy daddy doctor game", at which point David asked to go lie down. With some clever questioning I was able to deduce that the "mommy daddy doctor game" involved brushing your teeth and going to bed. I think I'll wait a few days to tell David.

I think the only thing that makes all of this bittersweet is that it's the beginning of at least fourteen years of school. Fourteen years of classes, homework, teachers, other kids, summer vacations, detention, honour roll. It's the best of times and the worst of times, and I've never felt more protective of her than I do right now. But she could really love it. She could even be really good at it, and do her homework, and not skip class to go shopping. It's the hope and the possibility that she could be better at this than I was that pushes me to let her go.

Felicity of the North

One of the nice things about David's job is that not only is his regular uniform provided, now that we're up north he also gets what they call a Winter Kit. It includes not only a massive down-filled parka and mukluks, but also this cosy yet stylish fur hat. This way he can practice his male modeling skills and keep Dease Lake safe all at the same time. Your tax dollars at work.

Worst. Haircut. Ever.

Why? Why do I try? One look at Xander's cornsilk hair projecting past his ears and those clippers literally start screaming my name from the bathroom cabinet. And every time I sit him in his little high chair and start one of his favourite movies, I think to myself "this kid is going to look AWESOME!". It's also always at night during the post-dinner dip in my blood pressure, and it's always in bad lighting. So why am I surprised the next day to find that his hair is not as AWESOME as I had imagined?

One of the many perks of motherhood is getting cool little household toys, like hand-held vacuums and swiffer dusters. And clippers. If I thought my husband would still sleep in the same house as me I would totally shave my head just for the pure joy of using these clippers. So that's the other draw of cutting Xander's hair, plus after a few minutes he doesn't seem to mind so much.

If I ever call you and utter the words "and tomorrow I'm going to cut Xander's hair" please ask me to hand the phone to my husband, then instruct him to hide the sacred clippers. Think of the children.