First Week of School

Dear Zayde,

This week I learned about school! It's fantastic! School is a whole building full of kids and teachers and toys and books, and everyone plays all day. Sometimes we sit in a circle on the carpet and talk about what day it is, the weather, colors, numbers...you know, just the usual small talk. Sometimes we sing. Sometimes we use scissors and glue, which are pretty much the greatest tools ever. School has a shaded playground where all the equipment is just my size, and when I sit in the chairs in my classroom, my feet touch the floor. It's almost as though the school has been designed for kids.

On Monday, I learned that Mommy and Daddy aren't allowed to go to school all day, which is a major bummer for them because school is, as previously stated, totally awesome.

I learned that teachers are kind and smart women who live in the school and show you how to play with all the activities in the classroom. Teachers open tricky lunch boxes, hold hands while walking down the hall, and read stories with enthusiasm. Mommy says she used to be a teacher, but I know she's kidding because she is, has been, and will be always my Mommy, starting at the beginning of time and never ending.

Teachers are also helpful when you miss your Mommy.

On Wednesday, I learned that we aren't allowed to climb the school playground's fence, even though I'm a big girl and can climb high and want to be at the top. 

On Friday, I learned that a rabbi is a happy person who really loves Shabbat, just like me!

I think you would like school. Maybe one day Bubbie can drop you off with your backpack, and we can play and learn together.

In the running for teacher's pet,

Zelda

Hives!

Dear Zayde,


This week I learned about the Emergency Room.

On Sunday, I woke up itchy. Mommy and Daddy pulled up my pajamas and saw that I was covered in bumps that they called hives. I know that bees live in hives, so at first I was worried, but then I figured out that hives is one of those words that can mean very different things, like bark and bow.

My parents were trying to play it cool, but we both know how uncool they normally are, so any time they try to stay calm, I get worried. Mommy grabbed the Benadryl, and I was a good sport and swallowed everything in the tiny plastic cup. I made a face as though I didn't like it, but the truth is that medicine tastes like candy, and I don't get candy very often, so I enjoyed every last drop. Within 20 minutes or so, my skin was clearing, and my parents started to relax.

After breakfast, we were all in good spirits, so I suggested that we take a little dip in the pool. I think what I actually said was, "I want to go swim in my pool now, please." (I've found that a well-positioned please makes grown-ups bend over backwards.) It was around 90 degrees by that time, so we all pulled on our suits, gooped on the sunblock, grabbed our sunglasses and towels, and headed outside. The water felt glorious, and after an hour of splashing, kicking, and jumping off the side of the pool and into the refreshingly cool water, we were ready to head back inside. By that time, my skin was completely void of hives, and we all thought we'd put that unpleasantness behind us.

After a quick shower, during which Mommy made sure to wash my hair with the special orange-scented shampoo that keeps my hair from turning green after swimming, we dined on peanut butter sandwiches and strawberries. (Well, that's what I had. My parents, who do not share my culinary sensibilities, probably ate salads or some other disgustingly adult meal.) Feeling slightly fatigued, I retired to my bed for a lengthy nap, and I didn't wake up until 4:00 PM.

That's when all you-know-what broke loose.

I awoke to find myself fully covered in hives, from my neck to my toes. I was itchy and angry and wanted answers. Mommy took one look at me and grabbed her phone to call the doctor. Of course, his office closes at 4:00 on Sunday afternoons, so we had to make other arrangements. That's when I learned that Mommy and Daddy can get me - and my snacks, juice, diapers, etc. - into the car and all the way to the hospital in under ten minutes.

This is what I learned about the Emergency Room. It's colorful. All the walls are painted bright colors, and there are quite a few murals depicting happy animals and various copyright-infringed cartoon characters. There's a waiting room where sick kids and worried parents sit and watch Spongebob Squarepants. (I hadn't seen that show previously, so I was a little confused as to why a talking sponge lived in a pineapple underwater, but that's not really relevant to our story.) When it's your turn, you get a special paper bracelet and access behind heavy double doors. That's when the VIP treatment starts. We got our own room, complete with a television hanging from the ceiling and a remote control attached to the wall. Our room had a rainbow curtain, from behind which various uniformed professionals appeared. They all told me I was adorable and such a big girl, both of which I hear all the time, and neither of which I shall ever tire of hearing. My parents shared our daily activities with each person who joined our party. Bored with the story, I focused on chomping Veggie Stix and watching whatever cartoon was on Nick Jr. Soon enough, a nurse brought me a giant syringe filled with a sweet orange liquid. Wanting to impress her, I swallowed the entire dose without complaint. Then I got a popsicle! That was the end of our ER visit, but I'll always have these cherished memories - and the paper bracelet - as keepsakes.

For the next four days, I learned that steroids make me hyper and hungry, a combination that manifested in my running around the house yelling, "more turkey!" I also learned that Benadryl makes me sleepy and therefore more than willing to take a nap (rather than my usual cajoling, begging and bartering routine that precedes any and all bed-related activities). Mommy clearly enjoyed giving me one of those two medicines.

I guess the most important lesson I learned is that having allergies leads to unexpected adventures with medical professionals, and if that's my cross to bare - and if it always includes TV, jewelry, and candy - I'm luckier than most.


Smooth as jazz,
Zelda

Catch Up

Dear Zayde,

It's time to play catch up. I've learned A LOT since I last wrote to you, and we all know who's to blame for the lack of communication. Mommy has it in her head that she's "too busy" to do things like write, go to the gym, return phone calls during my waking hours, eat, sleep, or tackle any of those DIY toddler friendly projects on Pinterest. Slacker.

I'm a big girl now, so I've learned to make it through the day with just one nap, and on special days (like today) I forgo the nap altogether so I can get in a few more hours of whining and begging for cookies and frozen raspberries. (Frozen strawberries are also yummy, but they don't stain as well as raspberries do, and you know I like to leave my mark.) Speaking of which, I learned recently that not all markers are "washable," and even Magic Erasers can't get black marker off of a wall - or chalk off of accordion blinds. I also learned to rate toast-spreadable substances by stickiness. Peanut butter is better than non-dairy butter, but jam takes the cake. And since we're talking about cake, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I heard through the grape vine that you aren't eating enough carbs, and I want to help. All you have to do is develop an allergy to egg. Then wait a year for your blood work to show a decrease in the probability of an allergic reaction to egg and schedule a baked goods challenge with your allergist. The challenge is so named because you have to wait 20 minutes between bites of cake, and that, as you know, is quite a feat of self control. The first bites are stupidly tiny, even for a little kid, but after a few hours, you get to wolf down a significant piece of cake. Then comes the best part: the doctor prescribes baked goods to be consumed at least three times a week. Isn't that amazing? A doctor literally told me to eat cakes, bread, and muffins on a regular basis. Modern medicine sure is a marvel.

Enough food talk. Let's discuss academics. Having a teacher for a Mommy has its benefits, though I do worry about the future when I overhear her joking about homework in the summer. But I get ahead of myself. These days I'm mastering the sounds of all 26 letters in the alphabet. I like to sing about them, sometimes to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and sometimes in a never-ending refrain of Philip Glass-inspired atonal yelling. "A SAYS AH! B SAYS BUH! P SAYS PUH PUH PUH POPCORN!" Mommy and Daddy love it when I do that. I know because they show their appreciation with laughter and then furrowed brows and then entreaties to sing anything else, PLEASE. 

I've been counting, too. I count fingers, toes, blocks, stickers, cars, people, and anything else that needs counting. I'm really great at one through five, and I'm strong up until 16, but I prefer to skip six and seven, an artistic choice that causes Mommy to call out, "SIX! SIX COMES AFTER FIVE!" I think she thinks I don't know that. I think she doesn't realize how hilarious it is when she gets so excited about six. I heard her tell her friend that she isn't getting enough six, so maybe that's the problem.

Indeed, I have accumulated a hefty bag of tricks in the last few months of toddlerhood, including, but in no way limited to, swinging from banisters, jumping on the couch, climbing into my parents' bed, wearing Mommy's high heels, jumping on my bed, leading endless rounds of Ring Around the Rosie, jumping on stairs, playing individual notes on the piano rather than smashing my hand down repeatedly, eating a peanut butter sandwich instead of just licking the peanut butter off the bread, eating lamb chops off the bone, searching the sky for the moon and stars, sorting by color, identifying and matching basic shapes (square, triangle, circle, oval, crescent, star, etc.), jumping on sand, announcing all nearby airplanes, helicopters, motorcycles, and trains, mimicking police sirens, jumping on laundry, talking on the phone (though Skype is more fun), and jumping in the pool. 

I know how to kick, catch, and throw a ball, and I know that it's okay to throw a ball only if the person catching knows she is supposed to be catching a ball and isn't trying to stir pasta sauce on a hot stove. I also know that throwing other items is generally not allowed, even if I'm dancing passionately while shaking fistfuls of maracas, and one (or more likely, all) of which somehow slip from my grasp and go flying toward the heads of nearby babies. I argued the absence of intent on that one, but your daughter played her Mommy Card, and I got a mini-lecture on appropriate behavior and being careful and aware of my surroundings and something about impulse control, but I don't think she was talking about momentum change. Who knows how she comes up with this stuff? Sometimes I hear her talking with the other Mommies at the park, and I know for a fact that they share all sorts of embarrassing anecdotes. I mean, it's not a big deal that I peed on the floor eight inches from my Elmo potty, and I certainly don't see why Jordy's Mommy needs to know about such a minor indiscretion. 

Though I could go on and on about my newfound talents and extensive vocabulary, I must admit that it's bedtime, and I can tell that Mommy and Daddy are exhausted. I'm not sure they'll even make it through all three scheduled bedtime stories - or the five extra books that I usually demand in an increasingly high pitched whine. Between you and me, those two are pushovers when it comes to negotiations past seven o'clock. It's like they're on autopilot.

Kicking it into high gear,

Zelda