Last night I went to Azalea’s first parent-teacher conference, sat in her little chair, and heard all about her life in kindergarten. I got to see some of her work—her observation tree, her number scrawls, and some of her more vibrant drawings, including the one she drew of her beloved teacher L, who is expecting her first baby. Before coming to the conference, I asked A if there was anything she wanted me to tell L, that she might be too shy to share. “I love you,” she said. When I asked A if there was anything she was worried about that I could tell L, she said, “The baby.” I shared this with L and we kvelled in unison, in full agreement: such a sweetie.

And then this morning I woke up with itchy eyelids. For anyone with eczema or related syndromes, you will appreciate what this means and how it bodes for the morning routine. Usually following some kind of disagreeable food episode (but in this case…tofu and kale?), the itchy eyelids thing arrives in the morning, threatening a kind of pink-eye-level crustiness and irritation for a week or more. So not only does the present itching make me crazy, but I also get caught in the dread of what might be on the horizon—an indeterminate spell of reptilian-like dryness, redness, and pretty extreme discomfort, which inspires that kind of deep-itch desire, not to mention pretty serious insults to a basic dose of vanity. In other words, I am cranky and sensitive. So the three of us, T, A, and I in our tiny kitchen, making six meals in a matter of 20 minutes (three breakfasts, two lunches, and one dinner for my late-working man), was not working for me. T, a big guy, kept, in my version, body-checking me as he squeezed by, and A’s insistence on showing T her art from yesterday, which she had already showed him, instead of eating her hot cereal, which would get cold, and then need to be reheated to be eaten (!!!!!!!), sounded as shrill as an animal caught in a trap, demanding release. So…Snap! “A!” I barked, “I’ve had it! Eat your breakfast and quit whining.” And, in my mind, “T, you, too…whatever you’re doing, just stop….” for absolutely no reason!

And then…a few minutes later, in the bathroom, I told A to brush her teeth, and she stuck out her tongue. Instead of laughing, the only truly appropriate response to such shenanigans, I sent her to the couch (random), to think about what she was doing, and to come back when she was ready to apologize (ridiculous). Instead, she just sat around the corner of the bathroom, in the hallway, waiting. She came back and said, “You’re a mean man!”

We worked out the toothbrushing thing. And she sulked off to her room as I gathered up her stuff for her ride to school. Out she came in a princess dress with her Wonder Woman costume over it. Perfect timing. I actually laughed and oooed and aahed and we gave each other a big hug. And then she drew another picture for L, complete with baby in belly and dog, and her own thought bubble, thinking of the baby, a little bean with dots. She wanted to make a book for L, but alas, there was not enough time, and so she agreed to take off her costume while I folded the picture up to put in her backpack. I suggested we could do a book later, maybe after school. OK, she said, and ambled out the door, a regular kid, changed back into regular clothes.

Regular, and so...does she get jealous?  Yes. Insecure? Sure. Angry? Of course. Does she have one heck of a fish to fry with her high-strung mother? You bet. She is, as we like to say in our house, an ordinary meatball, a suffering sentient being, just like the rest of us. But thoughtful, and loving. And happy! It’s crazy.