Letting Go

The Cuddle Bear, my last child if it's me you're talking to,* started pre-school this week. Here was the First Day's conversation:

TCB: "Mom? Are you going to take me to pre-school? And leave me there? And go away?"
Me: "Oh.....well.....yes. But you already know that Mommy always comes back."
TCB: "No! Are you going to LEAVE me there. And go AWAY."

Ah. I had misunderstood. The Cuddle Bear wasn't worried. She wasn't going to miss me. She had no concern regarding how to navigate a Mommy-less afternoon. She wanted to make sure I was going to LEAVE her there. And go AWAY.

Sigh.

There it is. The face of separation anxiety.







*If you talk to Josh, however, the answer you get might be different. Not that HE feels the need for a larger family. No. He is of the deranged opinion that once all the babies are at school all day I will want to accrue more. He is sadly mistaken.

Three Rings and a Chihuahua

Whoo. Three weeks and nary a deep breath. And this time I mean that literally, as allergens have reared their ugly heads. Since I still don't technically have time for this, here are some highlights:

• Moving with a RADling. Princess has made five other moves that I know about. The likelihood that they were good experiences is slim. You can imagine what this translated into. Needless to say, the last month has been loud and injury-producing.
• On that note, Princess has begun to take her rages public. First she had several in front of an extended family member. The next was a 40-minute kickingscreamingbitingscratchingfrothingatthemouth ordeal in the middle of Buddy's soccer field. Yep. Pleasant. And not at all embarrassing.
• I do believe Buddy is starting puberty. He's only nine, but Josh had a full beard and had stopped growing by the time he was 13, so it's not totally unpredictable. However, my sweet, loving, thoughtful, mature baby has become a morose, argumentative, paranoid "tween."
• Plus, while Princess has not actually begun puberty, I am absolutely certain she is cycling with me. I came by this information very scientifically. Here is the process I used: (month one) "wow. Princess is sure having a sucky week. I have PMS." (month two) "Wow. Princess is sure having a sucky week. I have PMS." (month three) "Wow..." Well. You get the idea.
• I have never bought a full-priced licensed-character Halloween costume. It goes against my moral code. Every year the children get hand-made costumes that are stunning and stress me out for a month. Or I get them at the consignment shop. But as I looked at the Spider Man costumes, I began to rationalize (wellllll, I think she's my last baby. She'd use it every day. That mask looks hilarious. Next year she'll be a serious, professional kindergartner). Then I forked out the cash. Worth every penny. I am not kidding, just watching her put the mask on had me rolling on the floor. She wore it to pick the kids up at school, and they all actually jumped back and screamed.
• The Cuddle Bear will no longer answer to her given name. 
• The Cuddle Bear's goodnight song now goes: "Go to sleep, Spiderman, Go to sleeeeeeep, Spiderman.."
• Peanut is livid that she has been in school for two and a half weeks and still does not read as well as Buddy or Princess. She firmly believes this is due to something lacking in her teacher.

 Josh and I are completely stressed out, two words can turn into a full-blown fight in nothing flat, two of my children are completely whacked out, one is bitter, and one is a superhero who causes evil instead of fights it.

But the house is amazing. I never dreamed I'd own something like this. A little bright spot for me in America's recession. Our original rental has a great family in it, and our former house has a family chomping at the bit to move in. I barely even hoped we'd have both places filled by October, and here we are.

My cup overfloweth.

Found Objects

When you get down to the nitty-gritty packing up of a house you've been in for nine years, you can find some really interesting things.

Like this precious series of family portraits by Peanut at age two:

Or this precious note written by Princess:

What do you mean you can't read it? Sure, I'll help you out. It says:

To Mom Frum (Princess)
I hate you so you meen Mom
This is becaas you bing mean

I think it's especially endearing that she chose two different spellings of "mean." Just for me.

The Smells and Sounds of RAD on the Move

Tomorrow is Moving Day, and I am reasonably sure I will not last until the end of it. My father is coming Saturday with the explicit assignment of Stroking My Hair While I Cry.

The regression is so thick here you can smell it. Literally. Did you know RAD has an odor? I didn't, either, until a couple other RAD moms mentioned it here or there, and I realized, that pe.e-like smell that gets stronger on the bad days and doesn't go away even if I shower her? It's RAD.

Speaking of pe.e. All the progress from the last six months? It's gone. Gone. Just. Gone. I'm trying to handle it as matter-of-factly as possible, but, ARGH!!!

And, I'm not sure, because I didn't actually see her do it, but I'm pretty sure Princess poured her brain in a blender, whirred it around, put it in a storage container, and tucked it in the back of the freezer for another time because

It's gone. Gone. Just. Gone.

The manipulation. I had a very matter-of-fact conversation at the new house about bike riding, specifically about how children who don't use the toilet are usually kept very close to their mothers, so, while I do get her need to not use the toilet right now, there will be no bike-riding-down-the-road until said need has passed. The conversation was not well received. So, as soon as my visiting mother was in the room, guess what Princess asked with no outward indication of having heard previous conversation? Yep. Because, unfortunately, the Mommy has been guilty of not wanting to appear hard, controlling, callous, mean, and weird in front of other adults, and Princess picked up on that weakness looooooong before I did. And of course, keeping her close to me means I'm mean, stupid, ugly, and don't take care of her. According to Princess, anyway.

The rages. Oh, my aching muscles, the rages. I got a bite two weeks ago that is only now not visible. Peanut has a black eye with a good sized cut underneath. I have to repeat, "don't get triggered, don't get triggered," over and over in my head while saying out loud things like, "this is hard. I'm right here," and, "I'm really sorry, Honey, but you'll have to find a way to breathe/get comfortable/itch/pe.e without hitting/pinching/biting/kicking me."

I know she'll get it back, but I'm not truly convinced that knowledge is making this any easier or less heart-breaking. Right now all I can think of is how very, very much I'd like someone else to clean my new whirlpool tub for me so I can sink into it down to my eyes and not come out, ever. Or until the water's cold.

But I can't.

Because Princess is asking for the sixth time for the location of  the paint I told her I packed and moved to the new house. She's trying really hard to make a different answer come out of my mouth, and I don't think she's going to give up any time soon.