The {little} man in my house is embarking on a very big transition this week: preschool.

Honestly, I didn’t have preschool in mind for him.  He’s my baby, after all.  I feared preschool would–and I know this might sound silly–but I feared preschool would “mean him up.”

I don’t want him meaned up.  I like him as is.

He comes to me in his t-shirt and spidey undies every morning–sleep still heavy on his breath–and asks me to rock him.  Only he can’t make the “k” sound so it goes more like will you rott me?

And then I hold out my hand and wait for him to grab tight.  Together we walk to the four-year-old brown velour rocker in the corner of his bedroom.

He excitedly curls up into the same position on my lap every single time, knowing precisely how to bend and tuck so as to fit just right.  We rock.  Sometimes we read books.  Mostly, though, we talk.

He tells me that my earrings are beautiful, and that they make me look like a beautiful princess (his daddy taught him the fine art of flattery).  He gives me smoochie boochies and asks if they are the best four-year-old smoochie boochies ever.  We talk about when he “popped out of my tummy” and how even if I could have picked any baby in all the world I still would have chosen him.

I’m afraid that if he goes off to preschool, he’ll come home each day with his edges just a touch grittier than they were when he left.

And also?  The very reason he’s going to school is so as to correct an articulation delay.

An articulation delay that, for the time being, I happen to find irresistible.

Come fourth grade, it might not be as cute.

So I’m letting go.

But only a little.

And only because I have to.

Wish us luck.

Cassidy has a school project due tomorrow.  An All About Me poster.

Turned out pretty darn good, even if I do say so myself.

And, um, completely coincidental that I didn’t have time to blog last night.  Ahem.

Last Thursday was a momentous occasion for a certain redhead in our house.  It was the day that two years worth of orthodontist visits culminated with the big event: braces.  Finally.

She’s lucky in that the doctor says she only needs to wear them for a year.

Her older sister, on the other hand, wasn’t as fortunate.  Tomorrow morning will mark the end of Torri’s two year stint as a metal mouth.  She’s counting down the minutes.

For just six days, they’ve had this in common.

It ends tomorrow.

But it was cute while it lasted…

Five weeks.

Five weeks of sleeping in and picnic dinners and bathrooms that stayed clean.

Five weeks of no slamming doors or sticky handprints or dishes left in the sink.

Five weeks of quiet.  Peace.  Calm.

Tomorrow it comes to a close.

And–dare I say–bring it on.

I’m craving a little bit ‘o’ chaos.  Voices raised in competition to be heard.  Laughter.  Tales of the places they went and the things they saw.

Every year when they leave I lug out the hypothetical boards and hammer and nails and I get to work, sealing off an entire chamber of my heart, like when a ski lodge closes for lack of snow.  There’s even a little sign temporarily hung: Do Not Enter.

For as long as they’re away, that part of me remains void–untouchable.  A little piece of me, holding vigil.

Five weeks.

They come home and only when they’re each accounted for–only then–can I tear down the barricades.  Only then can I breathe easy.

My pulse escalates just thinking about it.  My arms tingle from phantom hugs.  My eyes crave the sight of them, with their newly sun-kissed shoulders and longer hair and ever-so-slightly older smiles.

It won’t be long now.

But these final moments?  Torture.

Calling all moms of preschoolers…I have a question.

Does your three, soon-to-be four year old have the gift of gab?

Because mine does.  Boy does he.

Strange, considering he didn’t utter a single word until well past his 2nd birthday.  For real.  We did speech therapy and everything.  But silent he remained.

That is, until one day when the talkative side of him decided to show up.

And now?  Now he talks.  Nonstop.

He talks to the UPS man.  Talks so much that the UPS man stopped ringing the bell and now just leaves the packages at the door.

He talks to his swim instructor.  When he’s supposed to be blowing his bubbles and using his big splashy kickers.

He talks to the restaurant servers.  So much that I feel obligated to pad the tip based on the extra time he/she spends at our table listening to the little man’s ramblings.

He talks to grocery store cashiers and baggers.  He talks to the neighbors as we take our morning walks.  He’ll talk to anybody who’ll listen.  He would gladly talk to the various fundraisers that are always calling our house, but I don’t let him.  Maybe I should.

These are his favorite things to say:

Guess how old I am.
We’re from Ar-i-zona.
Guess when my birthday is.
I used to be one.  And then I turned two.  And then I turned three.
In August I’m going to turn four.  After that I’ll turn five.

But, for the most part, he reserves those things for the strangers he meets.

He saves the best for me.

All day, every day.  These are his favorites:

Why?
What?  I didn’t hear-ed you.
Why?
Watch this.
Why?
Was that funny?
Why?
What are we going to do tomorrow?
Why?

I’m the one who insisted on speech therapy.  I’m the one who narrated my every move to him before he had words of his own.  I’m the one who took all those speech therapy tips and put them into practice.

I think I’ve created a monster.

The house is still.  Quiet.

There is but one crumb-ridden spot to wipe at the table.  One cup to fill.  One sleepy little body to tuck in each night.

It’s that time again: dad camp.

The time of year when the population of our household decreases by 50%.  The {only} time of year when everybody in the house shares the same last name.  The time of year when our Thursday major clean-up night becomes unnecessary, and thus slips to a bi-weekly event.

There are fewer bathrooms that need cleaning.  Significantly less laundry to do.  Half as many children who need tending to in the powder room.  Ahem.

It’s a lot less work.

A lot more quiet.

But not nearly as…

Alive.

I try to accept it as the break it is.  And it’s not hard, at first.

At first there is lots of eating out.  Running errands without the weight of another hand to hold through the parking lot–another seat belt to fasten.

At first there are evening Scrabble games and trips to the movies and Starbucks chai tea lattes.

About a week in, though, the at firstness wears off and gives way to lonely.  To quiet.  To I miss my babies.

And–I know it sounds weird–but it gets worse as they get older.  Maybe because I’m realizing that there are so few summers left.  Far too few.

I hate to wish away the summer.

But every single year?  I kind of do.

She took gymnastics classes. {Twice}.

Before that there was soccer.  T-ball.  There was even a year of chess club.

Nothing stuck though.

Nothing stuck, that is, until she started dance this year.  Hip hop.

Every Thursday afternoon she donned her black workout shorts and low-top Converse.

She came home after school and ate her healthy snack quick as could be, so as to ensure she wouldn’t be late.

Two classes in she decided that, yes, she actually did want to be in the recital after all.

A costume was ordered.  A song was downloaded to the iPod so that she could practice at home.

And practice she did, while her younger brother and sister sat nearby in the mushroom chairs, watching her every move.

The practicing was so frequent that by the time rehearsal finally came, both little brother and little sister sat in the audience, doing the same dance moves as big sister on stage, having learned them by heart.

Sunday was recital day.

There was more practicing.  There was the application of make-up.  And the arrival of her dad, who flew in for the occasion.

There we sat together–little siblings, dad, step-dad and I–in the audience.  Waiting.  Watching.

The curtain rolled back.

She couldn’t find me, in that sea of expectant faces before her.  But I looked on.  Waiting.  Watching.

And then those first familiar notes ripped through the auditorium.  She exploded into movement–unbridled confidence beaming in her eyes.

She nailed it.  NAILED. IT.

The best part though?

As the curtain closed–and she stood frozen in her posse pose–there was no mistaking the look on her face.

She nailed it alright.

And she knew it.

More often than not my oldest daughter comes home from school, only to find me exactly where I was when she left: at the kitchen sink, scrubbing away at the latest round of dishes.  She looks disgustingly at my yellow rubber gloves and ventures to ask, “so, how was your day?”

She knows already what I’ve spend my day doing.  She knows because when she goes into her bedroom there will be a pile of clean clothes, folded neatly and set at the edge of her bed.  She knows because she smells the scent of homemade wheat bread, wafting through the air.  She knows because the library books she asked me to return have been turned in, with nary a late fee in sight.

She knows precisely what I spend my days doing.  And, quite frankly, it bores her.

She has big dreams, this girl of mine.  Dreams far more ambitious than mine ever were.  Whereas I dreamed of being a mother, she dreams of a fancy career in marketing.  Whereas I knew in my heart of hearts that I was born to be someone’s mommy, she questions whether or not she wants to be a mom at all.

We’re so very alike in so very many ways.  Ask anyone; they’ll tell you.  If she’s not your clone, Darc, I don’t know who is… is what I’m told.  They mistake me for her and vice versa when one of us answers the phone.  She’s impatient and independent and just a tad too mature for her own good, just like her mother dearest.

But we’re different too.  In lots of ways.  And learning to accept some of those differences can be confusing.  Hard, at times.

Every once in awhile I read too much into those pitying eyes of hers.  Inwardly, I wonder how she can possibly overlook the significance of what I do.  I wilt, just a little.

But only a little because I know that one day she’ll look back and appreciate that her jeans were always clean and that her meals were always square.  She’ll go away to college, only to come home because she can’t possibly go asingledaymore without a steaming bowl of mom’s minestrone.  She’ll suffer a broken heart and miss having mom to come home to.

Only then will she get it.

For now, she questions why I’ve made the choices I have.

Little does she know that creating a soft spot in a world of sharp edges means more to me than the fattest of paychecks.  That quieting the constant static that exists outside these four walls gives me unspeakable joy.  Unmatched contentment.

The other day, she slaved in the kitchen baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies for her friend’s birthday.  The next morning, in a rush to get out the door, she grabbed a peanut butter cup from the pantry and asked:

Do you think it would be good if I sandwiched this between two cookies?

{turning up my nose} Um, no.  Why?

Haley always frosts and decorates cookies for other people’s birthdays.  Mine look plain.

Her face clouded at the thought.  But a quick check of the pantry left me beaming.

Ten minutes later I presented her with jazzed up cookie pops to take to her friend.  She turned to me, eyebrows raised, and very matter of factly said you’re amazing.  There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm, not a lick of satire.  She meant it.

And for the briefest of seconds, my heart fluttered.

She wonders why I’ve made the choices I’ve made.

The answer: moments like those.

One of the nicest things about having a little boy: he sneaks in like a little elf and leaves me flowers when I least expect them.  Like this morning, when I had turned my back to rinse something in the sink.  I went back to my breakfast-making post and saw the daintiest of little yellow flowers.  Just waiting.

I rode in an ambulance with him again on Wednesday night.  Croup.  Again.  He woke up bark-coughing–oh how I despise that sound–and it soon escalated.  No feeling is quite as helpless as watching your child struggle to breathe.  And not being able to do a damn thing about it.

There was 911.

There were paramedics.

The ambulance.

The hospital.  An all-nighter.

Breathing treatments.

But he’s okay.

Almost back to his old self.  Almost.

I stepped inside from our Sunday night barbecue only briefly, to grab silverware or something.

The windows were open and I could hear Jayce’s wheels speeding along the length of our back patio: his personal speedway.

And then I heard a crash.  An immediate cry.  One that I’ve come to recognize as the pain cry.

I ran to the window and looked out.

He was there, on all fours–his hand and arm covered in bright red blood.

His face, too, was bloodied.

Because I don’t react well to blood, I brought my hands to my head.

Oh God.  Oh God.  Oh God.

Jeff reacted to my reaction–more quickly than he would have otherwise.

As he carried the little man to the bathroom I quizzed:

Are his teeth loose?

Is anything open?

They weren’t.  And it wasn’t.

There was, however, a gigantic hickey-like bump on his forehead.

A fat bottom lip.

Bloodied nose.

I don’t react well to blood.

But I’m learning.

My little bruiser leaves me little choice in the matter.