He did it!

Call me a pessimist. I was all but ready to declare preschool a failure before it even began. But you know what? He did it! Paul not only is surviving, he's thriving. The first day did get off to a rocky start. As you can see in the photo in front of Paul's school, he's not looking too optimistic. Indeed, when Mark made to leave after dropping him off, Paul did throw the tantrum I had been fearing. Mark called me with the not-so-great news, and I spent the next couple hours half-expecting that the teachers would be calling to say that I would need to come and pick up Paul. No such call ever came, and when I picked him up, I didn't hear howling or see tears, I saw a boy who was excited to tell me about his day and show me the craft project he'd made. Sure, the first thing he said was that he had missed me, but he also said he had fun.

After the first day, things have gotten progressively easier. By the second week of class, he had given up crying all together, much to my relief. Last week, one of his teachers told me what a great smile Paul has and how nice it is to have him there. It looks like now instead of fearing the worst, I can look forward to hearing about the daily star person, what Paul ate for a snack and the fun he had with his wonderful teachers and friends. Hallelujah!

Is this how people end up home schooling?

Today is the big day - Paul's first day of preschool - and I must say I'm a bundle of nerves. Here's why. Any hopes I had of him overcoming his fears were dashed Friday morning when we headed to moms' group at church. I've mentioned before that ever since Ben hasn't been with him there, he has been fearful. I did my best to prep him for it, and though he did protest a bit, I figured that he would cry some and then be OK. But as soon as we set foot in the door, he began to not cry, but sob. Snot-running-out-of-his-nose, heaving sobs. "Mommy, don't go!" he wailed. I did my best to calm him, though that really wasn't possible in his thoroughly panicked state. So I made for the door in the hopes that he would work it out and be OK, as he has done in the past. No sooner did I close the door than he opened the door and threw himself at my feet, begging me not to leave. It was at that point I decided we needed to leave.

Utterly bereft, I trudged into the house and began to look for articles on preschool separation anxiety. Of course many kids his age have it. Many of the others at church cried on Friday, though Paul's display certainly was the most, er, colorful. In my readings, I discovered that I did a lot of things wrong. That's nothing new for me. Don't sneak out, one expert implored, it's dishonest and it's only easier for you, not them. Did that. Don't bribe or offer rewards, another said. Did that. Don't cave in and take the child home, or he will think crying works. Oh, dear. I was beginning to lose hope for him and for me. I did find some tips that I hope will work for today. Often it works better for someone besides the mother to drop off the child, hence Mark taking Paul today. Also I let him choose a small toy to keep in his pocket as a security object.

Many wise people have reminded me that this is a phase, that just as all children one day will be potty trained, they all will go to school and do fine. I guess the hardest part for me is seeing him so scared, so upset. And underneath it all is a kernel of doubt in my mind. Sometimes the worry is simmering, others seemingly boiling over. Am I doing this right? Did I do something to cause him to be like this? I question my very decision to be a stay-at-home mom. Has it left Paul ill-prepared to face these challenges? I don't know the answers.

In preparation for today, we've been reading the children's book The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn. It taps right into the anxiety that children and parents alike feel on the first day of school. In it the mama raccoon places a kiss on young Chester's palm and promises that whenever he misses his mom, he will be able to put his palm to his cheek and feel his mother's love (Mama loves you, Mama loves you). By the end of the book when Chester plants his own kiss on his mom's hand and she puts it to her cheek and hears "Chester loves you, Chester loves you," I was a sobbing mess myself, but Paul was smiling. So we'll try it today and hope that it gets us both through.

This one's for you, G

So I'm a little late on writing down my thoughts on Gus's first birthday. What a wonderful, challenging year it was. When I saw Gus's little face on the 20-week ultrasound picture and heard the words "It's a boy," I felt instantly that it was right, that three boys was exactly what we should have. My heart swelled with an enormous wave of love and affection for my boy. Finally I saw him, the actual him, for the first time. He was what the nurses called "a good size," though he looked tiny to me, and he had abundant black hair. I adored my beautiful little boy, and I couldn't wait to bring him home to his brothers and start our life together.

After semi-successfully shepherding two boys through babyhood, I knew bringing up our third wouldn't be easy, but I was confident we would be up for the challenge. Gus, however, decided to give us a surprise. By the time he was a month old, he was extremely fussy during the evening hours, seemingly impossible to soothe during his spells. We made it, though, and the hardship made it all the sweeter when at 4 months the fussiness was flipped off like a switch and he became a delightful, mellow baby.

By about seven months, it became clear that he would walk in the footsteps of his brother, Ben (who walked at 9 months), literally. He quickly found a way to get around, first commando-style, then hands and knees, and finally, at 10 months, walking. He now has the dangerous combination of Ben's curiosity and early mobility and the reckless adventurous streak of 1-year-old Paul. He's an explorer. A climber. Fearless. This ensures that I'm never far behind and nearly never at rest. Thank goodness that with all of this, he still likes to take many breaks for a snuggle with his mom. I love you, my boy. Happy birthday.