A laugh

Tonight I offer you a laugh fully at my expense. Today was "swimming day" as Jackson reluctantly calls it. Right off the bat this morning he told me "no swimming day, school day," which once you have the full history on school (I will fill you in sometime), explains just how much he has dreaded this session of swimming lessons. 

So I am debating what will be the best approach to persuade my very, very strong willed son to actually get in the pool this week -- week three. "Just don't wear your swimmers," one mom suggested last week. "OK, I can see her point," I think and start to get dressed. "No, wait. Maybe if I wear my suit and get in he will take his turns with me. Yep, that's it. I'll wear my swimsuit and get in." 

And off we go, beginning the breakfast/dishes/diaper changes/jammies to swimsuits/carseats dash to the Clem Jones Swim Center for one half hour of swimming fun (sarcastic). We park, greet Jackson's buddy Owen with hugs and giggles, and drop Maeve off at the child minding. Then it is off to the "big, deep" pool for our lesson. The other little kids in the class are already at the pool's edge, and our teacher, Craig, is waiting in the water. 

So we hurry, and with an eye on Jackson, I begin taking off my cover up clothes, mentally preparing for the intense effort required to get Jackson in the water. As I throw my shorts in the bag, that's when I notice . . . I am standing there in my swimsuit top and my -- get ready for this -- underwear. Seriously. And it is on that note, that I begin the day. I think the rest goes without saying. 

Disclaimer:  OK, now that I have made a fool of myself, I am going to pass on some of the blame (I am pretty good at this). I blame Maeve. We call her "mommy's shadow" because she is always hanging onto my calves since she can now stand, but not yet walk. So this morning, she was right there, hanging on as I rushed to get dressed. 

But really, who I am I kidding. Only I can take responsibility for doing something that completely stupid. 

Waiting

Monday was Jackson's very first "full" day of "school." Full because in October and November when he went to ABC daycare he only ever stayed for three hours max. School because although his new place, Puss in Boots, is also a daycare like ABC was, it really feels more like a preschool. I love everything about it -- the teacher, Patricia, who reminds me of the Julia Child of children, the philosophies, the workshops for parents (which I would have loved if we were staying here since I have unofficially taken on childhood psych as my field of study). It just feels homey. 

The separation is always the hardest part for us. Jackson really puts on a dramatic, heartfelt show for me. Cementing that Catholic guilt I have, making me feel like I am leaving him in the worst place ever. Of course, the logical me knows I am not, which is the only reason I can save my tears for the car, and just say to him matter-of-factly "Jackson I love you, and I'll pick you up in the afternoon." I know if I prolong the goodbye, I just prolong his distress, giving him false hope that maybe, just maybe I'll cave and take him home with me. Really, he gets going on these dramatics even before we leave our house, and the only way I get him into the car is to tell him that we will just go check it out. "Yep, sign says no Jackson come to school. Jackson go home with mommy in mommy's car," he predicts the entire 10-minute drive there. Astutely observing how hard these goodbyes can be, the teachers at Puss in Boots tell me to go get a coffee, call a friend and then call back in half an hour. Thank God they have walked this road before and give us parents empathy. 

Once Maeve and I get settled back home, the house feels so empty and quiet as she takes a very long morning nap (which she can only do since there is no one to wake her). I miss Jackson and have to keep busy talking to my parents on the phone and folding laundry. When I call back, Patricia tells me to pick Jackson up at 3 p.m., so he has more time to settle in. 3 p.m. feels so far away. 

But before I know it, it is time to go pick Jackson up. Drew calls and wants to meet us there -- he hasn't seen the school yet and is anxious to see Jackson too. We walk into the Jr. Kindy room and there he is, looking half little boy/half little man, happily playing along side another little boy/man. When he turns around and sees us, his face lights up with a smile, and our hearts burst a little. 

"Look," he holds out a peg board with nails pounded in neat rows. "He nailed all those in," Patricia tells us. "For mommy. For mommy and papa's party," he tells us. It is clear he has had a great day at school. 

He is chatter, chatter in the car on the way home; so excited about the growing he has done. But he isn't going to let me forget how hard it is for us to be apart. "Jackson cries lots," he recounts. "Mommy does lots of shopping for Jackson. Jackson waits and waits and waits." 

Yep, buddy, I was waiting too. 

The Ringbearer

The other night as we were cleaning out a closet, we came across an album of snapshots from our wedding. 

"Look, Jackson," I said. "Mommy and Papa had a wedding just like Aunt Kristen." 

Jackson looked at the picture for a moment. "Jackson not walk down that aisle," he said. (Almost questioning our judgement. Hadn't we seen his performances at Brian and Rachel's wedding, Meg and Greg's, Kristen and Kirk's? See above pictures.) 

"No, Jackson," Drew said. "That would have been bad." 

I'm listening

"Papa, finished?" Jackson shouted. He desperately wanted to build a "big, big" Thomas Train track with Drew. 

"Yep, I'm all finished," Drew finally said. 

And there was little Maeve over in her high chair doing sign language for "finished" or "all done." All by herself, with no one speaking to her or asking her if she was finished eating, she was doing the sign we had taught her. 

"She heard you say finished," I said, surprised. "See I think little kids hear way more than we think -- why is that?" I rhetorically asked.

"Because they never listen," Drew said. Meaning, they never do what we ask, when we ask it. 

How true. 

Bolt

"Cat and dog one, Mommy?" 

It all started with a simple request. Jackson had seen a commercial on TV for a movie; however, he must not have caught the title of the picture -- Bolt. A minor detail. In need of a late afternoon activity, I suggested we walk to Blockbuster and look for the "cat and dog one." Forty-five minutes later we came out empty-handed (well, not exactly we did rent Lady and the Tramp). Not without effort -- Jackson thoroughly  searched every corner, every shelf of that store. He even asked the young man behind the counter to look. "Cat and dog one, man?" he demanded. I'll give the Blockbuster guy credit -- he did produce a movie actually titled "Cats and Dogs." Jackpot!  But no, this was not the movie in question Jackson confirmed. 

Then I actually saw the commercial, and the mystery was solved. Which gave us another late afternoon activity the following day -- walk to the cinema and find out what times Bolt was playing. The fact he could not see the movie "now" was beyond Jackson's understanding. You can't blame the kid -- he has grown up in a TV world run by inventions like DVR and TiVo (God Bless their inventors).  So we took home a flyer with movie times, agreeing we would talk with Papa that night and decide a time Jackson could go see Bolt. 

4:40 p.m. Thursday. Jackson could not wait. I even had to find trailers online that he could watch over and over again to partially satisfy his appetite for this movie. He took an early nap, woke up, got dressed, filled his wallet with Australian coin. He couldn't have been more ready. As I watched Drew and Jackson walk into the cinema from the car, I could see him proudly holding out his wallet as he approached the ticket counter. And of course, being a mere mortal mom and tears quickly filled my eyes as my baby boy experienced this first. 

But Bolt was something Jackson wanted to do, not to watch. As Drew tells it, they never actually sat down -- just watched the previews from outside the door until the ushers had to shut the doors. Then Jackson told Drew he wanted to go  home. Maybe all he really wanted was the blue Gatorade and popcorn that he brought home. (It has been a full two weeks since we splurged on our daily serving of movie theatre quality popcorn at G&G Parker's.) 

In any case, with all "firsts," Drew and I are learning our expectations may not match our three-year old's. And sometimes it is the journey he enjoys even more than the final destination. I think it will be very easy to forever remember the title of the first movie Jackson ever "saw" at the movie theatre. Bolt. 

Hint

Along the line of resolutions, here is how Jackson clued Drew in on what his ought to be. We were setting the dinner table tonight, and I asked Jackson to ask Drew what he would like to drink. 

"Pa-PA!" Jackson yelled. "Would like some beers?" 

OK. Maybe it is time for the adults to cut back on a certain substance. 

Eight suitcases

And eight suitcases later (five more than we left with), we are back in Brisbane. That was the damage done during our one-month holiday vacation in Morton. We pretty much declared everything possible when we went through customs because we weren't actually certain of the contents of our suitcases. Drew took a dump, sit and zip approach to packing, which I was thankful for because then I didn't spend hours doing it. (I am manic about organizing my suitcases, and it takes forever.) Actually, we were sure what was in our eight suitcases -- it was all toys. Truly. Days one through five our upstairs looked like a tornado had come through -- just a kind one that left toys. Then I had the great idea to just move all of that mess downstairs into the toy room, planning we would organize it once it was done there. But days six through seven, that has yet to happen. Patience. I told Drew I feel like I am living in a toy landfill. 

So my New Year's resolution is to keep up with this blog and all other electronic communications for that matter. (I should probably add cell phone communication to the list since I am horrible at that. I'm going to say that is genetic and blame my dad.) However, in addition to Jackson and Maeve, two other resolutions may compete with the first. 1) Entourage and 2) our resolution to drink more wine on the back porch. But who are we kidding? We are so jet lagged and exhausted once the kids fall asleep so do we, and all of these resolutions are abandoned. There is always tomorrow . . .