"I Had A Great Day"

It was one of THOSE mornings. You know, the kind where you seriously consider asking for a refund. And leaves you wondering how soon you'll be developing a nice, raging ulcer.

There was the usual stress of kids not getting up on time, of trying to keep an ADHD child whose meds haven't kicked in yet on task, and so forth, but a good deal of the stress on this morning came from a certain kindergartner who might also be known as The Daydreamer/The Princess/Drama Queen II/The Snail. I had just about given up trying to get her going (and her disclosure that she had a headache 10 minutes before she was supposed to leave almost sealed the deal), except that visions of the very nice letter the principal sent a couple of weeks ago letting us know that this child had reached the maximum number of absences she was allowed for the school to "make AYP" and that her tardies were excessive and could be "detrimental" to her progress kept dancing in my head. (I think when I received the letter, I retorted something like, "Well, then YOU come to my house and see if you can do any better at getting this child out the door fed and fully dressed and on time!")

The other children ran out the door, and The Snail finally decided that she needed to go to school (why NOW, not an hour ago!), and disappeared into her room to get dressed. I poured her a bowl of cereal, knowing I couldn't send her to school with an empty stomach if she really had a headache. The Snail came out dressed, except. . . "Where are your shoes?" I asked, feeling very much like a broken record. The Snail did not know. I marched into her room to find that not ONE pair of shoes belonging to her was in her closet. NOT ONE. I mean, usually, her closet is an interesting assortment of one shoe from each pair, but this time, not ONE pair was in there. However, we easily found her brand-new, shiny, bow-bedazzled white Sunday shoes, since they were up high and displayed proudly for all to see. But since those weren't an option, we were stuck. We looked high and low and miraculously found her shoes in her backpack (thank heavens for inspiration). She gulped down her cereal (very uncharacteristic) while I scratched out a quick note on the end of a notepad with a pen that didn't want to cooperate. (Thinking about this child handing the secretary a piece of cardboard as she came in the door was amusing, I have to admit.)

Then I drove her to the front doors of the school because the second I said the word "walk," I could see a meltdown coming on, and, since the goal was to get her to school for what remained of the kindergarten day (which would not happen if she went into meltdown mode), I felt it best to just drive her. I felt pretty silly, considering the school property is four houses away from our home (in my defense, the front doors, which are the only ones open after school starts, are almost two blocks away. . .). As my daughter jumped out of the car, Rapunzel hair trailing behind her, and yanked open the heavy doors and disappeared inside, my heart swelled a bit. For all the stress she causes, she certainly is a unique and wonderful individual, and I do love her. That helped me feel a bit better.

Then a dear friend exited the school and commiserated and laughed with me (what is it with children and shoes and tough mornings?), shared some fun and happy news, and basically took my mind off the stress of the morning. As I drove home in the sunshine, I took some deep breaths and arrived home much calmer and with my stomach tied in less knots.

My daughter bounced cheerfully through the door around 11:35 A.M. with a big smile on her face, chattered excitedly about the upcoming kindergarten "Plant Picnic," and skipped into the living room to see her brother, singing, "I had a greeaaat day, da-da-da dah dah. . ." I was tempted to ask, "So what was this morning all about?" But I didn't. After all, if she thought it was a great day, who am I to change her mind?