"Oh Boy"

School has been good for us.  In the begining, it wasn't.  Before the first day, I told Juliet that Melissa and I were going to take her to school and leave her there.  That her teachers would take care of her. That other kids might cry.  I told her that she should make the kids who cried feel better by giving them hugs.

Jules smiled and repeated the instructions the way she repeats everything now.  Enunciating all of the syllables and understanding between some and most of them.  You never really know, unless she wants you to know. 

When we dropped Juliet off at school, she clung to our legs as we tried to leave.  She watched us walk out the door.  When we spied on her from the outside window, she was still watching the door, from the center of the room.  Right where we had left her. 

The teacher had told us that Juliet had stayed in that spot, the first day of school.  And the second, and third.  Not a word, not a tear.  In pig tails and purple Sauconies.  The image made us want to cry even though she never did.

When I'd ask her about school, about who her friends were or whether she rode bikes or colored, she'd 'hmph' and raise her eyebrows and turn her back to me.  Other parents have told me that it's really hard to leave a crying kid at school.  It's also hard to leave a kid who isn't crying, but only because you told her not to.

Jules' birthday was the turning point.  At school, one parent sits in on every class.  Our first "parent of the day" assignment was on Juliet's second birthday.  So, we both sat in.  We made it our mission to show Juliet that it was okay to play with other kids.  That it was fun.  That school is the kind of place where Mommy and Daddy bring vanilla cupcakes with pink frosting on your birthday.

All of a sudden, Juliet started slipping us little hints about school.

"Darien cried," she said.  "I gave him hugs."

"Good girl," I said.  "Who are your friends at school?"

"Darien," she said.

"Who is this Darien, Jules?"

"Darien went poopy on the potty," she said.  "I didn't look.  It's icky."   

"Jules, do you like Darien?"

Juliet smiled, a little embarassed, a little guilty.  She wanted me to know she was feeling those things.  But she also wanted me to know that she liked Darien.  Like like like.

Like, oh boy.

I'm not worried though.  At least not in the stereotypical dad worried about daughter with boys kind of way.  Juliet is smart.  She's confident.  I'm not worried that she's going to try to act how she thinks he wants her to act, or dress the way she thinks he wants her to dress.  I'm not worried about Juliet liking boys.  I'm only worried that one might not like her back.

Because that would feel like leaving her at school the first time.  That would be something I couldn't make all better, and that sort of thing worries me.  More and more.

Life's tough Jules.  Get a helmet.  A kitty helmet.

"Two Much"

She's not showing off.  Juliet isn't like that (though I might be).  She's bitter about the NHL lockout and wanted to give her Flyers some motivation to be reasonable.  She loves her Flyers.  Especially her Flyers shirt.  But the Eagles are the only game in town right now, and a girl has got to be entertained.

Especially this girl.

When Juliet's not watching football, she likes Yo Gabba Gabba and the Mickey Mouse Club.  When she's not watching any of those things, she's asking to watch them.  And asking.  And asking.

We talked a big game about not letting Juliet watch TV.  Then, we needed to shower.  Then, we got tired of being the entertainment.  Or just tired.  I'm not even sure I know the difference between tired and not tired anymore, but I do know the difference between the TV being on and not.

Juliet likes to draw too.  That's a good activity because it doesn't require movement.  We lay on the floor and color with crayons.  A couple of weeks ago, Juliet drew a circle, which she called a monkey.  Then, she put eyes on it.  And ears.  She noticed that it was starting to look like a monkey, and that I was excited.  So, she quickly scribbled all over it, got up and ran away.

Then we were moving again.

I turned on the TV.

Ahhh.

But then it's bed time.

"Juliet, say goodnight to Yo Gabba."

"No."

"It's time for bed."

"I do not want to go to bed."

"It's late, Juliet," I say.  "And I'm tired - I think."

"I want to watch just a little bit."

"How much is a little bit?" I ask.

Juliet smiles.  She's already bought an extra minute, and probably five because I'm a sucker.  And she hasn't even asked for three books instead of two yet.  Or for a little bit of water.  And ice.  That she wants to put in "all by herself."

As we rock in the dark, Juliet leans back away from me, smiling.  She holds her hands up to my cheeks, mushes them.

"I am a member of the chubby wubby club," she says.  "Smile."

And I do.  Because she said so.  That's pretty much how it goes.

Except for sometimes.