6/10/2012

Monthly Miles Memo #53

Filed under: — Aprille @ 3:24 pm

My special Miles,

I know I should probably wait until your birthday to reflect on the previous year, but the end of the school year has made me stop and think about all the things that have happened in the last 12 months.  A year ago, we were in Puerto Rico.  It was a lovely vacation, and we had lots of fun, but just about every night we were there, I lay in bed and cried.  I knew that the Monday after we came back, you would start preschool.

It didn’t help that I was in my third trimester of pregnancy with your brother.  I’m sure I wouldn’t have cried nearly as much about a problem that didn’t even definitely exist if I’d been at normal hormonal levels.  But still, I was sick about it.  Why did no one warn me that having a child would mean reliving every nervousness and homesickness I’d ever felt?  I worked hard to hide those feelings from you, because I wanted you to have a good attitude about school.  I knew it was a great school and that you’d do fine after you got used to it.  You’re the kind of person who needs a lot of structure and order, who likes to know what’s going to happen ahead of time.  I did my best to explain what your school day would be like, but I didn’t know every detail.  We both did our best to be brave.

You had a few bouts of tears your first week, but I bet the total volume I cried was higher.  Soon, you were joining in like one of the gang.  You made new friends, developed new skills, and most importantly gained a lot of confidence.  You finished the regular school year like it was no big deal.  When summer session began this week, there were some new kids in your class.  Just like you last summer, they needed some help adjusting.  After the first day of summer session, which of course you handled like an old pro, I asked you if you’d met any new friends.  You told me you did, and that you were extra helpful to them because they were still learning about how school works.  You said you remembered Gideon and Everett being nice to you when you were new, and you wanted to do the same for your new friends.

I’m more proud of that than the fact that you can read.

First day of school, 6/2011, and last day of school, 5/2012.

Did I mention you can read?

You’ve known all the letters and sounds for ages, but your dad has recently started challenging you with some really tough words made from your alphabet blocks.  You successfully sounded out popcorn, laptop, and computer.  A day or two later, we stopped by the library to sign up for the summer reading program.  At the librarian’s suggestion, we got a book meant for new readers, and you handled it really well.  Sometimes you try to go too fast and guess what the word is rather than sounding it out, but your dad reminds you to slow down, look at one word at a time, and digest the information.

You earned a smiley check for completing the story.  A smiley check is a check in the good behavior column on a chart I made, which is having a moderate amount of success.  A threat of a frowny check is a pretty good deterrent when you’re edging into poor behavior territory, and you’re very proud of the fact that your smiley checks outnumber your frowny checks.  You wanted to keep reading so you could pile up the smileys.  We’ve promised you a prize in exchange for earning twenty smiley checks, which you reached quite some time ago.  You decided on a trip to the movies, which we’ve postponed until the movie Brave comes to theaters in a couple of weeks.  Mostly, though, you seem to want the smileys for their own sake.  You get a real thrill out of running over to the refrigerator and totaling them up.

Yesterday you got three frowny checks.  That’s a lot for one day.  I think maybe you ate too much junk food, and it addled your brain.  Today’s going better.

Photo by Gary Clarke

The afternoons can stretch out on these warm days, and we’ve been occupying ourselves with trips to the Flavor Ice stand, the faraway playground, Hy-Vee, and the library.  You also enjoy renting a movie (often The Incredibles, which I finally bought because renting it for $1.99 a pop was adding up) and having popcorn.  You like to help me make the popcorn, which we do just like I used to with Skittergramps when I was a little girl.  We pour in the oil, sprinkle in three popcorn kernels, and crank the stirring mechanism.  You get so excited when the three test kernels pop, and you especially like it when the full quantity starts popping like crazy.

I can’t promise I’m never going to cry again about the things you’ll face in the world.  What if we end up sending you to public school for kindergarten and it’s weird?  What if you refuse to ever eat at school and you starve to death?  What if kids are mean to you?  What if you’re mean to other kids?  What if you never, ever, ever learn to use a Kleenex correctly?

Still, every hurdle you clear gives me confidence that you’re going to be all right.  You’ve got a smart brain in your skull, and despite the mildly sociopathic tendencies that crop up in you and most four-year-olds, I think you have a kind heart.  I love how you protect your brother (when you’re not busy swiping toys from him).  I love how you get excited for bedtime because you enjoy reading stories and cuddling with me.  I love that you’re learning and growing all the time, even if you’ll only eat noodles.

Nothing could have prepared me for you, Miles.  The strength of my love for you makes me gasp sometimes.  You’re my Technicolor Land of Oz, curled-up witch’s feet and all.

Photo by Gary Clarke

Love,

Mommy

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