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Browsing Tag: preschoolers

You Know the Cliche

Cian noticed the tulips in their vase on the kitchen island and stopped his play. “When are dey gonna open?” he asked me. I looked at them, perfectly shaped, as they must have been all week. I couldn’t say for sure: I’d picked them up for six bucks at the grocery store on Saturday and really hadn’t noticed them since. “Maybe tomorrow, buddy,” I said. “It happens slowly.” “Can I see dem?” “Sure,” I replied, and picked him up to set him on the counter beside the flowers. Nervously, I circled, staying close, because even though I had a bunch of things to do and the chances of him falling off and cracking his head open were slim, you know. I’m not one to assume. But he sat there for the longest time–come on buddy, I have STUFF to DOOOOO–and other than when he kept calling out, “Don’t take a pictchah of me! Stop LOOKING AT ME!” he was really happy to just…watch the tulips. “When are dey gonna open?&#8221…

Oh, He Said It

Note: I’m blushing as I type this, and I almost didn’t post it, because I can’t retell this story without wanting to die just a tiny bit inside. But this is what you get when you’re candid with your kids. THIS, my friends, is what we deserve: As the preschoolers filed out of the school this morning, Cian’s teacher pulled me aside. “Hey,” she laughed. “I have something for your blog.” “Oh, no,” I said. Mrs. O. let the comment slide, because she has a great sense of humor and this story was too good not to share.  “We were upstairs,” she continued, “and Cian was looking up at a picture of a leprechaun. I said, ‘Hey, Cian! That looks like you.’ Cian was looking up. ‘No,’ he said. “He has a beard.’” “‘Well, you’re going to have a beard one day,’” Mrs. O. said she told him.  “Yeah,” he replied. And then he shrugged. “‘And hair on my penis.’” Yep. That’s what…

Even Though We’re Tired

Cian doesn’t sleep at night. He climbs into the spare twin bed in Quinlan’s room because he, the third-born child, is frightened to be alone. He cries for another hug, for another nightlight, for another drink of water. At eleven o’clock, he comes into our room. At one o’clock, he comes in again. At three o’clock, he’ll appear once more, but we’ll be too tired to notice, so in a few hours we wake for the day to find his little, long form in the bed with us, wedged in between our bodies, one hand resting on a parent’s shoulder.  He doesn’t sleep. Which means we don’t, either. And then, then, after a full day of preschool and playing and chasing Riley around the house, at four-thirty in the evening, when we drive over to the school to pick the girls up from their Lego and creative writing clubs, he talks nonstop. He points out the clouds, and the cars, and asks me if skeletons have teeth. He chats about his classmates, and about Dino Trux, and if…