She's keeping it real, yo

Zoey's version of the song 'The Farmer in the Dell':

The farmer in my town,
The farmer in my town,
I know the stereo,
The farmer in my town.

As her Auntie Alisa pointed out, 'stereo' is an actual word, as opposed to dairy-o, and what the hell is a dell, anyway? She's clearly just bringing this nursery rhyme in to the year 2010.

Ahh, the hippies

Background: Several months ago, while checking in an extremely anxious patient for a procedure at work, I found myself joking with her in an attempt to help her relax. I can't remember what story I was telling her, but it must have been quite witty, because she turned to me and said "you know, Amy, you're so funny! Which is weird, because you look like a total SQUARE, until you open your mouth!". I was unsure how to process this information but, lucky her, I was feeling generous and didn't withhold any sleepy-medicine even though you really shouldn't borderline-insult the nurses working with the doctors who are going to be sticking tubes in various parts of your body.

So, yesterday. I spent the day in Bellingham ferrying my awesome mom to several appointments that required some anesthesia and a sober driver. I spent my middle- and high-school years around Bellingham (FHS class of '97, thank you very much) and sometimes forget how much I love the downtown Bellingham scene, since I just don't get up there much any more. For those of you unfamiliar, the town happens to be a breeding ground of Co-op grocery stores, fantastic restaurants featuring local, organic fare, and plenty of shopping in old, really cool buildings. You can get your bagels, locally roasted coffee, and meet all your incense needs within the span of one city block, then walk or bike down to the park and hit up the farmer's market. It's a pretty sweet town.

And we all know that where there are Co-ops and freshly baked bagels, there are hippies. I love the hippies the most.

There I was, sitting in a waiting room of an imaging center, and I couldn't even focus on my book, so engrossed was I in the people watching. These women! Beautiful, tall, lanky women, one after the other, sauntered up to the check-in desk in full-on hippie attire: long, graying hair flowing down their backs, touching the tops of their long, flowing skirts, which barely grazed the cuffs of their wooly socks and tips of their Birkenstock sandals. I'm pretty sure I was the only one sitting in the waiting room wearing a bra. To be fair, a majority of them were probably there for a mammogram, so I was willing to overlook (while still being baffled by) the lack of so much as a tank top to corral the contents of their chests.

The woman who sat down across from me totally stole the show. She was dressed in the proper hippie uniform, but the element that gave her the edge over all other hippies was the presence of her drink...some type of amber liquid (tea? bourbon? one never knows), consumed straight from a mason jar. That's right. A jelly jar, no lid, right there across from my Starbucks cup. At a doctor's office. It was too much.

I glanced down at my wardrobe and mentally inventoried the pieces that set me apart from these glorious hippies, the parts of myself that essentially make up my square-ish nature: khakis. Lavendar tank top and a short-sleeved cardigan. Danskos. A BRA. The fact that my darling, beloved cardigan was purchased years ago at a consignment store for seven dollars was my closest connection to these earth-loving, recycle-everything, vegan-diet-following, beautiful women.

So I totally pulled out my cell phone and texted my friend at work all about the hippie with her mason jar. And yes. I'm aware that this makes me the square in the waiting room with her Starbucks cup, cell phone, and properly restrained breasts, surrounded by flowy-skirted beauty. I stuck out like a sore thumb. It was awesome.

Sweet dreams

Zoey has been talking in her sleep lately. Here is what I overheard this morning:

'NO. I want to go in! Hold the door and do what I say so I can go IN! I WANT TO GO TO STARBUCKS.'

See? She really is her mother's child. Bossy as all get out and completely hooked on Starbucks. This is a proud moment for me.

Stinky

So, yesterday I was actually able to hit the gym between work and daycare pick-up. Zoey noticed right away that I was picking her up in gym-wear as opposed to scrubs, and we had the following conversation right before bath time:

Zoey: Mommy! Take a bath with me! A bubble bath...

Me: No thanks. Not tonight, maybe this weekend.

Zoey: (eyebrows knitting together) But...you went to the gym today!

Me: I know.

Zoey: Sooo...you're just going to be stinky all night?

Me: I guess so.

Zoey: *Pfffft* Yuck.

Because she's three. Going on 17.

What's even better is when you LOOK unprepared in front of the daycare staff.

I liked the vote for Team Emu, Uncle Tom. But I'm happy to report Zoey is now an official 4B Owl.

Drop off at daycare this morning was hilarious even to me, although I was the one flailing around looking like Un-Mother-of-the-Year. First, the sign in notebook. Flipped to Zoey's page...and it wasn't there. Okay. Which notebook is it in?!? Rifle through the assortment of notebooks on the counter...found it. T-minus 12 minutes to get to work. Don't panic...

Next stop, Zoey's cubby. Or, what used to be her cubby, back in the days of Ms. Nicole's class. S**t. Totally didn't budget in enough time this morning to locate Zoey's new room/new cubby AND get my butt to work on time. Quick, Zoey! Race Mommy to the gym!

T-minus 9 minutes until 7 a.m. staff meeting.

Me: (racing in to gym) Um, hi. Hi everyone. Good morning! Um, so, Zoey is apparently in Ms. Mandy's class now? Where might that...be?

Ms. Yvonne: (OH MY GOD I WAS SO HAPPY TO SEE HER THIS MORNING. She is normally an evening-shift person, whom I am accustomed to seeing on the flip side of my work day. She is the sweetest, kindest, most grandmotherly woman at the daycare. If you have to look like an idiot in front of someone, she's totally your gal.) Oh! How exciting for Zoey! Her classroom is downstairs, right by the playground.

Me: Right. Downstairs. Quick, Zoey! Race Mommy downstairs! I'm sure your cubby is there somewhere!

After a hasty swooping-up of spare clothing, blanket, and stuffed animal from the old cubby, we 'hustle-feet' down the stairs to find Zoey's new, very grown-up, complete-with-coat-hook-and-shelf cubby.

Zoey: Mommy! I don't need extra clothes anymore! Because I'm big and I don't have accidents!

Me: Awesome, bug. We're keeping them here just in case.

Zoey: No, Mommy! I don't have accidents anymore!

Me: Uh-huh, uh-huh, take off your jacket, come on, race me back to the gym!

T-minus 6 minutes to staff meeting. So not happening.

It bears mentioning that 'racing' your preschooler up and down a flight of stairs while wearing Danskos (the nursing profession's equivalent of high heels) is not a bright idea.

I consider the final sprint to the gym part of my training for an upcoming 10K race in July. I plant Zoey by the window, as always, rush through the big-hug-big-kiss-have-a-fun-day! routine and I'm out the door. And this? Is why I chose a daycare directly across the street from where I work.

So, for those of you keeping score at home, here's the breakdown of Zoey's first day as an Owl:

Cubby and classroom located: yes

Did Mommy make it to her staff meeting on time: barely

With a sprained ankle: no

Happy preschooler upon pick-up from Owl classroom: yes

Still insistent that the extra clothing in her cubby 'must belong to someone else because I don't have accidents anymore!': yes

Will Mommy look a little less unprepared on Thursday: let's hope so.

Be Unprepared. It's my new motto.

Tomorrow, Zoey moves up to the four-year-old classroom at daycare. I am thinking back to this time last year, when Zoey was moving up to Ms. Berna's Panda Bear class (remember the onset of potty-training?), and shortly after, her transition to Ms. Nicole's Teddy Bear class, where she has happily remained for approximately nine months. And, oh, the preparations we made in anticipation of the transition to these classes. The talking-up-of, the preparing-for, the forced-excitement-look-Zoey-this-is-so-cool-no-really-Zoey-it's-FUN!

Fast forward one year, too much chaos, and more drama than I care to deal with.

I have barely mentioned to Zoey her upgrade to Ms. Mandy's class. I am sure Ms. Mandy has a darling zoo animal that correlates with her name and her wee preschool class, and yet I have no idea what that zoo animal might be. All I know is that we're running out of 'Bear' options, so I'm hoping for something in the tiger or lion family, as the volatile nature of these animals best describes the behavior of most three- and four-year-olds I know. Come to think of it, I don't even know where Ms. Mandy's class is located within the daycare. I DO KNOW WHICH GROWN-UP IS MS. MANDY, FOR THE RECORD. She's the person I leave Zoey with at 6:45 each morning, along with a handful of other early-comers in all shapes and sizes who congregate in the gym until the joint is fully-staffed and kids can be divided up in to their proper classes.

So, you know. At least I could pick her teacher out of a line-up. Right?! That's something. I may not know which mascot to look for on the door, or which hallway to even head down in the first place, but I cling to the complete and utter faith that someone tomorrow will direct my child to the proper classroom and, if all goes really well, her extra clothes and underpants will even make it to her new cubby. In that classroom I have yet to locate.

I am too tired to care that this lack of preparing my child for a new environment goes against every grain of my ultra-organized personality. The determination of 2010 to overhaul every aspect of my life is wearing me down and I JUST GIVE UP. Zoey will make a lovely lion or tiger or cheetah or sloth or elephant or whatever the hell animal group she winds up in tomorrow.

Ode

It's 6:30 in the morning on my day off. I'm sitting on the couch with coffee while Dora plays on the DVD player, trying very hard not to be crabby because, between Zoey and the cat, one or the other of them has had me up since 4 a.m. I do not want to be Crabby Mommy today. But I am sensing the scales could tip away from my favor at any moment.

So I'll try to post about something funny. Maybe writing about someone who lights up my life will improve my mood...maybe not. We'll see.

Have I told you much about my grandma lately? I was thinking of her yesterday and all the cool things she does to make my life easier, to include spending many, many hours with Zoey so I can get a break once in awhile. (Sure, my 'break' often means 'going to work'. But whatever.) This woman, my grandma, is the only 73 year old person I know who cruises through town in a Buick equipped with a booster seat. She swoops in to my house every Monday morning, shortly after 6 a.m., to fill her cup with coffee and spend the morning with my daughter, and while they are together, she regales Zoey with silly songs and stories (much the way she did with me when I was Zoey's age). There is a noticeable difference in the information I get from Zoey after picking her up from daycare versus spending time with Gigi. For example:

Me: (after daycare pick-up) So, tell me about your day! Who did you play with?

Zoey: I don't know.

Me: You don't know? I saw Hailey, and Nathaniel, and Maddox, did you play with them?

Zoey: Yeah. I think.

It's all very exciting. Or, it's very much like dragging information out of a prisoner of war. As opposed to picking her up after time with Gigi:

Zoey: (hopping in the car) Mommy! Gigi sang me a new song today, about Mary and the lamb!

She proceeds to sing, slightly off-key, a version of Mary Had a Little Lamb, with words that allude to the fact that Mary parked her lamb a little too close to the heater, causing the lamb to burn her little 'seater'. Or:

Zoey: (at the dinner table) Mommy! Gigi told me today that she knows somebody who went camping in a tent and when he waked up he couldn't open his eye BECAUSE THERE WAS A SLUG ON IT!!!

It's great because these are the days when conversation between me and my child simply flows, and even if it's centered around the horrific possibility of one day finding a slug on one's eye, it's still a discussion that lasts throughout dinner.

The cliche about needing a village to raise a child is so very true. Bryan and I have been separated since March. Zoey and I live in an apartment and, circumstances being what they are, I am left to raise her essentially on my own. I might as well throw this out there for you all to know--it's not something that's easy to write about. In the past few months, I have learned just how much I need my surrounding village for support. My grandma is a big player in Zoey's and my village, and for that I am forever grateful.