Starting the day with a sing-a-long.
There's a quiet time of morning after the flurry of activity involved in getting everyone "off" for the day.
I usually fill that time with looking out the windows, wandering around or doing the dishes. This morning I tried reading the news.
Until Brynn wandered in, eyes brimming with sorrowful tears.
She can't make a tree with the things in her craft bucket. She stinks at trees, she cries woefully. She stinks at crafts. She stinks at everything.
She climbs in my bed and curls in a tiny ball under my arm. And cries.
I scratch her back and snuggle her. We talk about something besides craft distress. How we need to clean her room again. How we don't understand how it gets so messy, so fast. How we miss Dad and Grace. What we'll have for lunch. How next year she'll go to kindergarten. How I'll miss her and she'll miss me, but growing up is grand.
Then she informs me she simply can't go to kindergarten because she is too shy.
Once again the jukebox in my head comes in oh so handy. I begin to sing "Shy!" from Once Upon a Mattress. At the top of my lungs. Top.
Then I move on the numbers from the Music Man and Wizard of Oz. Now she's covering my mouth, rubbing my cheeks and laughing. Big hearty chortles that tell me the worries of crafts and kindergarten are forgotten.
Then we sing together, a funny little song from Dora the Explorer about stirring chocolate. And we laugh and hug and make plans for the day. And every time she's about to get up, I grab her again, hug and kiss her and sing quietly in her ear.
She laughs and begs to be let go and when I finally acquiesce she runs out of my room. Down the hall I hear her call "I love you, mom! You're funny."
And the day begins.
I usually fill that time with looking out the windows, wandering around or doing the dishes. This morning I tried reading the news.
Until Brynn wandered in, eyes brimming with sorrowful tears.
She can't make a tree with the things in her craft bucket. She stinks at trees, she cries woefully. She stinks at crafts. She stinks at everything.
She climbs in my bed and curls in a tiny ball under my arm. And cries.
I scratch her back and snuggle her. We talk about something besides craft distress. How we need to clean her room again. How we don't understand how it gets so messy, so fast. How we miss Dad and Grace. What we'll have for lunch. How next year she'll go to kindergarten. How I'll miss her and she'll miss me, but growing up is grand.
Then she informs me she simply can't go to kindergarten because she is too shy.
Once again the jukebox in my head comes in oh so handy. I begin to sing "Shy!" from Once Upon a Mattress. At the top of my lungs. Top.
Then I move on the numbers from the Music Man and Wizard of Oz. Now she's covering my mouth, rubbing my cheeks and laughing. Big hearty chortles that tell me the worries of crafts and kindergarten are forgotten.
Then we sing together, a funny little song from Dora the Explorer about stirring chocolate. And we laugh and hug and make plans for the day. And every time she's about to get up, I grab her again, hug and kiss her and sing quietly in her ear.
She laughs and begs to be let go and when I finally acquiesce she runs out of my room. Down the hall I hear her call "I love you, mom! You're funny."
And the day begins.
Comments