Childish Days

She's quite a character, my little one.  Last week she earned her second set of stitches.  Twelve.  That's nine more than the last time.  When she cried because she didn't look beautiful with whiskers on her chin, I reminded her that only tough girls endure these things...that she is indeed tougher than her mother, because I am still awaiting my first set.  Monday night we returned to the Emergency Room for removal of those whiskers. The plastic surgeon inspected the injury, confirmed the stitches should be removed now versus later (to prevent a 'railroad track' scar), but insisted that the skin would remain quite fragile for another week.  Lovely.  Let's hope her chin heals super, super quickly.

As if that didn't provide enough excitement for the start of the week, Lane decided to paint her own nails.  (I fell asleep first.  That's when she moved the kitchen chair over to the cabinet and grabbed the forbidden fruit.)  According to her version of the story, she 'messed up' and tried to fix the mistakes by washing her hands and feet.  (No, Lane.  It doesn't work that way.)  Needless to say, she had bright fuchsia polish smeared everywhere.  I made this discovery just minutes before leaving the house for work the next morning, and so...  Carrying a bottle of nail polish remover along, I greeted the preschool teacher.  Our conversation began something like this.  "I realize this isn't in your job description, but I suppose whether or not her hands and legs and feet remain looking this way, is dependent upon how embarrassed you are to take her out in public for the field trip."  Her teacher loves me, or loves Lane, or was embarrassed by my daughter's appearance.  When I retrieved her at 5:00, she looked rather tidy.  Thank you, Miss Susan.

Beyond that, the week has been busy and as a result, I've fallen behind on nearly everything I've needed to accomplish.  This has left me feeling a bit blue.  (The weather today isn't helping either.)  I did find this in my classroom, though, and it made me smile.  It is a note from a sweet student, my first grader who is now in middle school:

Dear Mrs. G,

I want to be a teacher.  Yeah, that's right.  A teacher.  If I learn more, I'm smart.  Then I go on and on and on until I know everything.  You are very nice and I love first grade.  In fact, I want to stay here forever.  You are the best teacher a child could have.

Love, Alec

I knew I saved that note for a reason: that I'd find it again someday at just the right moment...and be happy.