Whitman

Your Daily Whit

He dressed himself. I tried to persuade him to wear a white shirt, but he insisted on this one. He told me, dead serious, “I am hot sauce today, Mummy.” I thought I had misheard him so I asked, “What?” He looked at me and said, “Hot sauce.“

Okay. Also, I love the tongue. And the bedhead. And the tired eyes. Because while he will NOT nap and wants to stay up until 8, every morning I have to wake him from a dead sleep to teenager-ish protests that he is so tired and wants to staaaaaaay in bed! Yes, buddy, I know the feeling.

Independent peeing

Lenore Skenazy’s article in today’s New York Post is great. Particularly apropos given that this past week I let Whit go to the bathroom alone in Starbucks for the first time. I admit that I usually take him into the women’s room with me. But on Tuesday, the ladies was locked. So I, eager to go pick up my venti latte which I could see on the bar, I let him go into the men’s alone.

Grace and I chatted as I stirred in my splenda while we waited for Whit. He came out a couple of minutes later. His hands were wet. He was wearing a huge grin, clearly proud of himself. He had peed, flushe, and washed his hands. I was ridiculously proud.

From now on, he will get to go to the bathroom alone. As Grace often does in restaurants now. A tiny step, but a huge one at the same time.

Day One

School started on Tuesday. First grade for Grace, Beginners for Whit. It was sentimental for me when my first-born child was a Beginner, but now my baby is. Wow. There are many pluses to this new moment in my mothering adventure: there is a new logistical ease, having them in a single school, with one dropoff and one pickup. Whit is so excited to be at Big Kid school with his big sister, and Gracie has been unusually generous towards her brother this week, telling him what to expect and all about his teacher (who she had as well).

But, still. My babies are all gone, as are my toddlers. They are big kids now, full of energy and noise and complexity and, I realize, a dwindling number of hugs and hand-holdings (sad farewells) and sippy cups and carseats (less sad: one of the major achievements of this summer has been that Whit climbs into the car and buckles himself in and out – my GOD what a life-changer that was). I know I don’t want to go back, I really, truly know that. But I don’t know that I want to keep moving forward this fast, either. Of course it’s not up to me, and that I know as much as I know anything at all.

Every achievement, every milestone, is limned with an elegy. And they just keep walking away.

Organic Whitty

CSA bin as “boat.”

Today I picked Whit up from school. We stopped by CVS and as we were parking he said, “Please, mummy, can we go in the magic door?”

“Sure, Whit. Which is the magic door?” (knowing it’s the one that opens as you walk up to it)

“You know, the one that opens. That door has magic in it. Or maybe it’s electricity.”