My Sweetest Baby Scotty,

Your fifth birthday falls on a Thursday, and though I still get a little weepy thinking about it, you are in kindergarten now. Everything about you, from the minute you were conceived, has transformed the world around me. I never loved the way I looked until I saw my face on you.




Because you will be in school on your birthday, we had your party yesterday. And because you love all things Superman (including the fact that he wears a huge "S"), Mama made you red and blue finger jell-o. We had Superman icecream, a Superman cake, and a Superman pinata, which you annunciated with meticulous attention: pee-nee-adda.

You are fond of inventing your own pronunciations of words. Most recently, "kleenex" became "kleenext."

Some of my favorites are:

Regular = Reg-lee-ar
Shrek 2 = Shrek Tunes
Why can't I...? = Why I can't...?
Ohio = No-hio

None of this is a matter of baby talk -- it's all about stylistic choice -- just another reason you break people's hearts the moment they meet you, without exception.

Because your birthday is so close to Halloween, Mama thought it would be a good idea to have all of the kids wear costumes to your party. It was a good idea. We had your sister, the geisha, in precious addition to a bride, a witch, a power ranger, a pirate, and a bear. You were Superman, of course.

We bobbed for apples, and I filled a room with balloons for you. Watching them bounce around your little upstretched arms made me so happy.




Many things about you make me so happy. You do what you call "my sneaky eyes," and I giggle every time because although you're simply glancing from side to side, you do it with a half-smirk half-business expression that makes the impulse to gather you up and cover you with kisses irresistable.

You also love to sing and dance. You always have. You spend the entirety of your day humming. You hum Twisted Sister, and you hum Bizet, and you hum Bobby Darin, and you hum "Ridin' Dirty," my current personal favorite. You hum so much that your kindergarten teacher is concerned. I will always defend you, and I say, if humming is your biggest problem, you are, undoubtedly, the coolest kid ever.

You also covet trinkets. Like your mama, you love tiny things -- little secrets -- your treasures. Your favorites are a tiny wristwatch that doesn't even work, actually, and a little compass that hooks on your belt loop. No night passes where I don't lie down to read you a bedtime story and incur at least one little truck or plastic animal lodged directly in my spine. I do a thorough sweep of your backpack each morning to make sure you aren't smuggling contraband to school. For this reason, you LOVE clothing with multiple tiny pockets.

Each day when I pick you up from school, you come first from the duckling line of kindergarten children, dragging your backpack and wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. I remember how much I've missed you that and every day. As your classmates file by, one after another they shout "Bye Scott," "Bye Scott," "Bye Scott," and several little girls step out of formation to give you big hugs.




I am reminded by these processions that you are no longer Scotty and I am no longer Mama. You are Scott and I am Mom, and never again will you be my gurgling infant. Even so, you will always have my face and be my sweetest baby boy.


Love,
Mama Mom

Schools have been on my mind a lot lately. I have entered the realm of college graduate purgatory: the realm of substitute teachers. Since I'm new to subbing this year, I get all of the awesome leftover classes that nobody in their right mind would take, namely 7th grade special education and alternative alternative ed. So far I've had kids stick staples in their arms and stick pencils in a light socket. The theme seems to be sticking things where they don't belong. I wonder if that's a required course in education programs. It ought to be. Into to "It Went Up My Nose." Look out for Jodi's mom though. She'll have your ass in rehab for that.



The kids have also started school. Allow me to qualify that. The kids have started public school. In the past week, Scotty has told his teacher that he will not be eating any animal crackers because he is a vegetarian. Next week he's lecturing on non-violence at a local community college as part of their pioneers of preschool anti-globalization series. Then Grace came home and gave a stirring diatribe about how my forgetting to put a pudding spoon in her lunch box introduced her to that ever-elusive utensil: the spork. Grace doesn't pronounce "r's" well so it comes out "spoh-ook."



"It's half spoon, half foh-ook, mom." I looked at her.

"It's true. It's really true. It's half spoon half foh-ook. It's a spoh-ook."

"I believe you Gracie. I really do."

Not for use in suicides


We were driving the kids home from this movie, which is essentially the same as this movie with the only difference being the former's hunter antagonist versus the latter's sprawl antagonist when my mother nearly ground the minivan to a halt.

"Are you sure you supposed to be using those things like that?" I was putting saline drops in my nose at the time. I was putting saline drops in my nose at the time because my local pharmacist told me I couldn't have cold medicine with my medication. Not wanting to end up dead on the floor in my playboy playmate/Guess girl mother's Bahamian labor and delivery suite, I did what the man said. This brings us to me putting saline drops in my nose.

"How would you suggest that I use them, Mom?"

"Well, not so often. You've put them in there four times since we've been in the car. You're going to dry out your nose." I momentarily paused. I stopped putting saline drops in my nose to read the bottle.

"Place drops in nostril to relieve dryness as needed. Are you accusing me of abusing saltwater, Mom?" I resumed putting saline drops in my nose.

"I just don't think it's a good idea."

"Mom, I'm crazy, but my preferred method, if you will, would not be to drown myself in nose drops. Let it go."

"I deserved that."

"Yep. Pretty much."