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the latest waddle:

good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03

elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01

building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19

ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09

my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04

2005-09-16 ... 2:44 p.m.

Preschool is now in full swing, three days a week for the full two hours* each time, and still there are tears at drop-off. It is getting annoying, or rather it is getting annoying in an abstract, intellectual way, since I am at work and never have to deal with it. Apparently once one pries the wailing Nora off one's leg she walks into the classroom and dries up instantly, and is happy as a well-adjusted clam for the entire session, so why the drama? Is it for our benefit? Because I would prefer another demonstration of filial devotion, rather than sobs and snot-streams. Almost anything will do. Perhaps it will get better next week, when the nanny starts doing preschool drop-off, because the nanny comes and the nanny goes, no big deal and no need for such an overflow of emotion. Right, Nora? Please?

*I know, big whoop. The school did this long phase-in period with the kids going slightly longer each time, and I was all like Two Hours What The Hell Is The Big Deal until I saw how tired those little brains get at the end of the school day. Nora is really very young, even though I consistently treat her as if she were older because of her mad language skills and such, which is a whole huge probable-parenting-failure of mine that is very complicated and I won't go into it now.

The latest attempt at forestalling the inevitable was when my mom made Nora a bracelet out of beads, called it her "no-crying" bracelet (hey mom, can I have one?), and told Nora to touch it whenever she felt sad on the way to school. This worked not at all, but word is that it did lead to the amusing/pathetic spectacle of Nora crying and crying while repeatedly touching her bracelet. Captain! It's not working! But again, totally fine inside the classroom.

Some great art has certainly come of this preschool adventure:

In case it is not immediately obvious, Nora has provided commentary. This is the famous Purple Dog, with a cupcake in each paw, another one (visible) in his stomach, and frosting all over his mouth. And those other blobs in the corner? More cupcakes for later. P-Dogg knows how to party.


Scary fish.

Scary fish parasite.

Whale poop. Why am I always talking about whale poop? Why? My father would know why. My father used to take advantage of my childhood naiveté and love of conversation by skillfully bringing up the subjects of marine biology, oceanography, or poop until slowly, subtly, the topic came around to whale poop, and then he would turn on me and say, "Why are you always talking about whale poop? Sheesh, you're obsessed or something, it is all you ever talk about." I never failed to be suckered into the whale-poop discussion (at least until my faith in the intentions of adults was completely BROKEN and I became CYNICAL and UNTRUSTING THANKS DAD), and I never failed to be flustered by the accusation that I had a one-track whale-poop mind. I suppose dad-sadism has a long, proud history, whether it is "pull my finger" or mind games more suited to a college freshman on her first huge bong-hit than a pigtailed five-year-old.

Eh. I grow weary. I used to have this compulsion that I needed to let my blather stew a while longer if I did not have "enough" for what I deemed a "proper" entry, but you know what? I can just post again if necessary, because I highly doubt the internet will end overnight or anything. Is this a watershed moment in my self-development, where I loosen the reins on my expectations of myself, or is it terminal slack and the nagging feeling that a big-ass glass of Friday wine is calling my name?

---mimi smartypants hit you with her second-best shot.


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