We Interrupt This Travel Report...

...with a Jarrah report for this week. Our big story is preschool graduation, aka "the Shalom Program," which is Friday and will feature each class singing for the rapt assemblage. I expect there will be photos at that time.

For now, I find myself in a pensive mood as the school year ends. Something about school years--a measure of time so familiar in my own life--makes it apparent that Jarrah is growing up quickly; she'll be three-and-a-half at the end of this month. In the fall, she's going to school five days a week for the first time, and if she didn't have a December birthday, it would be her LAST year of preschool, too. (Saved by the state of CA cut-off!)

Jarrah doesn't quite realize this yet, but she'll be leaving Barbara and Janet--her teachers for the past two years--behind as well. Oh, she'll still see them on the playground, but she'll have different teachers in the classroom and there's no turning back. I don't think I realized how attached Jarrah is to Barbara until we ran into her at the grocery store this week, and Jarrah lit up like The Wiggles had just appeared. She insisted on shopping with Barbara (who was very understanding) and kept asking, "Why aren't you in your class?" I guess that's the world of a three-year-old, frozen in amber unless she herself makes a change.

Mostly, it is Mommy who's having separation anxiety from Barbara and Janet. Between Barbara's New York pragmatism and Janet's lovey-bunny compassion, it's the perfect storm of preschool fabulousness. Waaaah, I don't like change! Don't wanna go! Even though I already know her next two teachers, and know they will be wonderful, too.

It hit me the other day--in the shower, where I get hit a lot--that this summer is also our last mommy-daughter time together, perhaps forever (!?!) Once she's in school full-time, presumably we'll have some "after-school activities," but no longer will we plan a whole day like the wide open frontier it is now. Newly aware, I'm finding our outings a bit more special, and paying more attention.

Today we went to the New Children's Museum downtown, just Jarrah and me. I'd been meaning to go there for a while, partly because we've been waiting years for it to open, and partly because one of my oldest and dearest friends, Synthia, has a prominent position there, and I wanted to survey her accomplishments. I purchased an annual membership, too, so we can go back anytime--now it's clear that will be often.

When we arrived (parking downtown is really no problem on a weekday morning) Jarrah was impressed right away. The cavernous glass space has lots of visible steel stairways and landings, and full-size vacuum cleaners suspended from the walls. While you wait to check-in, the kids can ride self-powered Segways that I was itchin' to try myself.

Once official, I called Synthia, who was thrilled to come right down and offer us a VIP tour. Some of the highlights were the "Port-a-Party," a dark box you can lock from the inside and boogie down to loud music under a disco ball, and "The Rain House," a painted cottage with tables inside, seated at which you hear a thunderstorm outside. The piece de resistance of the tour was a room entirely filled with mattresses (actual) and tires (stuffed, but painted realistically) for building, flopping and climbing.

After Synthia headed back to work, we tried the cafe for lunch--everything is "Organic to Go" and our sandwiches and fruit were quite yummy. We were surrounded by moms with small babies, which I found odd--what were the babies going to do there? Was it just an excuse for the moms to get together? I pondered how far I feel from baby days, not that I ever had a baby that small, the kind that's all limp and dimply and covered in various kinds of wetness. It sort of made me shudder to think of caring for one of those babies, not because they weren't adorable (they were) but because I'm pretty sure I much prefer interacting with children who can interact with me, ones who can talk and accept bribes. This was an interesting self-revelation--I'm much happier alone with Jarrah now than I was a year ago. I can even see it--I look happier to myself in the mirror.

We saved the messy art for last, and it's fabulous. There are several areas to get wet and dirty, but Jarrah's favorite was the painting. No prosaic easels for this museum--an actual VW Bug is parked in the courtyard surrounded by bins of paint and large brushes, and the children are encouraged to have at it. Jarrah was concerned that the doors wouldn't open--considering the car is covered in about 71 layers of paint, I have a fair idea why.

Watching her smack big, yellow hand prints on the windows of the Bug got me thinking that I hadn't been sure what to expect from the museum. I imagined tiny exhibitions of painted bunnies and kitties, displayed near the floor, and sculptures that you're allowed to touch. Based on my one visit to the New Children's Museum, I've decided that the place doesn't contain any art at all. The art that's there can't be contained, because it's the children themselves. As they explore and play, they become the art. And that's freakin' beautiful, if you ask me.