Big Fish

Today I took Jarrah to Sea World for the first time. The suggestion came from our frequent companions Jessica and Olivia, and at first I was resistant. For one thing, I hate the idea of blowing a huge wad of cash on someone who finds hours of fun in a shoe box. For another, the last time I was at Sea World I was like a Victorian maiden in a too-tight corset, so faint was I from the crush of bodies and swelter of July.

But it's January now, and purchasing one eye-bulgingly expensive ticket makes it a "Fun Pass" good for the entire year. Sea World could become a frequent playdate location in the off-season. And I must confess that a teeny, tiny part of me was nostalgic for the Sea World days of my own childhood. Okay, a biggish part of me.

The first stop was Shamu's tank. One of my favorite things about Jarrah's current demographic is that whatever you suggest to her, she's excited about it. I kept saying, "Do you want to see Shamu?" and she'd nod eagerly and jog faster, though I might as well have been saying "Do you want to see a shrub by the side of the road in Bakersfield?" for all she knows about Shamu. And the big fish did not fail to impress. That's a great big ol' black and white fish the size of a truck. Hell, Shamu still takes MY breath away.

We arrived at the dolphins just a hair too late to feed them, but they did come yapping to the surface a few times and we could admire their velvety beauty. Jarrah wanted to hop right in there with them and I had to hold her back.

We did the Shark Encounter, but the only part that truly thrilled Jarrah was the moving sidewalk through the 360 degree tank. Sharks right over our heads? Who cares when the floor is moving? Woohoo!

The grand finale (why push it when you can come back any time you want?) was the Clyde and Seamore Sea Lion show. We've taken Jarrah to a live show only once before, when she was almost 14 months old, at the Wild Animal Park, featuring a freakishly cute newborn elephant. We made it through three minutes before her vigorous tush-kickings of the family in front of us made us beat a hasty retreat. What a difference a year makes!

From the moment she sat in my lap, Jarrah was riveted to the stage, even though it was really far away. Two sea lions and a very cute little otter performed various tricks of jumping, swimming, roaring and clapping, and at the end, a giant pink walrus named Admiral Biggenbottom was mysteriously rescued by something or other and trundled out to roll around. Jarrah clapped wildly when Admiral Biggenbottom was "saved," though I wasn't even sure how she could tell.

I'm not sure why, but during the show, my throat was hard and dry and I couldn't swallow, and tears kept blurring my view. Every time I clapped for one of the animals, or explained to Jarrah what was happening, it got worse. The only thing I could think of is I had come back to this place (let's face it--that sea lion show has been the same for 35 years) I went as a kid and had my own kid on my lap. Knowing that she was seeing it entirely new, in a way I can't anymore. Knowing that I am helping her do that. It really made me feel like an adult, and for once, I was kind of glad about it.

Dear Eye for the Mate Guy

Conversation over dinner a couple nights ago:

Sam: What are you wearing?

David: I don't know.

Sam: Are you wearing my cashmere sweater?

David: Maybe. Probably.

Sam: Where did you find it?

David: I don't know.

Sam: Was it on the floor?

David: I guess.

Sam: So basically, you got dressed in the dark, put on the first thing that felt like a shirt, and then left the house without looking at yourself.

David: Right.

Sam: Huh!

David: It fits okay.

My husband is a brilliant man--an inventive, creative man. Some might call him a genius. At least I do. And, like so many geniuses before him, he can't be bothered with the mundane aspects of quotidian existence, all those bothersome details like food and clothing and basic upkeep of the physical plant. Luckily, he now has a somewhat compulsive, controlling wife to cut his hair, buy him moisturizer and socks, and provide him with nutritious meals from time to time. Do I sound smug? Fair enough. Let's wait and see if he contradicts me. ;)

Here's another example of my favorite distracted genius incidents, this one from a few years ago:

Sam: Where did you get those pants?

David: From my closet--what do you mean?

Sam: I don't recognize them.

David: Why should you recognize them?

Sam: I live with you--I know what pants you have.

David: I doubt it.

A few weeks later:

Sam: (finding the pants on the floor) These can't be your pants.

David: Why not?

Sam: They're too big. And they're not Levi's.

David: I must have bought them big.

Sam: You don't even buy your pants. I do. Why would I have bought them big?

David: Who knows?

Sam: These aren't your pants.

David: Stop saying that. They're my pants. Who else's pants would they be?

Sam: That's what I'm trying to find out. Could you have gotten them mixed up with someone else's at work?

David: What? Why would I have taken my pants off at work?

Sam: I don't know. At the gym?

David: You know I don't go to the gym.

Sam: Hmmmm.

A few weeks later:

David: (leaning over with a smile in a public place) Guess what? You were right. These aren't my pants.

Sam: I knew it! How did you figure it out?

David: I looked at the size. They're a 36 waist.

Sam: 36! You wear a 33.

David: I know. That's how I figured out they had to be someone else's.

Sam: But you're still wearing them.

David: Well, yeah. They were in my closet.

Sam: But whose are they?

David: I really have no idea.

Happy New Year

January is off and running like a fleet-footed gazelle, and I am panting after the herd trying to catch up. Thus, the dearth of recent bloggable moments. I know I've overlooked a doot-doot trip (or three) in there somewhere.

In the biggest news, we had Jarrah's official 2nd birthday party, and it was a gala event. I succumbed to last-minute "Harridan Syndrome" but with David and Mary's help, I pulled out of it in enough time to enjoy myself. See photos for proof that the guest of honor was quite the celebrant, too. We were lucky with the brisk, sunny day and nimble assistance of Suzie and Tiffany at the YMCA, who plied the birthday girl and her friends with balloons, bubbles and parachute time. I flatter myself that even the adults enjoyed themselves, since a crowd lingered right up to the end. For two weeks preceding I had been rueing my decision to host such a large affair, but success has thoroughly brain-washed me into believing we can pull it off every year.

In other news, Jarrah continues to adore preschool, and though she herself remains mum on the subject of her days, I get reports from her teachers, who are still enthusiastic about our girl but have modified their praise with even-handed comments like "Jarrah is certainly a strong-willed little girl" and "We're having some issues with sharing." But Jarrah meets me at the door each time with a huge smile and lots of art projects, so I feel absolutely confident we made the right choice. Hey, the uninterrupted cup of coffee in the deafeningly silent house on those mornings doesn't hurt, either.

In developmental news, Jarrah's 2nd birthday has coincided with what I believe is known as "language explosion," meaning she suddenly has a word for just about everything. Many of these new words, curiously, do not have endings, just beginnings. For instance, "yawn" is "yaw" and "please" is "pee." My favorite, just because it's cute, is when she wants you to open a package and commands what sounds like "OH-boo-duh." Almost like "open up," but that doesn't quite make sense in context.

And speaking of commands, our house is now command central. She greets us from the crib in the morning with "Up!" or "Out!" She goes to bed with "Book!" She indicates readiness to leave in the morning with "Buh-bye!" or "Dar!" (aka "car.") She points out the salient features of the world with "Look!" (more like "Luke!") She eschews the stroller with "Walk!" Of course, there's always been "More!" but now it's the word instead of the sign. That goes along with "Snack!" or "Drink!" And now that there's no guesswork, we're expected to look sharp, too.

Also, does anyone have any advice about a sprinter? Jarrah is wickedly spry, and often chooses the times when I'm laden with bags and packages to flee the premises at a roadrunner-like pace. All my "come backs!" and "it's not safe!" fall on deaf ears, and when I finally catch her, heart pounding, head raging, I can grab her arms, get down on her level, look into her eyes, and say in my scariest voice (by the way, I do not speak hypothetically--this is what I've been doing) "Don't EVER run away from Mommy--do you understand? It's not safe!" and this has no discernable effect whatsoever. She doesn't even acknowledge that I'm talking to her. Today I was hating myself after one of these incidents, which took place at the zoo, with an audience of hundreds. What should I be doing? I'll confess I want very much to smack her at these moments, out of both frustration and terror.

Getting Schooled

I don't remember much about starting school. I don't remember preschool at all--maybe I didn't go? If I did, it was in Oklahoma, and all I remember of that place is junebugs. I have this too-convenient memory of my first day of first grade (which was only across the street) in which my mom got me dressed without underpants (they were all in the dryer) and sent me on my way, and I stood outside the front door and burst into tears, thinking she was playing a joke on purpose.

Mostly I loved school. In first grade, I was in love with math and my teacher, Miss Manning (later Mrs. Brown.) Sometimes she'd pull my braids and tell my mother, "I love her! Can she come to live with me?" and the two of them would laugh while I'd be repeating "Pretty please, pretty please, pretty please?" over and over in my head. I never did get to go home with Miss Manning, not even once, and soon enough I'd had my love of math stripped away, too. But school in general...well, it probably tells you a thing or two that I attended with nary a break for 27 years. September is like a siren call to me, and I am inexorably called to be smashed against the rocks.

This week is Jarrah's first week of school, ever. She was only permitted to attend once she turned two, and she had a good five days of two-ness under her belt before she set off. She will be attending twice a week through June.

The night before, I was a sleepless wreck. What if she paced up and down and sobbed like she did in the old days when we left her somewhere? What if she couldn't understand any instructions and stared blankly and eventually cried? What if she was uncontrollable, and spent the whole time screaming, "No, no, no!" Meanwhile, she was across the hall, snoozing without complexity. In the morning, she devoured a bunch of eggs and a yogurt shake while I packed her lunchbox with tiny Tupperware containers and picked out her "Back to School" outfit with attention to effortless fashion and a dash of flair.

David and I decided to take her together, though ordinarily he will go alone. My heart pounded as we sailed along in the sunny morning, though we kicked ourselves for having forgotten the camera. Jarrah was not alarmed by our arrival. Why should she be? She's been going to this same campus every Friday with me for four months. At the gates, we said hello to a couple other moms and out of the corner of my eye I could see Jarrah explaining to a total stranger about her new lunch box.

When we reached her room, her teacher greeted us and we handed over her Earthquake Kit (the theme seemed to be dried fruit) and Ziploc of extra clothing (there was a small, disapproving silence when I admitted I hadn't Sharpie'd her initials on everything.) And where was Jarrah when these business-like niceties were taking place? Ensconced in a chair across the room from us, cutting stars out of Play Doh. Soon enough, it was time. David and I approached gingerly. She didn't look up. He leaned in for a kiss. "'Bye, Jarrah. I love you." I leaned in, "'Bye, Jarrah. I love you. I'll see you at one o'clock." The last bit got me one brief, quizzical glance. And that was all. We walked quickly towards the exit. The director poked her head around her door and murmured, "I'll call you if anything comes up. But nothing will."

I enjoyed my morning (it felt so strange to be without her in the morning!) but apprehension returned as our reunion grew nigh. I was waiting outside the locked gates at 12:45, along with another mom whose son had also started that morning. "I called--did you? I'm such a dork," she said, and I wondered why it hadn't occurred to me to call. Suddenly there was a stream of children and I raced around the corner, heart pounding. I saw Jarrah, inexplicably sitting in the lap of a man who looked like Santa Claus. (David later reminded me that he is one of the room parents; I had forgotten in my anxiety.) She turned towards me and I thought she'd never looked so beautiful, her cheeks pink and her eyes shiny. She smiled, and then she turned away! I approached: "Jarrah, it's mommy! Can I have a hug?" She hugged me, but immediately took my hand to show me some wooden toys. All around me, children couldn't leave fast enough, but Jarrah was gearing up for another round!

Her teacher was beaming. "Jarrah understands everything. She was very good. And not a single tear." The room parent added, "And she ate such a good lunch!" I was a little dazed. "Well, her grandmother says she's 'a good eat-uh,'" I said, and they laughed. "We kvell from the good eating!" Jarrah took my hand and we walked to the car. She was chattering about "buh-bye." I put her in the car seat and looked back at her in the rear view mirror. "More preschool Thursday?" "Peez!" she said. Oo-kay, then!

The last thing her teacher said as we were leaving is that the real waterworks often come the second day, since by then the kids have wised up and know what's in store--mommy and daddy leave. So I was bracing myself again this morning, even though I wasn't there. David called and said, "It went great! She was already playing when I left."

When I picked her up today, there was a tidal wave of sobbing inside the room. Three or four children were wailing and gnashing their teeth; I didn't see why--utter relief to see mommy again? Jarrah, once again, was smiling and busy, and took my hand to show me how she could wash out a pot in the pretend sink. Both her teachers (one was on vacation on Tuesday) came over, huge smiles on their face. One said, "Let me tell you about your daughter!" and a huge rush of tears filled my throat. Yes, I thought. Tell me about my daughter. My daughter. "We love her! She's adorable!" "So independent!" the second teacher added. "She got out her own lunch!"

The kvelling flowed fast and furious for the next few minutes while I got Jarrah ready to go. She hugged everyone goodbye and showed me her art project. A teacher from another class walked by and said to me, "We're all falling under Jarrah's spell." Holy cherubim, Readers, this was a lot for me to take in. I still hadn't said a thing in order to avoid crying; I just kept bobbing and smiling like an idiot.

So independent, they kept saying. They were really thrilled about this. Part of me was so proud of her I couldn't speak. Part of me felt that nagging "what if" of international adoption: does this mean she's not attached? Amazing how the best news can fill me with doubt.

In the mean time, though, I'm going to try to enjoy this moment. The moment when my daughter embraced the academy, following in her mama's footsteps. This could be the beginning of a beautiful 27 years.

A Few Little Lines About a Really Big Girl

In honor of Jarrah's birthday, and because I hate to see my liberal arts education go to waste, I compose the following anaphora, drawing from today, December 28, 2006:

I Love You When You Ride The Doot-Doot I love you when you sing "Eat, eat, eat!" along with the Wiggles I love you when you are sporting sunglasses I love you when you steal other children's toys I love you when you cry because we missed the doot-doot I love you in a sparkly BIRTHDAY GIRL t-shirt I love you when you're digging in the sand with a coffee cup I love you when you're waiting on top of the slide I love you when you scream because you see your daddy getting out of his car I love you when your eyes roll back in your head from your first sip of chocolate milk I love you when you throw fistfuls of sand in a ditch for half an hour I love you when you run into the street as fast as you can I love you when you are covered in mud and chocolate and snot I love you when your hair is full of knots I love you when I see you yawn in the rear view mirror I love you when you yell "Doot-doot!" because you recognize this parking lot I love you when you peer through the fence at the train going around I love you when you ride the doot-doot I love you when you wave each time you pass I love you when you say "Juice?" seventeen times because we see a Jamba Juice I love you when you drop every crayon within three seconds of sitting down at lunch I love you when you eat mac and cheese with a soup spoon I love you when you drop noodles in your friend's cup I love you when you descend the stairs with great concentration I love you when I say "Nap?" and you say "No!" and then yawn I love you when I cover you up and you grab my hand and wink I love you when you fall asleep immediately I love you when you're sleeping and I can't see you I love you on your birthday I love you all year long.

I Bow My Head

Well, I guess gloating gets you a humbling kick in the ass. Tonight we went to the Wild Animal Park Festival of Lights with Olivia and her parents, and let's just say Jarrah won't be gathering any more laurels for her sophisticated attention span. Riding a rhino on the carousel was fun, and stringing plastic beads on a pipe cleaner bracelet surprisingly absorbing. Running amok in the dinner line was par for the course, as was the terrifying diaper that preceded the meal. We were right on target for a typical evening in a crowded public amusement spot as we made our way to the piece de resistance: the doot doot. Now, strictly speaking, the Tramway is not a doot doot. There is no doot, for starters. No chug-chug sounds, and no "All aboard!" (an exclamation that Jarrah recently has begun shouting at surprising intervals.) But we figured that these deficiencies would be nicely corrected by the addition of actual wild animals frolicking to the right and left of the cars. Well, we thought wrong.

She was quite excited as the tram exited the station, and seemed to be waiting for it pick up speed. Instead, of course, it poked along at about 5 miles an hour, and stopped frequently so our laconic guide could point out rabbits (truly, it was a slow night for the African plains.) Since it was, as mentioned, NIGHT, there wasn't much to see, and what there was was sort of beige and difficult to differentiate from other less kinetic patches of beige around it. And most of the beigey beasts were snoozing anyway. Which is what our own more colorful beast would have been doing, had she been at home.

Within five minutes, she was over it, and began pacing the length of our car, ramming her way past our knees and those of our companions. Soon after, she added climbing onto the bench in any available crack between occupants, and either burying her hands in the hair of those in front of her, or staring impolitely at those behind her.

The real delight came when she fixated her affections on a slight, bald fellow behind her and considered him thoughtfully while murmuring "Ma-muh. Ma-muh. Ma-muh." in plaintive tones, while the poor guy tried not to notice, difficult since her face was about three inches from his and he had nowhere to go. At this point, David and I tried to contain her in some fashion, quietly suggesting she sit in our laps or admire some Chinese cows, but that was when she started whining, moving dangerously close to the tantrum zone. The histrionic sobbing, like a final pinch of paprika, was added when our companions quite brilliantly diverted her with a talking cat--unfortunately the cat was also the beloved companion of their daughter, so this arrangement could not continue peacefully. At this point I just leaned my head out in the cool night air and wished us back into the station.

Jarrah's birthday is Thursday, and we had planned to take her for a ride on the Coaster train to meet David for lunch. I figured she'd find this plan to be heaven on a stick. Now I'm reconsidering. ;)

Cineaste: Take Two

Last night we took Jarrah to the movies for the second time. And I wanted to take a moment to gloat that it was an unqualified success. Ever since our flight to China, when I happened to see a trailer for it on the laptop where we were watching March of the Penguins, I've been itchin' to see Happy Feet. I love tap dancing, and I love Stevie Wonder, and throw in a cute baby penguin and it really was a trifecta of deliciousness. So we had this idea that maybe Jarrah might actually want to see it, too.

We've brought her to the movies once before to see Cars and it went okay. She demanded to wander a few times but between David and I we saw a whole movie. Now, of course, it's been several months and Jarrah has a whole lot of staring-at-screens practice under her belt. So we packed up her booster chair and a lot of snacks, and when we got to the mall, we bought her a great big colorful lollipop like you see children holding in cartoons. We knew she didn't know how to use a lollipop, but we figured, how hard could it be for the Copycat Queen?

The movie was incredibly loud, and for once I was glad. We also sat down in front, away from the serious moviegoers. So far, so good. I dashed out during the preview to get a drink for David and me, and bought Jarrah a White Cherry Icee on a whim. She likes slushees, and the lack of color was appealing in case it ended up all over her shirt.

When I returned, the movie was just starting and David whispered that Jarrah had been so enthused about the trailers that she shouted "Oh nooooo!" when they finished. I handed her the Icee, a bunch of singing penguins emerged onscreen, and we were off and running.

The movie was long for animation: 1 hour, 48 minutes. I want to brag that for at least an hour, Jarrah was a model viewer. She chewed her straw to a nub, kept her eyes on the screen, and occasionally shouted "Uh oh!" when our hero, Mumble, was faced with a particularly hairy challenge, but that didn't seem to bother anybody.

Around the hour mark, she started to fidget, so we pulled out the big gun: the lollypop. Readers, here's where we made our fatal error. First, she wanted to hold the lolly by the candy part. Then she wanted to rub the entire surface over her face, turning it blue. But the real delight came when she felt moved to "share" her lolly by reaching over and pointing it into my air space as I cowered away from the sticky, slimy surface the size of a butter plate, whispering, "No, thanks!" At one point, she accidently rubbed my retreating arm with the thing, and I gasped "Argh!" which she obviously thought was great fun, because then she wiped the lolly up and down my arm and side several times, just for the pleasure of watching me squirm and yelp. I was about to get furious but then the whole thing struck me as so absurd that I cracked up instead, so hard that I worried I was the one disturbing people.

Soon enough, we were able to divert her attention, hide the lolly, and replace it with an apple and some Cheerios, both acceptable substitutes evidently because we heard no more about it. Occasionally, she'd lean her head into one of our laps and gaze up at us, but mostly she concentrated on the screen, and that's what we all did until the last frame of the closing credits. Well, that's a slight exaggeration. Once the credits started, David and I watched them, and we let her out to dance in the aisles, much to the amusement of departing viewers.

We were really quite triumphant, I tell you. The movie was cute, rollicking good fun. David and I love going to the movies, and we're hoping that so much progress in just two visits means we are going to have a pliable convert on our hands. To make it a bit sweeter, we got in just a few days under the wire for free admission for children under two. Score!

Yellow Fever

When I first met Jarrah, she had already developed a prurient interest in stacking cups and rings, so I wrongly assumed that learning the bold, primary colors that differentiate these items would be her next task. In fact, I have known Jarrah more than 10 months, during which time she has memorized the names and sounds of every barnyard animal, mastered the moves to most of the Wiggles songs and learned the difference between Bosc, Bartlett and D'anjou pears, all without the slightest awareness that purple and green are different, or even that purple and green are states of being.

Until last week sometime. She pointed at a banana and said "yellow," plain as day. I was so thrilled I went into a paroxysm of clapping. Shortly thereafter, my glee was slightly dampened when she pointed to her high chair and said "yellow." It is, in fact, blue. Hmmm. "That's blue," I told her, hopefully in an encouraging way. She was undeterred. "Yellow," she said, pointing to her green crib toy. "Yellow," she said, indicating my blue car. "Yellow," she said, holding a red apple. Clearly, she was having a breakthrough in the sense that she understands that things have a color, but now that she's found one she likes, why muddy the waters with too many options?

So, for the time being, everything is yellow. We wake up each day to a monochromatic world, with a yellow sky and yellow trees, and we romp in yellow parks full of yellow dogs and yellow flowers. We all wear yellow and eat yellow food. We love our yellow world.

Don't Mention It

Jarrah has begun saying "thanks" whenever someone gives her a snack or helps her up or retrieves an out-of-reach toy. For a while, I didn't know she was saying it, because it comes out like "deetz." She would pause and make eye contact so meaningfully, though, I started paying more attention. What I find most adorable is I never knowingly taught her this word. Of course I meant to, when it seemed appropriate. But clearly she beat me to it. It gives me a little thrill when I hear her say it, because she hasn't started preschool yet and she spends most of her time with me, so I guess (slight pause here, suggestive of modesty, completely false) I can take credit for this small infusion of manners in an unruly toddler world. Do I get a gold star? Don't answer that.

Hear Me Roar

I am brazen. Sometimes this a problem. I'll say a shockingly rude thing to someone because it seemed funny in the millisecond it took to travel from my brain to my mouth (why do other people get more time? Why, why, why?) Also, I ask the questions that everyone else is standing around not asking, wisely I might add.

Occasionally, my brazenness has helped me ask for something I want. When I wanted to teach writing but kept getting passed over at interviews without explanation, I showed up at the director's office one afternoon, loins girded and extensive list of qualifications at the ready. As soon as she said, "What can I do for you?," I opened my mouth and burst into tears instead. Shortly thereafter, I was offered a job. Hey, whatever works.

When I arrived at college, the Freshman Dean made a speech at opening convocation about wanting to know each and every one of us. The following day, I knocked on her door at College Hall. She was puzzled, and if I'm not mistaken, nervous. Was I homesick?, she asked. Hating my new roommate? Sitting alone in a dark dorm room slicing up my arm while everyone else was romping in fall leaves? Um...no. Everything's fine. You said you wanted to meet me, so I stopped by. But there must be something you need, she pressed. Well....I said. I groped around in my untrammeled brain. I guess I was a little bummed that I auditioned for Advanced Acting and didn't even make the waiting list. After all, I am an actress, I told her. She didn't protest. The following day I was called out of lunch for a phone call from the Advanced Acting professor, who let me know that a spot had "just opened up" in the class. Gee, thanks!

In grad school, I felt certain I had a connection with the green-eyed boy who sat across the seminar table from me in my poetry workshop. Beyond this innate sense, I didn't know the first thing about him--we had never even exchanged a hello. But one afternoon I slipped a note into his mail cubby just the same. "You might think this is sort of brazen," I wrote, "But I was wondering if you would have coffee with me sometime?" The following day there was a note in my cubby: "I like coffee. And I like brazen." Yowza! That one didn't go well, but it probably had more to do with his live-in girlfriend than anything I did.

All this is a preamble to my current situation. I am no longer that dreamy co-ed, penning poetry by the bank of the Charles and fluttering my lashes at green-eyed men (well, there is one in particular, but we'd actually spoken before I asked him out.) Now I have very different, but just as pressing, concerns. These concerns are various, but most of them, necessarily, loop back to Jarrah. So when I spot a good thing, I don't want to risk it slipping away.

A couple months ago, Jarrah and I were at the park. It was empty. It was hot. We were both bored. Suddenly, a car rolled to a stop in front of us. Jarrah pointed. When the door opened, out stepped a lovely little girl. "Hello," she said to Jarrah, "My name is Olivia. What's yours?" I was extremely impressed by her self-possession. I could tell Jarrah was, too. Even better, Olivia's mommy was right behind her, smiling, and not acting the least bit put out that her daughter was talking to us. I know it might sound odd, but very often when Jarrah plays with another child at the park, the child's mom or dad pretends not to see me. They talk to their child and follow their child, and I follow their child because Jarrah is following their child, and it's just about the most cringe-inducing awkwardness you can imagine. I could tell this was not going to be one of those times. Within minutes, Jarrah and Olivia were holding hands and laughing, and Jessica and I were gabbing away, two fast-talkers in a slow stay-at-home world.

They had just moved here, and we were some of the first people they met. I didn't know this when I thrust my business card (hush, NIA teachers are allowed to have business cards :)) at her as we were leaving and said something akin to: "Let's do this again. I actually mean that, by the way." It seemed like a brazen thing to do, but I couldn't see any way to avoid it if we ever wanted to see them again. We've had a few more playdates and it delights me that the girls get along just as well as their mommies do.

On Thursday, we went to the zoo together to celebrate Olivia's birthday. She was turning four. Yes, that makes her two years older than Jarrah, but somehow, the age gap doesn't get in their way. Olivia is a big talker, and Jarrah doesn't talk at all, so it's a beautiful arrangement if you think about it. You know what they have in common, though? They're both brazen. And they're making it work for them.