six days later

In the midst of all the chaos a miraculous thing happened. Caroline won’t call anyone to share the news, she doesn’t want to talk about it, but she sure wanted a treat as soon as her feet hit the foyer yesterday afternoon. Our baby girl actually made a liquid deposit on the potty at school. The milestone was marked on the daily sheet at school in pink ink with a huge smiley face. I beamed. She shied away from my enthusiasm. Already she knows this is a private matter and just as we thought, she’d rather not talk about it, just get it done and move on. Supportive ambivalence. I am not foolish enough to think that this will stick, but this is the first time she has ever had this kind of success on the potty and in the middle of all this craziness, well, wow. Just. Wow. The social worker in me cannot stop analyzing this and the concurrent school drama, but you don’t need to read all that pyschobabble do you?

Our little girl was ravenous last night, devouring anything she could get her hands on and after 6 days of a modified diet with no report of any dubious incidents at school, she feasted. After dinner there were saltines and lemonade and at one point she came back into the family room from the kitchen biting into an apple she had pilfered from my lunch bag. She was hungry. While we are not out of the woods completely yet (a diaper incident this morning), I can confidently say that we on our way out. SIX DAYS LATER.

Drop off this morning in the pouring rain was an adventure that took her mind off the fact that the end result was a day at school. Raincoats, umbrellas, and the whooshing of the wipers on the windshield are exciting to toddlers. She yelled out a special request for the “snoring” song (it’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring”) and there were no tears until we reached her room. I tried to put her down on the carpet and the tears were instant and furious. New plan is to hand her off directly to a caregiver because when she had a minute in my arms to calm herself she happily held her hands out to the person helping a “feeling much better today” Mr. Eric.

Last night as I sang her a lullaby and placed her into her crib she looked up at me and told me the abbreviated version of her day. She told me how she had cried (“like a baby” GASP! Instant protective mama, “who told her she cried like a baby?!?!?!”), then played outside, and how she had gone inside to have her pasta and sit in her seat with her friends. I forced myself to ignore the “like a baby” comment and instead focus on the positive that she was sharing her day with me, smiling, without a request to talk about it. After she said her peace, she closed her eyes and fell fast asleep. There was not one peep over the monitor. All that crying like a baby will apparently wear a little girl out.

It’s Girls Pancake Dinner Night as Steve will be out with the bosses for a business dinner. The last thing I told her this morning at school was that it was special girls only night and she looked at me, rubbing her tears away, “pancakes?”


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