By The Way...

I got home late from a Yoga class, but when I peeked in on Little One, She was still up.
She was pretending to read. But really, She was sulking.
I asked Her what was up.  She was upset because the school Basketball Game and Party was that night, and She was missing it.  And J and I didn't even CARE!
I had heard something about this event at some point in time and that's about all I could relate to this issue.
A hard part about Little One's new school being so far away, is that I am hardly ever there. I pick Her up at the bus stop, on this side of town, so I don't have much opportunity to interact with the staff or other parents, and gave up months ago on the PTA, so I'm pretty disconnected from the school as a microcosm.  The fliers She gets almost never come home on time, if at all.  They get colored on or torn up in games on the bus, or they sit in Her cubby before She remembers to pack them.  Sometimes I forget to check Her backpack.
I feel terrible about all this of course, so the Mama guilt kicked in right away.
I immediately checked my phone for the email about this event, and to our mutual relief, it was actually happening the next night.  I was reading the notice out loud.  They also still needed bake sale items and someone to sing to National Anthem at the big parents vs teachers basketball game.
Little One, who believe it or not has struggled with massive stage fright for a long time now, shocked me by saying, "Well maybe I could do that". 
"You would like to sing the Anthem for your school? For everyone?"
"Yeah....you know, mom.  I have some bad stage fright.  But...but I think...I think if I just go up there, and just give it a big try and like, go for it, you know...I think I could do it."  
I was so surprised, and so excited to hear this inkling of confidence from the Little One who somewhere around 6 hit the massive brick wall of realization that She cared what other people think of Her, that I instantly replied "Of course you could! That's just great! I'll see if they still need a singer".  And I sent that email right off.
*THEN I bothered to ask if She knew the song.*
How is it possible that the public school system, her family and friends, and J and I, have all so epically failed at teaching this kid the Star Spangled Banner?! Doesn't everyone know that song? I mean, the kid is American.  It should just BE in there somewhere.  Right?!
Nope.  She had never even heard of it.
So imagine my predicament, when I got an email the next morning, after I'd packed Her off on the bus, saying how happy the organizers were to have a singer, and to meet them at 6:15 sharp by the stage to get Her set up with the microphone.
Hmm.  I thought this over.  Sure, the reasonable thing would have been to politely withdraw the offer, seeing as how it would be hard for Little One to sing a whole song She'd never even heard.  But have we ever known me to be a reasonable person?  Nope.
This was an Opportunity.  I could hear it.  It was totally knocking.  And we also all know how I feel about those.  So here is the crazy thing I did.
I emailed the school, and said that Little One had "an appointment", and I'd be there to pick Her up.  In 30 minutes.  And then I did; I took Her out of school in the middle of the day.  She had an appointment all right.  With destiny, guys.
Ok, well.  With me.  An appointment with me, in the basement.
Little One and I spent the whole afternoon learning and practicing the Star Spangled Banner.  We listened to it on repeat during dinner, and all the way to the school.
We brought the music we'd printed at home, and shyly approached the MC.  He showed Her the microphone, and asked Her to say "testing".
She was horrified. She couldn't even look at it. Like a toddler, She hid Her face in my shirt, and wouldn't even speak.  The guy looked at me with the fear in his eyes of a man realizing he had made a terribly rash decision.  I smiled at him.  "We'll be fine.  Come get us when it's time, k?"  And I pulled Her outside.  She sang it for me twice, with all the right notes and words.  We went in and waited.
Finally She was called over, and we sat together at the front of the gym, while the bleachers filled and the players were announced.  She hummed nervously and every 10 seconds or so made a funny squeaking noise and pressed Her face into my neck whimpering "I can't! I just can't! I can't ever do this! Oh no. I can't do it!" 
"Whatever happens, just be confident.  Get up there and have fun with your great new song. You can do it." 
Her name was announced and She squeezed my hand tight.
"Oh no!"
She was frozen.  I picked Her up and set Her on Her feet.
She turned to run!
I put a hand on Her shoulder and looked as calm as humanly possible.  I was like a freaked out teenager trying to be cool. Heeey man.  No big deal. Nooo big deal.
I looked Her right in the eyes.  "Go for it." 
She looked right back at me. Took a deep breath.  And stepped up to the mic.
She looked at the many dozens of people in the stands.  Her teacher, Her fiends, strangers.  She looked at Her music.
And She sang.
She sang the first line beautifully.  After that, She got the words right, and sort of marched to the beat of Her own drummer with the melody.  But She never faltered or paused; She stood there and She sang it out.
The fans cheered.  She smiled.  She ran off to watch the game with Her friends.
On the way home, I told Her how I was so proud of Her.

"Really, mom? Even though...I got all the notes wrong." 

"But you told me that you were scared to do it.  You said you had 'stage fright'.  And still, you worked hard to learn this new song, and then you didn't let yourself down.  You got up there and you did it.  I always tell you to be brave.  Brave doesn't mean to never feel nervous or afraid, brave is to do what you have to do, what is right, and what you love and want to do, even when you ARE scared. Tonight you were brave. I am proud of you."

I am kind of amazed by Her.  I would not have been the least bit upset if She'd backed out at any moment.  But She never did.  How many of us would be willing to put ourselves out there like that? I'll be honest.  She's braver than I am.
It's true, pulling a kid out of school to teach them a song isn't exactly on the list of allowable excused absences.
But, I argue, learning Her national anthem is an educational activity.  And besides that, today She also learned how to overcome a fear.  How to work hard for something and not give up on it, how to do something She cared about without being stymied by what others might think of Her; how to be brave.  How to hear an opportunity knocking, and open up the door. Pretty good for a day's work, if you ask me.
Good work, my little American cutie pie.  You belong right here, in the land of the free.  Home of the brave.

I was doing dishes while Mr napped.  Suddenly I heard Him singing.  I smiled.  He does that all the time, just wakes up and entertains Himself with His own personalized soundtrack for awhile before calling me to get Him up.  But then I stopped smiling and got a dumb confused look on instead.  Because why did He sound so close?  And getting closer?
I stepped out into the living room, and there He was.

C: "Mister! How did you get out of your crib? You're supposed to be napping!" 

Mr: "Well now, Mommy. I counted, a 10. 9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1, and count a 1-2-3. And that's a long TIME, a long of SECONDS, and is ENOUGH napping, and well, Mommy. I just a busy guy. Got some trucks here."

And just like that he went off to make a train out of trucks.  
I knew it was the end of an era, but I didn't realize how serious it was.  
Because that night, I put Him in bed like always, and like always He pulled the blankets up to His chin, rolled over onto His side, and went to sleep.  Maybe it was a one time thing.
But later, the peace of the morning was shattered, sort of literally, by the sound of a huge crash, something glass smashing, and then, after the briefest vacuum of silence (all parents know the terror of this moment), the hysterical screaming of my son.  
Peanuts you can believe I was on my feet and across the house before my brain had even fully registered those sounds.  
There are moments (many while driving in DC traffic) in which I have to believe in guardian angels, because nothing else can explain the miraculous escape from injury.  This was totally one of those times.  
Little Mister rose from the midst of epic wreckage like a giant at the end of a good smiting.  There were broken shards of green, a storm of pennies and quarters, and scattered random keys and little things.  Oh.  And an iPad.  
Mister had awakened first, let Himself out of bed, and wandered out of His room to spy an iPad sitting on the high shelf over our entry table.  It was up there, of course, to be out of sight, out of mind, out of reach.
He pushed a big chair over to the table, climbed up, and must have stood on His very tip-toes on that narrow table to reeeeaaaaaach for His prize.  Something went wrong there, because the iPad, the shelf, the Boy, and the big ceramic dish full of change all took a big leap into the arms of gravity and hit the linoleum by the front door.  Pennies for miles.  Pennies for days.  Pennies in places we didn't know we could find pennies. 
And that dish.  J and I got that dish in a small village outside Budapest, on one of the best trips we've ever had.  I kept it over the doorway so I could see it throughout the day.  It reminded me of a beautiful, peaceful place, and a time when J and I were so happy there was actual bliss going on, guys.   It was our first trip as parents on our own, such a wonderful adventure we promised ourselves we'd do one every year.  
Well, we modified that promise due to Life.  But the dish stayed the same, and was a special piece of proof that the whole dream really happened.  Also, it was really pretty.  
Still, as I looked at the splinters of it while folding my crying son into my lap, all I could be was thankful that the dish got broken, and not Little Mister.  He somehow emerged without a scratch or bruise.  
Somethings can't be replaced, like intrepid little boys who try to steal illicit material while their parents are sleeping.  
I can't exactly replace that hand-thrown dish either.  But as I swept up the pieces, I called to mind all the memories of our trip and tried to tuck them into my mind somewhere they won't get lost.  The memories don't mean less because their icon is gone.  Honestly, I would have kept that dish.  It would have been one of the things that would be too hard not to keep.  But life and Mister did it for me.  Thanks for the assist guys!
As for that Mister, He won the freedom of His Big Boy Bed.  Sometimes He wakes up ready for action in the wee hours and terrorizes us by jumping on our heads or pitter-pattering up and down the hall at 3am. But for the most part, He just sleeps. Like the big two-year old boy He is, somehow and all the sudden.  
So. I had this pretty Hungarian ceramic.  I had this little baby, this last little baby, sleeping in a crib.  
I let them go.  

Bet you thought this was going to be some Disney Frozen thing, huh?
Well with three kids under 8, that's a safe bet.  But nope.  Although I do like warm hugs.
In my effort to (literally and figuratively) lighten loads around here, I've made a pact with J to take very little with us to Japan.  No furniture.  No knick-knacky stuff.  No "for fancy times" or "holiday times" or "in case we ever need it times" stuff.  I have no idea whether we can pull off a minimalist lifestyle with 3 little kids and my strong subconscious impulse to save everything and get attached to everything and get things at the thrift store for no other reason that it was 50 cents and a nice shade of blue.  But we can try, right? Moving to a place where some people live in houses the size of a typical American linen closet seems like a great impetus to give it a go.
I love my kids' childhoods so much; I love to look at tiny outfit or a little toy and remember each of my Littles at an even littler age, when they were so teensy and wearing this or playing with that.
But even if we did one day add another little to the mix, after raising three (plus bananas) for a while now, we know this secret.  It's a secret that the baby-shower-planners and registries don't like to share, but it's a truth.  Which is that, really, you hardly need any stuff to have a baby.  Some diapers and bottles and a handful of outfits, all of which will get stained by some lord-knows-what anyways.
We could probably scrounge that much up if we ever needed to.
The point being, I don't need to save ALL of the cute things my kids have ever touched.  Some things are harder to let go than others, of course.  The outfits they barely wore before growing out of them and the toys that make REALLY LOUD REPETITIVE NOISES, for instance, are much easier to say goodbye to than the first Christmas dress or the chair I rocked them all to sleep in.  So I started with the easy stuff.  Baby steps, we might say.
I took loads of stuff to a consignment sale last month, and am happy that a whole bunch of toys and games will be traveling soon to the new AFC community center in Ethiopia. We've been arbitrarily passing stuff out to friends.  Oh, you like that rocking horse?  Great.  Take it home!
It's true I started out gently, but so far it has been a relief to send things off to a new home.  We appreciated all that kid stuff when we needed it and used it, but it should be appreciated again by someone else who isn't too big for it.  So, I packed it off and it felt like a first step on a new journey.  A step closer to Japan, to a new life, to a new kind of living, maybe.  We used to have all that outgrown kid stuff sitting our my basement.  But we let it go.

All from the mouth of Mister:

People can't grow wings.
We look the same as we age, just maybe a little softer around the edges, maybe we fade a bit.
But that's just the outside, though.  The most substantial part of people is the inside stuff.  All kinds of things can happen in the soul parts.
For me, the year I turned 21 was a moment in time I look back on as a chrysalis in my life.  I was pretty colorful before that I think- a topic for other days- but that was the year I stopped crawling around as usual, took stock of my surroundings, the season, and the direction of the wind, sunk into myself awhile, and emerged at the end of the year an altogether different creature.
It was the year I grew my inside wings.
That was the year I learned to Take Things On.  It was the year I became suddenly aware, like a new butterfly finally rising above it's old leaf to see the wide horizons, of the wider world around me and my little place in it. The year I figured out what mattered to me, and what kind of me I wanted to become, the year I Grew Up.
I found that I had strength; not just one kind, but many, and that I could Do Things. I could take steps and get to where I wanted to go, all on my own.  That year I felt that the world and life were huge and limitless, and so was I.  The year I turned 21 I broke out of the cocoon and took off into life knowing that I Can.
Since then, in my own small way, I have made a point of flying towards the things that matter most to me, and while I have made mistakes sometimes, and sacrificed some things for others, I have tried to lean into the wind, to take opportunities before they pass by, to do my best, operating under the assumption that I Can.
A decade later, it's been another defining year for me.  That last year, we lost six close family members, and our dog.  We had some major unexpected financial blows.  I became a working mom- and a full-time, at-home mom- at the same time, and J took on the dreaded Residency. We were far from family during the year we wished most to be near them for so many reasons. Still settling in from our last move, we learned we are moving this summer to Japan- both a great adventure and a major change. I had a year of health problems including a sudden unplanned surgery right at the most demanding time of year at my job, and the Littles needed us more as there was less of us to go around.
I kept leaning into that wind, repeating at my desk at four in the morning "I Can", repeating as I raced from PTA meetings to phone conferences to the grocery store "I Can", repeating as I tried to entertain Mister during a 3 hour bank meeting followed by medical appointments and cooking dinner while J was working a 90 hour week, "I Can. I Can".   I was still calling out instructions for volunteers and reminding J about piano lessons literally as I was wheeled into surgery.  I spent the day I was released from the hospital framing artwork with a team of people in my basement, and twice ripped open my stitches carrying Mister as I hurried from here to there because "I Can" had become "I Must".
I woke up in 2016 and it had been a really long time since I'd written a blog post or put a photo in an album and I wanted to say something to commemorate the year.  But looking back, being real and honest... I would say that if I'll always remember 21 as the year I found myself, I think I will always remember 33 as the year I found my limits.
This was the year I realized I even had limits.  I've learned that I can only "I Can" until.... I can't.
So this was also the year that I learned to accept help.  And, ok, to beg for it sometimes.  I learned to lower my expectations (so. much. lower.) It has been the year I learned how to say "no thanks".  Even when I wanted to say "yes".
I  have learned that I can ignore my limitations, or I can glare at them, hating them, and there they still are. So instead of continuing to beat my wings against the glass, I am trying to take stock of my surroundings, the season, and the direction of the wind.  Sink into myself for awhile.  I'm not exactly sure what I will be when I come out on the other side- I'm still metamorphosing over here.
But after reviewing that last year, and looking ahead to the next one, I keep getting the feeling that whatever the answers are, they have something to do with Letting Things Go.  To not have quite so much to carry.
Maybe I'll come out on the other side of this Defining Time with more streamlined wings- or without any.  Maybe there will be something even better. Who knows?
If I have to grow older and stay boringly similar on the outside, at least on the inside, I can keep changing, evolving, growing...or ungrowing and getting simpler, lighter instead.
I guess it's part of the transformation that I used to never want to say openly "this is hard".  But in the last two years, I have, because I had to- it was the truth.  I definitely needed not to say "This is TOO hard", because that's a slippery slope into words I needed not to think, much less say outright.  "I Can't".  So sometimes I just didn't say anything at all.  But you know.  Sometimes I Can't.  Sometimes I just Can't.  So I think I will start this new stage in life, whatever it may be, with getting a little lighter:
I used to have this need to I Can all the time.  I let it go.

The birthdays always bring me back.  And this Little Mister had a big one in December- Two.
As He will tell you, proudly, brandishing an arbitrary number of fingers like He's displaying the ark of the covenant, "Ine TWO!"
What a Two He is, too.
Little Mister has had the effect on our family of figuratively (and very nearly literally) turning the entire house upside down and inside out.  He rips through our lives like a two-foot tall tornado that sings, leaving a trail of mess and chaos, and all of us feeling like maybe we just got off a carnival ride we don't remember getting in line for.
The thing about Him though, is that we turn to scold Him for it, and find this golden-haired angel, beaming at us with big innocent eyes, saying things like, "Ah wuv oo!" "cuddle time!" "sungle me up!" and then showering you with hugs and kisses and sighs of "MAma home!" (or Daddy, or Sister, or MissMiss, or whoever you may be).
This deep appreciation for your existence and generosity of affection entirely stuns the brain so that all you can do is melt into a puddle of warm-fuzzies and bask in the adoration.
Then, He's off to get Himself some milk (He does that), and you turn around, and through the stars in your eyes see the wreckage He he's trailed behind Him in a swath of destruction.  Argh.  That Mister.
What can we do with Him?!
He's impossible because He's impossibly sweet.  He's not so much rebellious as just spring-loaded. The absolute best way to imagine Mister, if you haven't met Him, is to envision the personification of a big bottle of soda-pop, having just been vigorously shaken.  So, so sweet.  SO about to explode all over everything.

His big achievements at two are:

Total mastery of the limbs
-From climbing and running and monkey bars to delicately removing the loose screws from whatever-it-is, Mister has the motor skills checked off the list.

The Alphabet
-uppercase, lowercase, spoken or sung- this kid rocks His letters and He's plenty proud to show you.

Counting (except for 14 and 15)
-He can get to 30, but 14 and 15 are usually a stumble, and after 10 the written form gets mixed up.

Shapes and Colors
-Thanks to bossy sisters, Mister knows not just His primaries, but His teals, lavenders, and fuchsias.  He thinks carefully if you ask Him what color something is, because He knows that if He calls turquoise green, He is going to hear about it.
-He's good with the basic shapes, kites, and pentagons, because He has a puzzle that says so and He has a small love affair with all puzzles of all kinds.

Headstands
-Thanks in part to His beloved gymnastics class and in part to His two personal coaches (Missy and Little One), Mister's favorite party trick for guests is "looka me this!" and running to the sofa or wall to do a headstand.  If you don't notice at first, no problem.  He'll just stay like that, turning red, until you notice.

The Potty.
-Unless He's busy and having fun. In which case He does not mind being wet so long as the train tracks link up so that the bridge connects to the whatever.  Fortunately, we have left the days of stinky pants far behind, but being dry all day still requires a lot of reminding and cajoling.

the iEverything
- Sigh.  I did all I could to keep screen time from Him entirely until He turned two, but He has seen all of us on a phone or tablet at some time, and so such devices have held this mystique that He is obsessed with.  Turn around for one moment and your phone is gone.  Wait, what? Wasn't it just here? Wait, what? Who emailed my boss from my account to say "asdfsgjgwieortjjdhfgjnfverBBB43fi9g"?!   And why is it so quiet....  oh there you are, Mr.  Hiding under my bed/in the closet/behind the sofa.  How did I find you? Must have been your giddy conversation with your crush, Siri.

The mastery of His sisters
This guy.  His sisters are basically the minions to His super villain.  The pawns to His king.  The tweens to His bieber concert.  And He knows it.  "Sissy, hab some?" blink blink.  Whatever they were eating is now His.  "Sissy, my want it.  Give me toy please".  His.  And I can't tell you how many times I've caught them comforting Him in Time-Out.  He has them wrapped around His chubby, drooly fingers, and they love it.

Things He loves include:

Food. The spicier, the better.  If He won't eat it, sprinkle on some of the Mexican chile-lime powder we stockpile for Him, and it will disappear.  Just don't give Him the bottle, or He will eat it straight, until His face turns red, the tears stream down His cheeks, and He is panting, "More...'picy....More 'picy... please.."   He loves Ethiopian food, Indian food, Cajun food, all the 'picy stuff.  We have even put cayenne in His oatmeal, upon request.  He loved it.

Chocolate- He is all my influence when it comes to desserts.  He loves chocolate and frequently approaches me out of the blue- "mommy.  Think a time a make a chock-it cake. Wan' some chock-it, Mama? We can make some, chock-it cake".  He knows He's asking the right person.

Cars/trains/planes and especially construction vehicles.  I'm still flabbergasted about how this information infiltrated into His tiny mind deeply enough for Him to become so obsessed with it. But He is constantly on the lookout for interesting vehicles, and if you call an excavator a backhoe, you will be corrected.  Believe me.

Repeated brain damage.  I sometimes take a big, steadying breath and wonder whether I would be arrested if an MRI was ever done on this child.  I send up a little prayer that He will retain a decent amount of control over His faculties as an adult.  Because He has lived like a linebacker pretty much all day every day since He could walk.  I promise I do my best to protect His little skull, but He seems to have a magnetic-type material in there that is attracted to all hard surfaces, especially those with sharp corners.  He is so constantly going, racing, jumping, crashing, diving into, around, and over things with no consideration whatsoever for any possible consequences, that we have simply come to think of blue as the normal color of His forehead.

Since we don't have a padded room (which might be a good idea), the next best thing is the trampoline.  And it is one of the great loves of His life.  We have a small one with the big net walls around it in the basement.  Plopping Him in there is like putting a hamster on a wheel.  He'll just go until He is so tired He can not stand up anymore.  He positively loves gymnastics classes on Saturdays, and the trampoline is the crowning glory of this day He waits for all week.  He can do seat drop, pike, open-closed with His legs, arms up and bounce in a circle, and a front flip, landing on His back.  We aren't sure whether to be proud or quite concerned.

Music.  Mister reminds us of Little One with His affinity for music and knack for pitch.  He sits through His Sister's piano lessons positively emerald green with envy, and often I have to take Him outside to wait because He simply will not stop clapping and counting to the beat, or loudly repeating the names of the notes His sisters read off. Or just random strings of letters that might be notes.  When they practice at home, He insists that He also has to have a turn to "practic my pano", and He sits there plinking along very seriously.
He loves music and dancing, and thanks to His sister knows all the steps to the Whip NaeNae, which is totally His song. Standing in line at the grocery store He will suddenly burst out singing and dancing- "watch me, watch me, watch me, watch me! Watch me yooooo, watch me supa-may-an.." and I never really know how to respond.

The alphabet.  Letter flashcards, puzzles, and games never get old.  His favorite book is Dr. Suess's ABC book, and He prefers to recite it to us, if you please.  He sees His sisters reading, listens to Missy practicing with me, and wants it so badly He's practically drooling.  It's like watching a baby on the brink of being able to crawl, two inches too far from a toy they want.  So...close....but so far.

My Do It.  Mister wants to help- stir the pot, put the laundry in the washer, put the silverware away, zip the zippers, drive the car, vacuum the house- ALL the things.  ALL by Himself.  Others who complete tasks of any sort without Him, are treasonous traitors and will be treated accordingly.
Elevator broken and we have to walk down four flights of stairs?  "NO mama, carry me.  No pick-a up. MY do it. MY self do."  I find myself frequently talking to me, like lunatic, reminding myself that independence is good, that this is a wonderful opportunity to practice patience.  Unless we are late.  In which case there will be screaming.

Telling it like it is.  Mister can not, as much as He wants to, drive a bulldozer.  But one thing He can do, is talk.  He has a voice.  He has a vocabulary. And He is not afraid to use it.  He will tell you all about it.  Whatever it happens to be.  He will be sure to correct you if you say something crazy like "no, you can't drive the bulldozer".  He will tell you long stories about His day:
"Oh, we play a game, chug some trains 'round, read a story, I see a alligator..." 
"you saw an alligator today?" 
"Yes!" 
"Really." 
"Yes! An' lookout! Still in here! Gonna bite you! Scary-yikes! Hahahahaha no it jus' me.  Got you, Mommy.  I scary you. HAHAHA!" 
He will patiently and lovingly take the time to teach you everything you need to know.  "K, mommy, now time for make a cookie, uh-kay? So, now time, you get out a shiny bowl.  Get em a-gredients weady a counter.  Need a spoon- my pick it- we make a cookie time.  My stir it, and we make cookies kay.  Mommy.  DON' washa bowl.  Don' wash it. My lick it, eat a cookie stuff in there.  Then-a wash it.  Ok? Ok Mommy.  Let's go.  Right now Mommy.  Mommy.  IN A KITCHEN TIME!" 
He will see you coming a mile away and stop you right there. "Mommy, ok, listen me.  Read a story me, ok.  Ok, read a story, but no is sleepy-time. No put a jammies, no zip a up. No singing songs, no sleepy time. No rocka chair, for no sleepy time now.  2 stories, mommy.  K, two story, then I chug some trains. Ok." 

His Sisters.  Yes, we have reached the age of metoo.  He works those little legs very, very hard trying to keep up with the Sisters, and whatever they are doing, He wants to do.  Whatever He is doing, He wants them with Him.  Most days, the first thing He does when He wakes up is call out for them, and if I get Him out of bed, the first thing He wants to know is where they are.  Lucky for Him, this adoration absolutely goes both ways.

His Daddy.  Little Mister at 2 is a 100% Daddy's Boy.  The look on His face when He stares up at J can only be described as the type of thing religions have been founded upon.  Whenever there is an option, "Daddy take me" "Daddy sing me" "Daddy read me" "I go Daddy" "I ride Daddy's car".  Nothing can cause Mister's sweet little face to fold and crinkle and dissolve into sadness like the dreaded words "Daddy is at work".  Nothing can top the exultation in His voice when He hollers "Daddy home!" Lucky for Mister again, this adoration goes both ways, too.

In fact, Mister is pretty hard not to adore.  Is He a human wrecking ball? Yes. Is He frequently regarded as the world's tiniest acting dictator? Yes.  Has He developed the indescribably annoying habit of shrieking when He is upset or at random times and do we hope this phase passes like the fastest kidney stone ever suffered through? Why, yes.  But is He also the gentlest cuddler, the most empathetic care-taker of us all, the most joyful, infectious belly-laugher, and the most hysterical source of crack-ups He could possibly be? Also yes.

Little Mister shaken soda-pop, we wouldn't have you any other way.  You are the chile powder in our bowl of life, and we love you.  Happy Two.

We all picked a pumpkin, and the sisters helped me set them out in the yard later when He was in bed. 

This morning He was dazzled to wake up and find a bunch of muffins- because He insists that's what they are- growing in the yard. 

No idea how we will carve all those giant muffins. Or how to keep Hom from trying to eat them. 

Today my Little One is seven.  Seven.
It has been a wild year, full of challenges.  She moved to a new state/town/home/school.  She weathered Her father disappearing into residency and Her mother going back to work.  She had three health emergencies at school, including on picture day and Her birthday.  She lost three great-grandparents, a grandfather, and Her dog.   She switched schools again.  She started riding the bus, 2 hours a day.  She found out that when the year is over, She will switch again, and oh- also be moving across the world.  (More about that later).  She adopted a fish, took on gymnastics, piano, and swimming, and had a sweet baby brother morph into a 25 pound wrecking ball.  And she lost a bunch of teeth.
 Little One has dealt with all of these things in the Little-One-est way possible; with grace, resilience, and cheerfulness.  Little One, surrounded by challenges, peers out onto a horizon of endless mountains and sees a grand adventure in each one.  Her first instinct on facing any steep terrain in life is to find a foothold and start climbing.
As my little girl begins truly to grow up, Her innate drive to Try Hard is something I find so beautiful and inspiring in Her.  It's this adventurous, open-hearted spirit and willingness to go through the struggle of something new that has brought Her through to being a seven-year old who seems to excel at everything She tries.  It's because She tries, and tries, and tries again until She gets it.  I might want to be like Her when I grow up.  In the last year, Little One has covered a lot of ground.  She has:

- Done well in school, and been accepted into the accelerated STEM program at the magnet school that is practically in Siberia it's such an long bus ride from Her mother.  Ahem.

-Become a self-described "book addicted person", consuming books like a flame.  In the last year she has read the entire magic treehouse series, fairy series (good riddance), and most of encyclopedia brown, in addition to stacks and stacks of others.  She usually gets about 20 from the library each week, and burns right through them.

- Started gymnastics for fun and was invited to team-track.  Last week She completed a gym right-of-passage and climbed 20 feet of rope to stick Her name tag on the ceiling!

- Become super interested in robotics, and for Her birthday asked for "small motors, lithium batteries, and lots of scotch tape".

-Begun cooking meals and baking all by Herself.

- Gotten pretty good on Her bike, though not yet ready to let go of training wheels.

-Managed to keep in touch with friends from Her old school, and also make great new friends on the bus and at Her new school.

-Moved forward in swimming and with Her grandad's coaching learned to dive.

-Been a flower girl in both Her aunts' lovely weddings!

-Taught Her brother the alphabet song, and also how to Cha Cha slide.

-Grown tall enough to ride some of the rides at a theme park

-Taken good care of Her fish.

-Eaten probably several metric tons of sushi.  (should I not have put those last two in a row?)

-Realized that Her parents are not perfect (that one stings a little)

-Loved us anyways (at least so far).

-Loved all of us, actually.  All of of us in the immediate and extended family, neighborhood, and basically the world.  She loves the whole world.  She wants to take care of all the everyone.

Her Loves and Not-Loves:

Loves:
Sushi
Seaweed in any form
Japanese food in general
Hot Dogs/Tofu Dogs/anything called dog that gets ketchup on it
Home made bread and honey
French Onion soup
Ethiopian food
Brussel sprouts
Sugar.

Reading
Robotics
Pokeman (because the bus kids play)
Anything that ends with Her covered in mud
Traveling/visiting new places
Learning about Anything
Making Mister Laugh
Art projects and pretend with Missy
Chasing the boys
Riding the bus
Dancing
Cooking (French Onion soup is Her specialty)
Vegan Baking (Brownie Pie is Her top recipe)
Riding Her bike
Being altogether silly
Pigtails
Headbands
Sparkles/ruffles/fancy shiny anything
Sleeping/snuggling with Her sister

Not So Much
Mushrooms
Bell Peppers
The idea of cheese or eggs.  The look and smell and existence of them.
Sitting at the Peanut-free table at school
Missing Her dog
When Little siblings don't get the memo about Her being In Charge
The "frog" stretch at gymnastics
Playing with dolls/barbies
Scary movies or stories
Lights Out at bedtime (She would read until midnight)
Sleeping/snuggling with Her sister

Little One at seven alternates between being curled up reading, practically in a coma She's so still and  quiet and unaware of the rest of the world, and being a whirling top, cartwheeling through the living room, dancing in the kitchen, creating utopian worlds in the backyard with Missy, constructing 4-foot cardboard robots all over the basement, and asking ALL. the. questions.  About ALL the things.

She's at a fragile stage of growing up, wondering aloud if there's really such a thing as a tooth fairy, but not daring to think about applying the same logic to Santa.  She wants the freedom to wear Her crazy mis-matched outfits and to ride Her bike beyond our line of sight, but still wants cuddles and lullabies before bed.  She's beyond wanting us to read to Her, but still likes to read right beside us.  She thinks She should watch these movies Her friends talk about, like Star Wars and Jurassic Park, but hides behind me when Bambi's forrest catches fire.  Sometimes in gymnastics I watch Her, steadily stepping along the high-beam, and it feels familiar.  She's walking the line between a Little Kid and a Big Kid.

Knowing how close that era of Her life (and ours) is now, it's impossible not to look ahead, as a mom, and go breathless with the wonders and worries of the more complex years ahead.  But being around Little One helps me to keep from panicking.  Hanging out and chatting with Her, it's hard to imagine She could ever not be sweet, fun, and fantastic.  When I'm with Her, I see all those challenges ahead in the Big Kid years for what they are through the Little One lens- adventures waiting to be taken on and made into successes.  Mountains waiting to be climbed.

Seven on the Seventh.  A golden birthday! Happy, happy birthday Little One, my golden little girl.  We love you so much, and love going through all your grand adventures with you.  May you always climb with such strength.   

When J and I decided to adopt a friend for X, we wanted an older dog.  We searched and looked all over.  On our way out of the city shelter in Baltimore, there was a racket coming from a dark little side room.  The shelter volunteer let me go in and open the door of a medium-sized airline crate, jam-packed with puppies crawling all over one another, saturated in mud and waste.  Those poor little things.  Maybe I could just hold them a little?
The volunteer shrugged and led us to a visiting room, and dumped the lot out onto the floor.  J and I  played with them tried to comfort them, and then we went home.  We continued our search throughout just about every shelter and adoption event in the state.  Somehow we never found the right furry friend.  And somehow, we kept talking about those puppies.  Somehow, even though we had agreed not to choose a puppy- we ended up back in the same room, with the same puppies- the four left now that they had been made available for adoption.
They were all cute and full of personality.
Except one.
One didn't play and yip and nip and wiggle.  It didn't chase a toy or tackle our faces or chew our toes. It just cowered. It wasn't cute, either.  The runt of the litter, it was all black and had a body too small for it's head, which was too small for its ears, leaving it looking more like a bat than a canine.  It was painfully skinny and bony, mangy and scraggly with goopy eyes.  It had little scars and bald patches from being picked on by it's brothers and sisters.
It shivered by the door as J and I wrestled the tumbling roly-poly rest of them, and then slowly, quietly, so we didn't even notice, crept up, crawled into my lap, curled up, and sighed.
Oh my goodness.  J could tell by my face in that instant that resistance was futile.  She crawled into my heart the same time she crept into my lap.
E ended up in the shelter because her litter had been a "welfare seizure"- meaning they were forcibly removed from their first owner due to abuse.  Between that and being the bullied runt, she came with all kinds of problems.  Medical problems (mange, worms, mites, infections).  And psychological problems- terror at loud sounds, strangers, or long objects (brooms, mops, spatulas).

Refusing to go either up or down

The vacuum cleaner was the actual devil as far as she was concerned.  She would yelp and hightail it to what became her bunker- the exact center spot under our bed.  A passing motorcycle could send her there for the rest of the day.
She was hard to train because she couldn't stand raised voices or crates.   And you try getting a stubborn dog out from under a queen sized bed- it's like wrestling a rabid chimp while spelunking in a cave tunnel.
She had food issues to the extreme.  If I set out a full bag of dog food, she'd have eaten her way to the bottom until she actually exploded. We know this because she has eaten herself into violent illness every chance she's ever had. She'd inhale, engulf her food.  And she would eat anything.  We'd let her out to pee and find her tunneling into the compost pile, refusing to give up a half-rotten banana peel.
This got her sick all the time.  E throwing up became as normal as a colicky baby's spit-up- there was always something.  Once a neighbor threw chicken bones to her over the fence.
That ended in a week-long veterinary hospital vacay to the tune of a couple thousand dollars.
She got car sick. She hated to get wet.  She was afraid of dogs, squirrels, big rocks, steep hills, puddles, and everything else ever.
As she grew older, she drove us to insanity by growling at everyone who entered/walked by/drove by/made any audible sound from any distance.  At 45 pounds, looking like a sleek black german shepherd, she scared the bejeezus out of I don't know how many people.  Once she followed my grandpa around the house nipping his heels.  She always waited until no one was looking.  Poor guy had some dementia by then, and no one believed him for days until she got caught.

"Look at me I'm all friendly and harmless. Those feet look tasty though."

She developed a strange habit of picking out the weakest looking kid on the playground or person in a group, waiting until their back was turned, then racing over, nipping them in the butt, and darting away.  She was so stealthy, people sometimes would look around and think they had imagined it.
We sent her away to a trainer for weeks.  Not much changed, except our bank account.
But we loved her all the same.
As a puppy, neurotic and skittish as she was, she was so sweet, so affectionate.  She loved for me to rock her like a baby, to carry her around.  Even nearing 50lb, she always thought she was a lap dog at worst, a furry baby human at best.
Though we wanted a companion for X, he turned out to hate the idea.  The first thing he did when he met E was to bite her soundly on the nose.  Despite that, she adored him so constantly and gently that he finally gave in, and the dog who hates dogs would curl up to her to sleep at night.
E surprised us by becoming the quintessential loyal companion to all of our littles.  She'd fiercely guard and protect them from all real and imaginary threats.  She'd plays with them tirelessly, and was always, always there to snuggle. Ever since Little One was small, I'd look over in the yard and see Her draped over E like a blanket, suffocating her probably. Singing.  E would just lie there like it was the best day of her life, wagging her tail.


She's raised her hocks at every stranger, but never growled or snapped at our babies, no matter what.  She's patiently let them climb on her, dress her up, "wash" her, lead her around, tug on her ears, brush her, wrestle her, and take her toys.  I once was two steps too far away to stop Mister as He went up to her during her dinner, and curiously reached his arm inside her mouth- while she was chewing- and pulled out some of her food.  She just looked at Him, licked His hand, and went on with her kibble. 
She would never run away.  When we'd walk she kept her pace just at my heel.  She would do anything asked of her as long as she understood.  After nine years of being loved by us (even if she did drive J and I crazy half the time), she settled into being a really sweet, loyal dog.  To us.  To extended family, she finally got friendly, too.  To strangers, She would threaten death until J or I told her to back off.  Which frankly I was ok with. No one was going to abduct my Littles from the backyard while I get the laundry.   And she never, ever stopped loving to curl up in my lap.  It was her most favorite thing.  Except food.
Which is how we knew something was wrong.
It was actually Little One who knew first.
"Mom, sompin's not right with E.  Her tail's not right and her ears are all down.  I think she's sick." 
Little One and E have been best friends since day one.  They've spent the summer playing pirates digging for treasure together, being explorers racing around the yard, thieves stealing J's tomatoes for snacks, fairies learning how to fly.  (In fact I took her to the vet covered in glitter.)
Little One knows E like no one else.
After Little One's tip, I watched E closely.  She was acting droopy.  And, despite the fact that she'd been getting fat and the Littles had been getting scolded for feeding the dogs a lot when they weren't supposed to- she wasn't really eating much of anything.  X was eating her leftovers, and she hardly touched her bowl.
The more I thought about it, the more she didn't look fat, just weirdly heavy in the belly.  When my mom came, she agreed.  She urged me to take her in.  Knowing E, I assumed she'd eaten something she shouldn't have.  The Sisters came with me, and I joked,  "how much will it cost us to fix you up this time, silly girl?"  But it wasn't that.
It was a tumor.  The size of a small watermelon.  It was taking up her entire abdomen, squeezing her organs aside.  It was so big, it took a radiology specialist to ultrasound around it and find out where it was even coming from.  It was her spleen.  Apparently that happens, in dogs.  Sometimes.

All that white fuzzy stuff is her tumor

We were told there was about a 50/50 chance that it was either a madly aggressive and lethal cancer, which would kill her in short order no matter what, or a totally benign growth that could be cured by just taking it out. But if we didn't take it out, it would eventually explode.  Which would be a sudden, scary, awful thing.
We couldn't know whether she'd make it through surgery, or whether it would really help her in the end.  But I feel pretty confident, that if there were some different kind of emergency, and it came down to life or death for me or my family and E could decide?  She'd defend us with all she had.
So we sent her in.  Her heart wasn't beating properly, and medicine didn't help it.  But we decided to go ahead anyways.  Amazingly, she made it through.  A ten pound tumor was removed, she spent the afternoon recovering with her IV, and though she was wasted on whatever was in that cocktail, she drunkenly walked out of the hospital, and we brought her home.
She seemed to be getting better. She wasn't eating, but she drank some water, cuddled and nuzzled us, and refused to pee anywherebut the greenbelt down the street.  So we walked.
Missy drew her a "most specialist pictuh evah ba-cuase I love her to im-PIN-ity- and that's the muchest".  Little One read stories and sang to her.  Even Mister understood she wasn't well, and pet her gently, calling her name softly.
J came home from a night shift, and I'd just taken E on a trip down the street and back.  He was laying with her while I cooked.  The Sisters went to play at a neighbors house.  I've never let them do that before.  But today they were gone, just at the time J came running out of the bedroom, calling me.  There wasn't time to even dial the vet.  She started to breathe quickly, she kind of spaced out, and then...she stopped breathing altogether.
And now she's gone.
I'm so awfully sorry that she didn't have a chance to recover and feel better, even for a day.  That she was drugged up and had staples from her chest to her tail and never understood why we did that to her.  As her Person, I feel responsible for everything that lead to that moment, and for everything I could have done better for her in the last 9 years.
I think it's cruelty of fate for a little girl to lose Her dog two days before starting a new school.  I'm sorry for X who will miss his friend.  I miss the security of letting the Sisters play in the yard while I work, knowing E would be kind to them and alert me if any danger came near.  I miss the certainty of a cuddle and a greeting every time I looked her way.
But I'm glad that it wasn't as painful as it could have been.  I'm glad she was home, with her People right beside her.  I like to think that confused as she must have been, perhaps she knew we were trying to help, and that we loved her.
Which we did.



And we do.

Meeting Little One the day She came home

Helping LO learn to crawl

Helping Her learn to walk

Meeting Little Miss the day She came home

 

Partners in crime

 She loooooved snow

All 3 too happy to get in trouble

I can't believe the summer is winding down.
Little Miss is very excited to be returning to Her montessori school, where She will be starting Kindergarten.  She's very, very excited to be staying all day this year.  I am very, very much in denial about the whole thing.  I like to tell myself that it's the same montessori class (mixed ages 3-6) so it's not really really kindergarten.  Even though it is.  I try not to think at all about Her being gone all day.  I just can't with all that.  But I'm glad She's going back to a school that we all love and which I am pretty sure will be a positive educational, social, and emotional experience for Her.
That's Montessori, though.  You get all this happy fuzzy stuff, and all it costs is an arm and a leg.
Public school, on the other hand.  That is free!
Sadly, Little One's kindergarten year was worth just about exactly what we paid for.
I actually liked the school.  The principal was competent and nice, the teacher was friendly, the kids were all as cute as only a bunch of snaggletoothed 6 year olds can be.  I liked the other parents and hosted a weekly coffee and cake so I could hang out with all their awesomeness.  I got to know the nurse (a little too well) and trust her to look out for my girl.  I PTA'd it up and was elected to be the VP this year.  Little One and I started a book club after school.  It was a dream to be able to walk both Sisters to school every morning.  I mean, Little One's school is about one block from our house!
The thing is, Little One had all that Montessori pre-school.  And She has this voracious appetite for learning.  She's been known to randomly get interested in something- the revolutionary war, or greek mythology- and go on a bender where She can't read or hear enough until She feels like She's learned Alllllll The Things about it!  So.  Before school started, I met with the principal, and said I thought maybe She should start in first grade.
The principal smiled, and chuckled, and gave me a "hey now, Tiger Mom, let's take it down a notch!" speech, and showed me the door.  Ok.  So, maybe, her points about Little One having just moved to the area, and going to public school for the first time, and the food allergies and all that being overwhelming as it is were valid.  So we went to kindergarten.
At the first teacher conference of the year, in October, Her teacher said to me,
"well, Little One has already met all the indicators for the end of the whole year! So... She's good!" Thumbs up.
I said, "Great, but, so....what's next, then?  I mean, She needs to keep learning throughout the year...new things, right?  So...what's the plan for Her then?"
Teacher stopped smiling.  And that was the start of the trouble.
Little One loved kindergarten, in that She loved recess.  She made lots of friends and became "leader of the girls team" on the playground, and loved everyone in class.  She got awards for being helpful and respectful in class. But She complained a lot about being bored.  She would finish the homework for the month in one evening, but I gave Her other work from bookstore workbooks, and She read a lot, so I wasn't really worried.
Then I went to parent day.  Waiting for my turn to observe the class, another mom greeted me all teary.  "What happened?" She asked.  "What did Little One do, to be punished like that?"
I was alarmed.  What DID She do?!
"She has to sit all by Herself! All the other kids are together in groups, but She had to be in the corner by Herself all morning!" 
So I asked the teacher.  "Oh no, She's never in trouble! But mornings are reading centers, and She's in Her own group.  There's one kid who reads at a level 8, but the others are all 2s and 3s, and Little One...is a 16.  She just can't read with the other kids." 
I observed.  Little One, who was reading chapter books at home, still had to sit at circle time and repeat over and over, "C says Cuh! C says Cuh!"    
She raised Her hand after a story, and was waved away, "Little One I KNOW you know the answer, so let me ask someone new".  There were worksheets later. She finished Hers in two minutes.
"What does She do now?" I asked the teacher.
Blank stare. "Well, it's a 15 minute center... so.  She can rotate when the bell rings."
"Could She read a book or something while She waits?"
"We can't let everyone do whatever they want. They have to stay at their center. The rules are the same for everyone."
I was in class for three hours and Little One did basically nothing, the whole time.  But She was still expected to sit still and be quiet.  By Herself.  Keep in mind, because of Her food allergies, She was already seated at Her own table at lunch.  She already had to stay apart from other kids while they ate the school provided breakfast (which She wasn't allowed to skip watching Her classmates eat, as that would have made Her tardy and reported as a truant).  So except for recess, She was set apart all day.
At home, She started saying that reading wasn't fun, because you couldn't have friends if you can read. She started pretending She didn't know how to do math.  She became so used to doing all academic work in 3 minutes or less, that when I introduced a challenging problem at home- something She would have exalted in before- She would get frustrated and call it dumb and give up.
I talked to the teacher.  I asked if She could be grouped with kids from other classes who were at Her reading and math levels.  But it was no longer "policy" to group kids out of their assigned class.
I asked if She could get worksheets from first grade teachers to work on while She waited during center time.  I was told it was absolutely not allowed to introduce anything outside the KG curriculum.
I pleaded for Her to be allowed to do Her work at a table with other kids. I had to actually beg, and promise to tell Her to hide Her worksheets so She wouldn't be a "show off" and make the other kids "feel bad".  Later, Her teacher said she turned out to love having Little One at the table with other kids, because She "helped them all with their work".  But, other than getting different books to read and some extra homework (to appease Her mom), She was never allowed to have any work that entailed learning something new.  All. Year.
Now, I know that a kindergarten teacher has a really tough time, because there are 15 students and they are all across the spectrum of learning.  Some have had 3 years of preschool, like Little One, some have had no school, or are just learning English.  That's a lot to handle, trying to meet all those needs.  I understand prioritizing the kids who need help to catch up- they need that help.
But as an advocate for my child, I couldn't accept that She had to spend six hours a day bored out of Her mind and being made to feel like an outcast.  I couldn't stand seeing Her wonderful passion for learning squelched as if it were a nasty habit.  I had a lot of talks with Her teacher and even the principal about how I could help Her, and got nowhere.
At the end of the year, I went to an info session on what the curriculum covers for each grade level.  It was clear that the work She was doing at home was about the middle of second grade level stuff.  So J and I asked to skip Her to second grade next year.  People, you would think we had asked for the actual Holy Grail. You would think I had asked them to bring me a pink unicorn.
The administration had heard of this mythical "skipping of grades"....but never actually SEEN it. It didn't really exist.
But since we insisted, they had to do something.  So they decided on an "evaluation period".  They pulled Little One out of class parties and music and art, to test Her and test Her with reading and math specialists.  At the end of this three month period, I went to a meeting.
I was told that, while She got the answers right on the math tests, She had to be failed on the evaluation, because She wouldn't always explain why She got those answers. She was docked points for doing math in Her head, because She didn't show Her work.
Example:
"what is 18 take-away 7?"
"It's 11".
"WHY is it 11?"
"... Because you had 18...then you took away 7."
"Can you show me why on paper?"
(on paper): "18 minus 7 is 11 because that is what is left."
Wrong.
I was told that, while She was reading on an end of second grade level, She wasn't ready to start second grade, because when the specialist asked Her about the books, Her answers were short and to the point, and She preferred non-fiction, factual information over discussing how She felt about things.
The reading specialist pointed out that not once, not once, did Little One ever re-open a book to look for the answers- which was a VERY important indicator for using resources.

C: "Did you know, that on the school's red-yellow-green behavior scale, Little One has been green, every single day?"

Punk Reading Specialist: "No, but what does that have to do with.."

C: "Ms. LittleOnesTeacher, has Little One ever broken a rule in your class or failed to ask your permission before doing anything She didn't know the rule about? No? So, Ms ReadingSpecialist, I have to ask.  Did you ever tell Little One that She was Allowed to look for answers in the book?"

PRS: "Um...no."

C: "Because I'm pretty sure She would have thought that would be cheating."

PRS: "Well. Oh.  Well.  She still was supposed to...it's a...uh...it's an indicator...."

Right.
In the end of the meeting, it was clear to see that they had never really considered skipping Her.  They don't believe in unicorns at all.  All of the reasons given were basically that while She could get all the answers right, She was shy enough with strangers to give them a reason not to move Her.
In the meantime, while all this testing was going on, the principal called me in for a talk.
"You know, not that we're trying to get rid of you, because we love you guys. But there is this school, a magnet school, for kids like Little One who are just...how can I... who are sort of....humming along at a different frequency.  You might just consider it." 
It happened to be the day before the deadline to apply for this mysterious odd-frequency school, so we just turned in the paper, just in case.
Then we had to send letters from teachers, letters from us, transcripts, report cards.  Little One had to do an interview and go to a testing session which we were not allowed to watch.
We googled and found that there are people whose whole career consists of tutoring little snaggletoothed 6 year olds to pass that test.  That hundreds of people apply, and only 25 get in. So we forgot all about it, and went back to trying to skip Her a grade.  
Then we got an acceptance letter.  
Supposedly, it is the same curriculum, but there are "acceleration opportunities" for STEM subjects. And there will, they promised without my having to ask, definitely be other kids in Her reading and math groups, doing the same stuff.
The place is an hour away.  Little One has to be there, and leave there, at the exact same time Missy has to be at, and leave from, Her school over here.
Instead of walking 5 minutes, I'll have to drive Her 15 minutes to the bus stop, where She will have an hour long bus ride to school.  If She has an allergic reaction or an asthma attack that doesn't respond to medication, as She did last year, I won't be able to rush right over.  There will have to be an ambulance.  This school does NOT sound fun, for ME.
So we deliberated and discussed, talked and thought, J and I.  What to do? Then we asked Her.
The so-called Queen of recess, who loved Her friends and teachers so much, what Her preference would be, so we could consider that in our decision.
She didn't miss a beat.  She didn't hesitate, and She was unequivocal.
"Please.  Please please.  PLEASE let me go to the new school!"

"But you know you won't see all of your friends any more. It will be all new. You won't know anyone there, and it will be different."

"Yes, I know.  But I can make new friends! And different stuff is good, cause that's what's an adventure, mom.  And besides...maybe...maybe...maybe at the new school, I won't have to teach the kids stuff all day with their work.  Maybe we could work together instead. That's all I want."  

 Ok then. I'm nervous about Her being so far if something goes wrong.  I'm scared to death of the bus.  I'm going to miss Her those two hours a day She will be commuting to school, and I can only hope it will be worth it.  And truthfully?  I'll miss the PTA and the moms I chatted with at pick up and all of that too.  All I can do is try to follow my Little One's lead, and make new friends. Hope that just maybe it will be a place where She can fall back in love with learning.  And realize that different is good, because that's what's an adventure.