a day in your life

To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 3 years and 7 months old.

You burst gleefully into our room at 7:05 despite being up until 9 the night before. The light turned green! You do your morning tasks pretty cheerfully and head downstairs with Dad for breakfast, requesting 10 pancakes and eating half of them. A new bottle of vitamins delights you. Dad takes you to school.

We don’t hear much about your day but assume it’s good. I pick you up at 5, where you are burying things in the playground sand with Silas. It’s been the same story all week: shoveling up dirt to cover a traffic cone or a firetruck, and needing to do “just one more scoop” until I almost literally drag you away. Silas is changing schools at the end of this week, a goodbye we’ve worried about, not realizing we’re all about to say goodbye to pretty much everyone and the world as we know it.

loading up outside the CDC
loading up outside the CDC

We pick Annie up from the All Stars and head to the car. On our way home, Dad suggests we do a restaurant for dinner, so we head for Fresa’s. It’s a kids-run-around kind of place, but Annie’s refusal to bring her shoes home from school means she’s stuck in her chair, so you pretty much stay put, too. We share queso, and you put away two bean and cheese tacos. You make two trips to the bathroom.


We get home and have bath to address the sand on your feet and the beans on your face. Then books, story, and (finally) bed!

a day in your life

To Paul, this is how you spent the day you turned three and a half.

You get up at 6:30 am when thunder scares you. You and Annie run into our room, and I invite you to climb into the bed. You lean against me and watch the lightning out the window. You asked to see the “rain-yard” (radar) and I pull it up on my phone. When the storm passes I shoo you back to your bedroom, but you are very awake, so I tell you it’s okay to start on your lists if you want to and I’ll start on mine. Annie says, “I think we should play,” and that’s what you actually do.


At 7:00 you are running around to the upstairs while I make coffee. I come up and invite you to start getting ready. You deign to brush your teeth. You have put shorts on over your PJs, and I coax you into your fox sweater. Good enough. We head downstairs for a breakfast of mango chewies and banana bread. Dad is in Colorado and I have not showered—see 6:30 am thunderstorm—so I tell you and Annie you get to play while I get myself ready. You get your scissors from the cabinet and cut a piece of construction paper into tiny shards.

While I get dressed you play hide and seek. I count to 10 while you hide in the laundry basket. “I’m hiding here,” you tell me as you crawl in. I find you immediately. We do this a few times. You and Annie head downstairs to play with fire trucks while I brush my teeth. I grab the vitamins and you carry your shoes out to the car, walking barefoot in the freezing rain on principle.


In the car on the way to school, we listen to an episode of Story Pirates, a podcast involving theatrical renditions of stories submitted by children. This one, “My Family Are Tigers,” is a favorite. Then Annie tells us a long story about Laura the Giganotosaurus, and has me repeat every line after her. You ask what road signs say, and I tell you.

At school you ask me to help you put your shoes on before you get out of the car. Great choice, I tell you. We had inside and drop Annie in the All Stars before heading to the Owls. There you invite me to many hugs and to fetch you a paper towel for your breakfast. Silas is there already so you are pretty ready to join him at the breakfast table.


I’m not sure what you get up to at school, but Charly tells me when she picks you up, you are covered in mud head to toe. You ask her to take you to the treat store, but she declines due to poor listening exhibited during the last visit. And you say, “Maybe we next time we can go because we’ll be good tonight.” Your negotiation skills are coming right along.

She ask you to rinse off the layers of sand while she makes dinner. You eat and head upstairs for a bath. Once your PJs are on, she asks you to go downstairs and clean up your toys and you do. She says you made everything easy tonight. When I get home at 8:30 you are sound asleep. Today you are three and a half.


a day in your life

To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 3 years and 5 months old.

You walk out of your room and cheerfully announce that the light is green. Annie is still asleep, so we close the door quietly and tiptoe out. You climb up on the bed and sit next to Dad to discuss our next steps. Putting on our new fuzzy pinks is the decision. We do it, so quietly, and get through the rest of the routine. Downstairs, you select four “mango chewies” while I microwave you some waffles. You relish your breakfast and our undivided attention until Annie wakes up around 7:40.

We discuss the weather map and the shape of states. You dispute my assertion that Colorado is a square, and we find an actually square to confirm your hypothesis.
We discuss the weather map and the shape of states. You dispute my assertion that Colorado is a square, and we find an actually square to confirm your hypothesis.

You’re ready for the donut run and start loading yourself in the stroller pronto. We administer your chewable vitamins and stash some extra warm clothes under the stroller, and off you go, down to the trail and around a loop to Mopac. You’re back around 9:30, and I pick a dozen sprinkles off your shirt.

like a pair of pink marshmallows
like a pair of pink marshmallows

You and Annie play an elaborate game of turtle-family downstairs while Dad and I shower, then we hop into the car and head out for dim sum with the Crowders. Dad buckles you in, after which you decide you want to buckle yourself. Dad declines, and you literally scream in fury for the first five minutes of our drive.


Dad, calmly: Please don’t scream in the car, Paul, it’s too loud.


Dad, calmly: Please don’t scream in the car, Paul, it’s too loud.


Dad, calmly: Please don’t scream in the car, Paul, it’s too loud.

At the restaurant, you are delighted to be seated in a GREEN booster seat, and nibble on a number of things before the pineapple cream dumpling of your dreams arrives. It’s a wonder you have any room in your tummy after our non-stop eating spree this morning, but you’re very patient through the meal. Dad takes you and Annie outside while we split the check, and we run around the corner for some bubble tea. You and Annie share some strawberry milk tea, and then officially start bouncing off the walls.

Where is my pineapple bun?
Where is my pineapple bun?

Back home, we head upstairs to play. We’re all characters in a castle, and you are also approximately 30 cars, which have terrible pile-up accidents and also come crashing against the walls one by one, creating castle-rattling earthquakes. Some individuals reform.

We head downstairs, and your playing on the coffee table when you look at me and announce cheerfully, “I’m holding it!” while tinkle runs out of your pant legs. I do not think it means what you think it means. We clean up with the usual mini-lecture. If you have to go potty, stop, and go right away—a tip you’ll whisper to Dad later in the day. You have some Dad time, playing and talking and having a snack. We all watch a couple episodes of Dinosaur Train.

You really like this show.
You really like this show.

Our friends the Brocks come over, and Annie whirls Poppy away for some Frozen-related activities while you mostly play solo, absorbed in your cars and the big cardboard box I have fashioned into Mater. Your cars are living in it like a big truck-shaped fortress. Later, you drag it back and forth across the house and sit on it until it comes to pieces and you tell me you don’t want it anymore “because it’s smushed.”

You play a really exciting game with other kids and the doorbell, wherein you ring it and talk to Dad and I via our phones. This goes on for some time. When dinner is ready, you sit down between Doug and Annie for grapes and steak, and ultimately a yogurt popsicle in my lap. We decide to introduce Poppy to the new Frozen short we just discovered, and you all watch 20 minutes of cartoons while we clean up the kitchen.

We say goodbye to our guests. To Poppy, you ask, “Do you want me to get close to you for you can have some of my warmth?” An offer I find sweet, but she declines. Bye, Brocks! You have been angling for a “night walk” since you heard Silas took one, so we bridge the gap to bedtime with jackets, headlamps, and a very enthusiastic walk to the end of the block and back. I talk you into the bathtub with a reminder that the turtle eggs you’ve been playing with all week are actually bath toys. You and Annie spend 15 minutes playing in the tub.

For storytime, Dad and I both get to do a rendition of Super Happy Magic Forest, and then he gives hugs, says goodbye, and heads to the airport for a standard California jaunt. You get in bed reluctantly, and I have to threaten no story to stop your disagreements and interruptions, but finally we make it through a hybrid Dinosaur-Train-meets-Frozen adventure. We’re big into fan fiction these days. I say goodnight at 7:35, and by the time Annie tiptoes out at 7:45 to tell me her ant bites are hurting, you’re already asleep.

a day in your life

To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 3 years and 5 months old.

You and Annie thunder into our room when the light turns green and climb onto the bed, happy to find Dad and I in place after his California trip and your night with Charly. You make it through the morning routine with him, and more or less no tears.


It’s Cheerios and milk for breakfast, with one piece of “grownup cereal” (frosted mini-wheats) stuck in the center, its dome of hardened sugar a special prize. After breakfast, you help Dad put together his new battery-powered lawn mower—the kind of really exciting Christmas present grown-ups get for themselves.


It’s chilly outside, so we hustle to the car and drive to school. You escort Annie into her class, and we head for the Owls, where the expectation of jelly on english muffins eases the pain of separation.

It’s a normal day, as far as I know, with spaghetti and pears for lunch, and who knows, maybe even a nap. I find you at 4:45 engaged in your current favorite activity: running around on the playground turf with Fletcher and Silas. Fletcher is chasing you and tackling you. You tell me it’s “tag.” Mmhmm.

"Mom, do NOT embarrass me in front of my friends."
“Mom, do NOT embarrass me in front of my friends.”

The very last thing in the world you want to do is go home. I have to carry you off the playground and all the way to the car. New construction work around your school (building the new Moody Center) has closed roads and led to disastrous traffic. So it’s a long journey home. We make the best of the time, addressing such questions as:

“What are the soldiers doing in that statue with the person with wings?”

“What are ‘peace’ and ‘freedom’?”

“What makes a boat sink?”

And of course listening to Frozen 2. Oh my goodness, yes.

Home at last, we eat a quick dinner, and you and Annie have some playtime. You make up the kitchen tower into bunk beds, complete with your blankets and pillows, and do a little ukelele practice, centered on pressing buttons on the tuner. I show you how to play a C chord. You take a shower in our bathroom and snuggle into Dad’s lap for a book.


Dad tells the bedtime story—the latest in his Smaug the Dragon series—and reminds you to keep your body in bed. And you do! Nice work, buddy.

a day in your life

To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 3 years and 3 months old.

At 6:15, you emerge at the top of the stairs while I’m making coffee. “Mom, my bee-bee wants you!” Go back to bed, Paul. You go back to your bed, or Annie’s, or something. I see you again at the door of your room around 6:40, pants around your ankles. “Can you help me pull my pants up? I went potty like a big boy all by myself!” Great job, Paul! Go back to bed. You sort of do.

At 6:55 you and Annie are deep into rambunctious play. I come in and suggest we get started on our lists, so we can go check and see if our water froze into ice overnight—we put cups outside last night with a centimeter of water in them as an experiment. It’s 29 degrees. Motivated, you declare that you’ll do your list by yourself today! A big improvement over yesterday’s 30-minute morning yell-a-thon. You pass the tantrum torch to Annie and pick out a delightful outfit for yourself, get your teeth brushed, shoes on, and head downstairs on your own. I hear your faint calls from downstairs about cheese in the refrigerator and your water cup—it had not frozen—and head downstairs to join you, giving Annie space for a full meltdown.


You munch cheerfully through breakfast and supervise my tooth-brushing. I carry you to the warm car at your request, and we drive to school, chatting in the car about trash day and buildings and whatnot. We pull up in front of school at the same time as Silas’s family, oh my goodness. You rush in and bid me farewell with zero drama.

You have a day. Who knows what happens? I know you weren’t on the playground since the windchill never rose above freezing, so there was probably some stir-craziness involved. I find you eating Cheerios at 5. You pack them up carefully, by the fistful, into a plastic cup to take to-go. Amazingly, your giant clown shoes, four sizes too big, are still on your feet. We head across the hall to get Annie, who is jealous of your snack. You immediately try to share it but are rebuffed. We make it down the hall, up the stairs, out the door, and I carry you to the car while your daredevil sister runs across the freezing sidewalk in a light dress and bare feet.

We take a picture for Dad, on his way home from California.
We take a picture for Dad, on his way home from California.

We arrive at home. You help me get frozen mini-pizzas out of the freezer, and feed Sous a generous cup of food. You lean practically your whole body into the dog food bin to scoop it out of the bottom. Dedication. You and Annie set the table with tiny bowls full of grapes and green paper plates.

Appreciate the sartorial choices.
Appreciate the sartorial choices.

We eat and open a stack of mail. The holiday solicitations have started to arrive, so we get to have some fun with free stickers and calendars and return-address labels. You eat a popsicle and adjourn to the couch to fight Annie for the World Wildlife Foundation catalog full of stuffed animals. What a genius way to solicit donations.

Time to head upstairs! You let me brush your teeth while I explain how a dentist fills cavities. We manage a pee but not, I realize now, a hand-wash. Guess I should have explained ebola, too. You are excited to put on a new shirt with snowflakes, and we pause for a musical interlude: dancing around the room in the dark and singing Jingle Bells.

For your bedtime book, you pick out the one about a goldfish coping with death. Annie gets Gertrude McFuzz from Yertle the Turtle, and you elect to read Pete the Cat (classic version) over a made-up story. So we do, and you actually go to bed without too much complaining. But you do need socks. And a drink of water. And then, wait, your doggy needs his pajamas, and they need to be green, but oh, we don’t have green, so how about blue? Okay. I close the door. You open it: your dog has come out of his pajamas. Okay. “I need help putting on my blanket.” Okay. I let my voice get a little bit testy, the boundary you seem to need. Really this time. Goodnight.

a day in your life

To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 3 years and 2 months old.

You seem older to me, first of all. Three and a half, surely, not just a hair over 3. Maybe because you’re potty trained and talking in paragraphs and determined to drop your nap. Maybe because with an August birthday, you’ll always need to grow up fast, or because I’m always rounding up ages in my head, like my friend Sejal tells me they do in India, where you’d be, if I’m doing it right, “4 years running.”

But here today, you’re 3 years and 2 months. You summon us at 6:30 to inform us you’ve had an accident, the first in quite a while. We get you sponged off and fresh clothes and sheets, and snuggle you back to bed for another half-hour. You do not in fact sleep, but stay relatively peaceful until the light turns green. We all get ready pretty quickly, into our warm clothes for a long walk in the cool weather. The temperature has dropped 45 degrees since Thursday.

If you're thinking, "wow, that is one kissable forehead," you are RIGHT.
If you’re thinking, “wow, that is one kissable forehead,” you are RIGHT.

We buckle in, get hatted up, and head for the donut shop and then the trail, crossing the Congress bridge and then back south at Pfluger. You hop out of the stroller for a quick hello to the turtles, and we admire the latest progress on the big playground going up at Butler Park. We snag tacos for tradition despite bellies full of donut, and head home. You and Dad represent us at Central Market, and brave the carwash after a flock of birds uses our car for target practice.

Back at home, Annie hands you her bundle of big fall leaves, and you pretend it’s a kite or a wand or a dog on a leash. We trim dead stalks off the front-yard yucca and decide to plant some of its seeds. This turns into an extended dirt-scooping session. Fun.

It’s time to eat again, apparently, and you eat your small lunch and also Annie’s (oranges and cheese). You make awesome lunchtime conversation, like, “Did you know: a dinosaur pooped a PLANET.” I did not know. I promise to nap with you, so you go upstairs and to bed without protest…but do not sleep. We make a go of it for 45 minutes before I give up. You go downstairs and watch some highly-enriching Bubble Guppies with Annie.


Our nearby playground has finally reopened, and we go. You swing and slide and climb and drink from the water fountain and make me pretend-hamburgers out of wood chips. We stroll home and have some crackers. Annie asks about pumpkin pie, and Dad tells her we can make some if she’ll go to the grocery store. You reject special mom-time and run out to the car to join the trip to a bonkers HEB at prime shopping time. Brave.

Supplies obtained, you scoop sugar and help me and Annie mix the pie filling. Kalia and Riley come over, and you play—in the backyard in the pinon smoke and upstairs in your room, twirling in the dark at a dance party and making shadows on the wall.

You sport a lot of great looks today.
You sport a lot of great looks today.

Salmon, bread, strawberries, and definitely no brussel sprouts for dinner, then a “pop-si-co” for dessert. You can say popsicle, but you and Annie are nicknaming everything these days. It’s late and you are BEAT, so we hustle upstairs and through the bedtime routine. Dad tells the latest installment in his “Treasures of Smaug the Dragon” series (fifth treasure: sapphires). He intercepts you early on your first bed-escape trip, and you loud-cry for a few minutes before zonking out for a solid 12.

a day in your life

To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 3 years and 1 month old.

You are still testing the stay-in-bed limits, and Dad fields a wee-hours potty request. You have correctly identified potty needs as the trump card. When the light turns green, you charge into our bathroom as I’m getting out of the shower, and our day officially begins. Somehow you both end up swaddled like babies in your old muslins. It’s hard to explain.


We make it downstairs for breakfast—more banana muffins you helped bake on Sunday, and fruit, and a bonus bowl of cold oatmeal. You strut to the car carrying the vitamins, and Dad buckles you in. We talk and tell stories and ask questions all the way to school. Your classroom was temporarily relocated yesterday after a burst pipe rendered the floor unsafe, so we drop you in the ex-Sea-Turtles class right by the entrance. The Owls have all moved in, and you seem happy to be back there. There’s a library loft! We have a hug, and you insist on kissing both my cheeks, and then my legs. Yep.



Other than the new classroom, it’s a typical day at school. Lunch—I laugh now to notice since I just served the exact same thing for dinner—is spinach quiche. You nap. The afternoon on the playground must have been fun, because your feet are FILTHY when you come home. Dad finds you at 5, working enthusiastically on some dot art. He lets you hop on the stumps by the door, and then you head home.


You must have missed your last potty trip because you have an enormous accident in the car on the way home. Dad strips down the carseat and tries to mop your pee out of the perforated leather while I sponge off your legs and butt. Mmmm, dinner time! Unsurprisingly to me now, you are not very enthusiastic about the spinach quiche on your plate, but you scarf your strawberries and eat black beans by the handful. “What’s in this quiche?” you ask, and then answer yourself, “Eggs and cheese and BOOTY.”

After you handle every piece of pepperoni on the serving dish, Dad works in a pro-parenting lesson on not touching food and silverware you aren’t going to use. You end up with three spoons, somehow. You relish our full attention as Annie lies down on the couch—she spiked a fever this morning and has been home and pitiful all afternoon.

You are extremely dirty. I convince you to go upstairs for a bath, and you convince me to crawl like a turtle with you to get there. The tub is a blast.

We complete our grooming rituals, and when you and I return to your room, we find Annie there in bed. It’s 6:45. I sit so she can see the pictures and start reading our new Baby Mercy book from Aunt Peanut. You sit in my lap, only a little squirmy, then pick out three more books and allow Dad to read a couple. He tells you the story of Hansel and Gretel, and says goodnight when, wow!, it’s still just 7:15.

And you’re quiet for 20 minutes, and then you emerge and tell me you have to go potty, even though you peed literally half an hour ago, but what am I gonna do? Walk with you to the bathroom, that’s what. You pee a tablespoon, and then get back in bed, and then request a BIG hug, and to kiss both of my cheeks. Smack, smack. And my forehead. Smack. And my nose. Smack. You chuckle. “That’s a hard one, right?” Right, Paul. Right.

a day in your life

To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 3 years old.

You and Annie come out and tell me it’s my turn to turn off the green light. Thanks, guys. In return, Dad and I share the exciting news that it’s your birthday. You had forgotten.

We have a quick snuggle, and I turn you loose to get ready with Dad. He teaches you how to pee standing up. MILESTONE.


You get dressed in the greenest shirt that’s still clean, and then switch to a different one, and then switch to your orange tie-dyed Panda shirt, and some camouflage socks because why not. Then it’s downstairs for a pile of blueberries, a peach, and some mini-pancakes—pretty much your perfect breakfast. You finish up, wash your hands unprompted, and ask if you can play for a minute. You race cars around the coffee table while the rest of us finish our preparations. Your special day nets you the privilege of carrying the vitamins out to the car. We pass them out once everyone is buckled in.

On the way to school, Annie asks for a story, and I hem and haw before proposing the one on my mind: how Paul was born. I hit the high points for you and field a number of mechanical questions. You enjoy the story but are disappointed to learn that you will not have a baby in your tummy one day. I feel disappointed, too, on your behalf.


At school, you open the door by yourself and head inside. You hand over a small baggie of jelly beans that Ms. Natalie will pass out as treats (one each) for your birthday in the afternoon, and tell her about the most important part of your weekend: “Yesterday I had TURTLE CAKE AND TURTLE CUPCAKES.” You say goodbye to us as you pick up a paper towel for second-breakfast. Oranges and cheerios.

It’s a typical day at school, by all accounts, other than welcoming a couple of new Pandas to the class, and of course your jelly bean distribution. You nap with your doggie and eat well. I pick you up at 4:15, and you leap into my arms. On the way to the car, you ask, “Mom, could you hear me talking when you were at work?” I love the stuff I have to explain to you.


You wear your birthday crown all the way home, and at 4:30 I tell you you’re EXACTLY three. Annie tells you that because you’re three now, she’s going to teach you something new tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Dad scoops you up at home and asks for your consultation on dinner. You decline the pizza restaurant in favor of mac and cheese at home, and when things get a little too rowdy for constructive cooking, take in a few happy episodes of Peppa Pig. At the dinner table, you demolish your mac and cheese and are delighted when I stick candles in your leftover turtle cake, and we sing to you again. You blow out the candles like a pro, have a few nibbles, and ask to save the rest of it for breakfast.


Afterward, you hustle to the bathroom to wash your hands so you can open your last birthday present—the rest we have trickled out over the prior two days, so you could have them for your pool party and also as motivators for various desired behaviors, SORRY. You are super excited about this one—three construction vehicles you can take apart and put back together with a working drill, nuts, and bolts. Big fun. You execute capably under Dad’s tutelage, and enter another elaborate pretend world with Annie, involving home-building and the cast of Cars.


Time marches on. It’s time to bathe, and Dad gets you washed pretty cheerfully in a green-tinted (turtle) bath while Annie showers on my watch. I help you into some undies with Cookie Monster on them, but you ask me to pretend it’s really Mater. We read a sweet short book together, Our Car, and then dabble in some baby-book selections while Annie veers into mania. Neither of you want to get in bed, but after a last pee and a countdown from 5, you manage it. I do my best to spread your blanket on you with NO WRINKLES. Dad gives you another rendition of The Tortoise and the Hare and sings you a song about Lightning McQueen. I see you once more about 10 minutes later, when Annie summons me. You tell me you’re almost a grown-up, and when you’re a grown-up, will I still be a grown-up? Yes.

“And Annie?”


“And Dad?”

“Yes, we’ll all be grown-ups together.”

“But,” adds Annie, “They’ll have lots of wrinkles on their face.”

True enough. Goodnight, kiddo.

a day in your life

To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 2 years and 11 months old.

You and Annie giggle your way into our room at 7:05. No early rising today—you were wide awake in your beds until almost 9 last night. You set up temporary camp in your pillow, wearing your baggy Ninja Turtles underwear and announcing you are a baby pony today. Once Annie is off and running, you consent to take my hand and begin the morning drill, and we go pretty quickly after that.

You’re happy to see a bowl of cold oatmeal with sliced banana for breakfast, eat it all and spend a few minutes with your toy cars before we head for the real one. You conduct your usual traffic inventory on the way to school, spotting police cars, taxis, school buses, and trucks of all sorts.

IMG_20190712_075733 IMG_20190712_075908

You cruise into class with a confident stride, and then, oh my goodness, if it isn’t another line up of cars and trucks. Ms. Natalie has a different cool activity to start every day. You and Annie both admire it as your bagel breakfast gets set up. When I pop back into your class to find my lost car key 10 minutes later, you’re still there.

Thank goodness it’s splash day, because it’s been too hot to go to the playground all week, and you like to MOVE. Your teachers report you have lots of fun. Dad picks you up at 5 and ferries you and Annie to Home Slice for a pizza dinner. (I have decamped to California to celebrate my friend Debbie’s 40th birthday.) You peel off each piece of pepperoni and hold them up for Dad to blow on before you eat them. Then you salt your slice, declare it’s too spicy, and eat no more.


Back home, bed preparation is accelerated to allow 15 minutes of Cars 2 (Holly Shiftwell! Finn McMissile!). Dad reads you two books (trolls, buses), and wraps up the evening with a story about a chocolate earthquake. Goodnight, goober.

a day in your life

To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 2 years and 10 months old.

I’m washing my face in the shower when I hear knocking noises at roughly knee level. I open my eyes and see you and Annie gleefully waving good morning. What do you know—the light turned green! It’s 7:05. Admittedly an odd time to set an alarm for, but it lets us shoot for 7 with a grace period, which obviously we use.

Actually I should back up: we first saw you today at 5:45 am, when you appeared at the foot of our bed to tell us blythely that you had tinkled on your pillowcase, and needed a new one. Annie had been dealing with some intestinal distress through the night and had put herself on the potty; you tagged along with your own important news. I changed your pillowcase, and you both went back to bed.


Forward again to 7:06, you’re wallowing on the floor with your sister and saying hello to your dad, who arrived home in the wee hours from a California trip. We tag-team getting you through your morning tasks. You put up some fuss but make it down for waffles and whatnot. Dad gets you buckled into the car and fishes out a blueberry-flavored vitamin. (Or is it vitanim? You two have mispronounced it for so many years it’s hard for me to remember.)

I drive you to school, narrating a Brand New Story about, oh what was it? A kid had a dream about climbing a rainbow, and then jumped around in the clouds. Bambi made an appearance. I was freestyling. You have lots of ideas to offer about plot twists, and I remind you and Annie that we say YES to all story ideas. YES AND. You and Annie crow about everything you see in safety-vest green or taxi-cab yellow. “THE COLOR OF DAD’S CAR!” “THE COLOR OF A TAXI!” “Where??” “We passed it.”


Annie’s tummy is rumbling in a bad way, so we hustle into the school and head for the Owls first. Ms. Jolene reminds you that you will be an Owl soon, and you hide behind my legs. We say goodbye to Annie and make for the Pandas. You cling to me through our goodbyes but consent to sit down for second-breakfast, and you’re waving to me cheerfully by the time I leave.

According to your teachers’ report, you engage in “footprint art,” read a Llama Llama book, and—my favorite—care for your baby dolls during circle time. Ms. Bertha has to remind you a few times to play safely with your trucks. You do all your peeing in the potty.


I see you again at 4:45, with Charly in tow. It’s Wednesday, and she is taking over from Shanna for our Adult Liberation Night, so I am walking her through the pick-up process. You run to me with your pink playground face, and we gather your things and get the report as Ms. Bertha hands you a graham cracker to go. Charly and I strap you into her car, and I say goodbye as you dig into an overdue Easter present from her sweet mom.

At home, you and Annie have some conflict over our limited supply of frozen corndogs and chicken nuggets, and you end up with a perfect division of each. Plus two peaches. You both work on decorating your playhouses with very permanent markers. You poop in the potty and earn a round of jelly beans for the family.

Bedtime goes okay although forensic evidence suggests you neither took a bath nor brushed your teeth. Life goes on. At 10pm, here you are: