Slices of Stacy

Now We Are Six

The End

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three,
I was hardly Me.

When I was Four,
I was not much more.

When I was Five,
I was just alive.

But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever.
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.
--A.A. Milne

">Sweet Pea

No title

**I really don't know what was going on with the font in the last post.  I'm having a hard time caring.**

There is a photo in our hallway, a family photo of the three of us.  I remember the day it was taken.  Our former church had some photo company come in and take the pictures for a photo directory and then the company tried to sell us these horribly expensive packages.  We declined.  I remember the photo shoot, though.  We were trying to get a couple of good pictures of Sweet Pea in the silk dress that Aunt Carolyn made, so we had her 9-month-old self alone in some of the shots.  She sat on a small white wicker chair.  At one point she leaned forward and, as though it were happening in slow motion, her body fell forward, heading directly to the floor from the 4' platform.  I was right there and I caught her before she landed, smoothly bringing her back up to me as she laughed at the roller coaster ride she'd just been on.  Disaster averted.  Mommy is there.

That's what we're supposed to do, as parents.  We're supposed to see the potholes ahead in the road, to intuit headaches and heartaches and prevent our children from either one.  We accept that at some point we won't be able to do this, but that's 'someday' when our children are teenagers, a far off future that may or may not involve robots and superflus and daily trips to the moon.

Last week Sweet Pea and Neighborgirl were playing in SweetPea's bedroom.  She came downstairs and whispered in my ear that Neighborgirl asked her if she wanted to have sex.  I asked her to repeat the question because, although Sweet Pea has heard many colorful phrases from me, like 'pomegranate martini' and 'stupid motherfucker' I am reasonably sure I've never used the word 'sex' in front of her.

After she repeated herself, I sent her upstairs and, heart pounding, turned to face Neighborgirl.

"Sweetie, did you ask Sweet Pea if she wanted to have sex?"

"No."

I took her hand, looked in her eyes, and gently said, "It's okay.  Nobody is mad.  I just need to know.  Did you say that?"

Her eyes filled with tears and she said, "Well, I did say that."

I hugged her and said, "Okay.  What did you do?"

"I laid on Sweet Pea's chest."

"I see.  Honey, who told you about sex," I asked her, thinking it was her middle school brother or high school sister.

"It's what my stepdad does to my Mom."

Cold dread in my stomach for what was coming next.  "I'm confused, honey.  Don't you sleep with your Mom?"

"Yes.  With him, too.  And he does sex to her."

"While you're there in bed?"

"Yes." 

Oh God.  Oh God oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgodohgod.

She was crying.  I asked her if there was anything else she wanted to tell me.  She shook her head 'no' but cried even harder.

When she was finished, DJ arrived.  I told Neighborgirl it was time for her to go home.  I told DJ what happened.  I called my sister-in-law, a first-grade teacher, for advice.  She told me to talk to the Mom, that it was just one of those awkward conversations that has to be had.  She pointed out that while it was definitely bad parenting, I could say, "I'm sure it's completely innocent or maybe she's misunderstood, but..." 

I wasn't so sure.

We had a family meeting.  That's when Sweet Pea told me everything that happened.

Apparently Neighborgirl persuaded Sweet Pea to get in bed.  They pulled the covers over them and then Neighborgirl pulled her pants down.  When I asked Sweet Pea what happened next, she said she wasn't sure; she'd put her hands over her face at that point.

Now we'd moved to a different arena.  A little bit of "You show me yours, I'll show  you mine" is completely normal for small children.  A demonstration of the act is something else entirely.

The next day I went to the guidance counselor at Sweet Pea and Neighborgirl's school.  I told her the whole story and was advised that they would be contacting DFCS.

I shook the whole time.  I'm an incest survivor.  I had just committed the ultimate sin: I Told.  I Told the Secret.  Even if this wasn't my Secret.  I felt guilty because I hadn't asked Neighborgirl more pressing questions.  All I could think about was Sweet Pea, the effect it had on her. 

Now I've moved into anger and guilt.  I'm angry at Neighborgirl.  I know she's 6 years old.  I know it's not her fault.  But she just visited this experience on my child.  My own precious daughter experienced something that was WAY beyond what she was prepared for, in the midst of her own grief process about her adoption.

And, of course, I feel guilty.  I feel like I should have known.  I should have been able to protect Sweet Pea.  When it was happening I was sitting right below them, in the living room, creating a lecture outline for my lesson on the rise of the dictators before WWII.  Why didn't something set me off?  Why didn't I intuit that something was wrong?

I failed her.  When she needed me the most, I failed my daughter.  I cannot protect her, not really.  I knew that someday it would happen.

I had no idea it would be this soon. 

Words, eaten

I believe that the possibility exists for a primal wound in my daughter.  And if it does, as I said in my comment, it is my responsibility as her mother to create a safe place for her to experience it.  I learned from my own wound how to grieve losses, how to become stronger for them.  I can close my eyes and whistle all I want, but that's not going to fix anything for my child.  I have to put my own ego aside in order to be a good parent.  Allowing Sweet Pea to feel ALL her feelings about her adoption means that sometimes I'm going to hear things I don't want to hear.  Sometimes she may be angry, or hurt, or sad.  If I am open to hearing those things, to walking through them with her or standing close by if she needs to walk through them alone, I can only enhance the bond between us.  That's what unconditional love is all about.

I wrote that on July 19, 2005.  Wasn't I funny?  I mean, really... isn't that a laff-fucking-riot?

Big words.  Hubris.  Because I'm here to tell you that the first bad day, the first time I heard her cry for her brothers, the first time I watched those shoulders heave up and down with grief, I wanted to take it all back.

Last night Sweet Pea asked me to tell her the story of the night she was born.  She hears it a couple of times a month.  This time was different, though.  She turned away from me in bed when I finished.  Somehow I knew something wasn't right and I said, "You know that if you ever have questions about your adoption, you can always ask me."  In a tiny voice, she said, "I miss my brothers," and then the tears began.  Today at school I mentioned the incident to the parapro in her classroom who told me about a picture Sweet Pea had drawn.  Something about it was different, she said.  I asked Sweet Pea, who told me that it was a picture of her and her brothers. 

Tonight, after a family meeting (which we had to have after the girl next door was playing upstairs with Sweet Pea and Neighborgirl asked Sweet Pea IF SHE WANTED TO HAVE SEX AND PROCEEDED TO TAKE DOWN HER PANTS but that's a whole other entry, Internet -- this whole parenting thing?  yeah.) I asked her if ther was anything else she wanted to talk about.  She began to cry and said she was sad because her brothers lived so far away.

It's so complicated.  Adoption is so complicated.  Parenting is so complicated.  There are so many things to say and I can't even sort out my thoughts.  I have to have a talk with Neighborgirl's Mom.  I have to put aside my own fears and insecurities in order to be truly present for my daughter.

The most important thing I have to hang on to, right now, is that she can tell us how she feels.  She feels safe.

In which the author gets her "tree-hugging hippie liberal" card revoked

For years now I've been claiming that the only way I can have a truly peaceful holiday season would be to barricade myself in my home from November to January.  No cards, gifts, wrapping, parties... nada.  Nothing.  Zip.  The whole in-your-face-ness of it all is bugging me.  It bugs me that people act like they're "taking back Christmas" like the terrorists took it away.  If you want to celebrate Christmas, celebrate it!  Just don't expect that everyone else will follow suit.  Remember that Great American Melting Pot that Schoolhouse Rock said we had?  We do.  Now it's time to deal with it.  Times have changed.

You know what else bugs me?  The nouveau "I'm not going to have my kids buy into the whole Santa" shtick with the commensurate holier-than-thou attitude.  Threatening to call Santa is one of my parenting techniques from Labor Day to New Year's.  I live by it.  Not only that, but Santa is one of my favorite childhood memories.  My Mom would always tell us we couldn't wake her up before 7am on Christmas morning.  We'd negotiate her down to 6am.   My brothers and I would wake up at, like, 4am and tiptoe back and forth to each other's rooms, stage-whispering until the parental units were forced to cave.  We would dash downstairs to see what Santa brought and those were always the super-spectacular gifts.  If you don't want to have that experience, if you don't want to "lie" to your kids, fine.  Just ditch the 'tude.

I'm also getting irritated by the attitude of people who feel all lofty if they only get their children two presents.  Fine!  Make your own fucking choices!  Jesus!  As for us, Sweet Pea has got, like, ten BILLION presents (okay, it's more like ten.  Still).  Christmas comes once a year.  We bargain shop, we start shopping early.  We're careful.  But damnit, life is way too short to miss the look in her eyes when she comes downstairs and her eyes widen to the size of saucers.  She checks the plate to see if Santa ate the cookies, if the reindeer got their carrots.  The dog gets a big bone in his stocking to keep him busy for a while.  We make hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls and marvel over every item Santa brought.  We take turns opening presents.  Wrapping paper is tossed everywhere while Christmas music plays.  Stacks of gifts form next to each of us.  Each gift is exclaimed over.  Sweet Pea's eyes light up every time it's her turn to open yet another gift.  DJ starts glancing at his Xbox, wondering when he can start playing his latest game.  I surreptitiously stroke the cover of whatever book I got, waiting to start reading.  We spend hours opening every toy for her, untwisting the ties and cursing the litigious people that made all that packaging necessary.  DJ and I look at each other over her head, wondering how we're going to find space for one more Barbie, then smile.

And I wouldn't change a thing.

I don't think I've completely bought into the commercialism.  I worry about it occasionally.  But you know what?  I don't care.  My favorite party of Christmas is riding around in the car with my family looking at Christmas lights.  Sweet Pea's favorite part (according to her) is that it's God's birthday.  Those are the things you can't buy, anyway.

And there's always room for one more Barbie.

The morning after the White Elephant Christmas Party....

"Mommy, what's this?  I found it in a present downstairs."

Rational Self:  Remember, we believe in telling the truth whenever possible.  Irrational Self:  Right.  And why is that again?  Rational Self:  Because the truth presented as matter-of-factly as possible will make her lose interest in the item.  Snatching it away will only make her more curious.  Stay calm.  Do not display fear.  They can sense it.  Irrational Self:  Right.  Okay then.

"Umm, it's called lubricant."

"Oh.  There were a few more, too.  What's it for?"

"Umm... well, it something is dry, lubricant can make it better."

"Oh.  Do you drink it?"

"No, not exactly.  If you get it in your mouth, that's okay, though."

"Oh.  There were different colors.  Is there flavors?"

"Uh, yeah."

She ponders the container as I try to finish getting dressed as nonchalantly as possible.

"Wa... wa... water...meee.. meh"

Rational self:  Holy shit!  She can sound out 'watermelon'!  Code red! Move, move, move!

"Hey, Sweet Pea, do you want a brownie?  Aunt Elaine made them!"

"Oh, YEAH!  Here, Mommy, you take this lubey thing."

Any excuse, really

So Elaine went out and got tickets for 'High School Musical on Ice' for us and our daughters.  (Sidenote to daughters:  this is how you know we love you.) 

After a discussion about how much we would have to drink in order to survive it, she got tickets for the 11am show.

Which is far too early to start drinking.

You know what this means, right?

Xanax!!!  Wooo hooooooo!  Shiny, happy pharmaceticals!  Mommy's favorite!

Breakafull, like my heart

The very first blog entry I ever read was this one at Real Live Preacher.  My husband sent me the link and even though Sweet Pea was only a few months old when I read it, I understood exactly what he meant. 

Sweet Pea has had several phonological mishaps that became part of our daily language.  Sadly we watched as one by one, they all drifted away.  When singing the ABC's, she no longer says "q r Rex, t u v..." and if the dog could understand, I'll bet his feelings would be hurt.  She figured out that the expression is "Stop copying me" instead of "Stop coffeeing me."  Little things like that.  Today I needed to go to Caribou and was sad to discover that she no longer calls it 'Collegebou' since that's where I do a good deal of studying.  In fact, we're down to our last one, "breakafull", which means anything that, if dropped, will shatter into two or more pieces.  I'm waiting on pins and needles because one day she's going to realize that the word is actually "breakable" and then that sound you hear will be my heart.

Isn't it enough that she's already moved past individual letter sounds to sight words?  Isn't it enough that we've started to buy her size 7/8 clothes?  Every single day a little bit more of my baby slips away. 

And you people wonder why I drink.

Lost & Found

So... the parapro in Sweet Pea's Kindergarten lost her yesterday.

Lost.  Lost my child.

My internship this semester takes place at Sweet Pea's school.  Apparently this is supposed to be a big no-no so we're having to keep quiet about it.  Frankly, I don't know what the big deal is, but I'll smile and nod.  Naturally, I'm doing my best to keep the roles of 'Mom' and 'Teacher' separate.  So what happens the first day I'm actually on the premises?  The parapro loses my kid.

After the official end of the school day, the parapro walked by the second grade classroom I'm working in and waved goodbye to me.  About 20 seconds later she came back, looking terrified.  She said, "Sweet Pea was supposed to be a car rider today, wasn't she?"  She had put Sweet Pea on the bus.

Monday and Tuesday Sweet Pea rides the bus (the same one she rides when she comes straight home) and meets DJ's elderly aunt at the stop closest to HER house.  Last year Aunt G routinely met my nephew at that stop, so this is nothing new for Aunt G.  Once I started my internship I decided to have my mother-in-law pick up Sweet Pea for me on Wednesdays and Thursdays, then ride to pick up my niece at HER school.  This divides Sweet Pea's time between the mother-in-law and the aunt, thus reducing the odds that any one person will have to deal with the willful bossiness that is my daughter, which greatly increases her odds of survival.

On the first day of this new arrangement, Sweet Pea got lost.

Although this sounds alarming, the parapro explained that sometimes this happens -- parents change plans all the time, after all -- and the bus drivers simply bring the kids back.  See, Kindergarteners and first graders have to have someone meet them at the bus stop or the bus drivers won't let them exit.  So the bus driver would simply bring Sweet Pea back to me at the school.  I assured her it was fine -- people make mistakes.  I said, "Just tell Sweet Pea she's going on an adventure," in case Sweet Pea was scared.  The parapro was so incredibly apologetic and I was remarkably calm.

Naturally, my first thought was for myself: here I'd been so careful to establish myself as a professional and on the first day I' have to break out the Mom.  Sweet Pea would have to come to the classroom I was working in to wait until I was finished.  Professionalism shot.  Damnit. 

However, the parapro soon came back in tears.  Sweet Pea wasn't on the bus when it came back. 

The bus driver said that she had dropped Sweet Pea at her "grandparent's house."  However, I knew that my mother-in-law was busy driving  to Fayetteville to pick up my niece.  Obviously, Aunt G had been home (she and MIL live together).  Right?  Right?  How else could that have happened?  Aunt G knew she didn't have to pick up Sweet Pea at the bus stop so she wouldn't have been outside waiting for her.

Still smiling, radiating calm, I reassured the parapro while my trembling hands dialed my mother-in-law's house. 

There was no answer.  My world started to tilt.

After the beep, I called out, "Hello?  Hello?  Anybody home?"  Aunt G picked up.  I asked her if she happened to have Sweet Pea there.  Laughing, Aunt G said, "Yes, she's right here."

Apparently when I wasn't at the first stop, Sweet Pea rode to Aunt G's stop.  When she wasn't there, the bus driver refused to let Sweet Pea off the bus.  So Sweet Pea?  Talked the bus driver into driving her around the corner to Aunt G's house.  Yes, my daughter talked the driver into changing the route for her.

Sweet Pea helpfully pointed out her Grammy's house.  When they got there, she marched up to the front door and rang the bell.  When Aunt G answered the door, she and the bus driver waved to each other, then the bus driver left.  Sweet Pea had no idea anything was even wrong.

The parapro felt so horrible -- I couldn't have said anything to her she hadn't already said to herself.  And besides the brief moments when the phone wasn't answered, I knew she was safe.  That's why all those safeguards are in place.  At my Kindergarten placement, the teacher told me that on her very first day as a teacher she put a child on the wrong bus.  Being that those were the days before the drivers had phones, nobody could find the little girl for, like, two hours.  I knew that mistakes happen, even big ones. 

I still can't believe I was so calm.

These are the situations that we as parents have nightmares about -- terrifyingly dark fantasies in which we imagine that it's OUR child on the Amber Alert or the posters begging "Have you seen this child?"  And I was so calm. 

Will I be that calm next time?  When Sweet Pea takes a fall, if I see exposed bone... when she's three hours late for curfew... will I be able to keep my cool?  Because in those dark fantasies, I fall apart on the floor and require sedatives to stop screaming. 

Maybe what kept me so calm was the giggles I kept having at the thought of my five-year-old convincing a middle-aged bus driver to do her bidding.  If this is what she can do at five... I'm so screwed.

She packed her bags last night, pre-flight

 

Sweet Pea started Kindergarten this morning.

Last night we packed her backpack, then prepared her lunch.  She's got her brand new High School Musical lunchbox, her High School Musical t-shirt and skirt.  She's met her teachers.  She knows the way to her classroom, knows her bus number (#756, pickup at 7:09am, dropoff at 2:28pm) to get home.  One of her aunts is a parapro in the next room, another aunt is a first grade teacher across the hall and her great-aunt volunteers nearly every day.  She'll see one of her cousins at lunch and the other one on the bus in the afternoon.  The school is only a mile and a half away and every single child in our extended family has gone through it.  She couldn't be in better hands.

Sweet Pea hugging Aunt M, while Great-Aunt G and DJ look on.

My hands shook as I spread the peanut butter on the bread.  The impulse to keep her at home for just a little longer was almost overwhelming, but she is ready. 

One brief moment of clinginess before she settled right in.

DJ prepared her for any tears she might see, explaining that we were sad because our baby is growing up so fast but we're also happy and proud because she's so smart, such a cool kid. 

Wildcats in the house.

We bought crayons and washable markers, pencils and hand sanitizer.  I insisted she take my favorite Little Mermaid beach towel for rest time, as if sending her with something belonging to me could protect her somehow.  There are so many things ahead of her: Big Kids, and teasing, and wearing the wrong jeans and being picked last for kickball and I can't stop any of it, Internet.  I can warn her NEVER to fall asleep first at a pajama party, I can greet her this afternoon with our famous freshly-baked brownies and a cold glass of milk, but I can't put her in a bubble.

It's the end of her babyhood.  "The starting line for the rest of her life," to quote Billy Ray Cyrus (and now wouldn't I give one more day of nonstop Hannah Montana repeats?  Yes, I would).  I studied her profile last night, seeing the emerging contours of a young girl, the receding chubby cheeks of her infancy and toddlerhood.  Sometimes I am still shocked when I see the girl in front of me, as though I should still be seeing this:

I am the proud parent of a Kindergartener who is bright, strong-willed, resilient and beautiful. 

So why are there still tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes?

"Baby get ready, baby get set... don't go."

Because RLP can still say it perfectly

Yes.  Read and absorb every word, my friends.