Lovelihood

It doesn't get much more momentous than this. Because for precisely as long as we've been waiting for the day that we'd be sending our kid off to Kindergarten, for as long as we've entertained the very notion of having children, I've been waiting for the day when I'd be able to hand my summer-afflicted kid an ice cream cone, even watching it tumble sadly onto the sidewalk.  Five-plus years as a parent and that day didn't come until now with The Boy and his allergies off at school and Bear dictating her very own expedition at the zoo. She liked it.

The Boy's been pretty calm and nerve-free about this Kindergarten thing. And we convinced ourselves that bringing the camera and making a huge deal out of the first day (even if it is legitimately a huge deal) might jinx the whole deal and send him into a leg-clinging stupor. So we settled with a few poorly timed camera-phone shots and spent the rest of the day regretting not having the camera. But at the end of the day The Boy uncrumpled from his backpack a self portrait. With yellow hair. The caption, pre-printed at the bottom in Comic Sans: This is me on the first day of Kindergarten!

The Boy's school supply list was, at once, so small and so specific as to make the business of supply shopping, what should be a most holy, joyous occasion, to be kind of a bummer. Two erasers, a dozen glue sticks, the most basic of pencils, standard-issue markers, a ream of paper. Not exactly much to spark first-day-of-school excitement. Still, as I was packing up The Boy's bag this night, the last of his pre-school life, the smell of #2 Dixon Ticonderogas was an undeniable reminder that school is about to happen.

Last month we were in attendance at an Angry Birds themed birthday party, that, to this day, The Boy refers to as the best party ever. And the Angry Birds kick, which predates the party, has only intensified since then, culminating in his desire for actual little angry birds to hurl at smug little piggies. So we pulled out our homemade playdough and rolled out some piggies. In all honesty, though, they haven't survived the oven curing process, inards pooling out from weak points in the architecture. So, next time, we'll make a greater effort to find the stuff you're actually supposed to stick in the oven. But at least there was this picture.

The Thing for the Kindergarten set, it seems, is ownership and mastery of one of those scooters, basically a skinny skateboard with handlebars. The Boy's a couple allowance payouts from affording the basic model, and our weekend quest to find one at a consigment or thrift store yielded us a big fat goose egg. Which gives us a little more time to fit in cycling lessons before he abandons the entire idea for the freedom of non-pedaled transportation.

There is a donut here called a Pink Feather Boa. It's the Mr.'s donut of choice, fitting for someone whose favored drink is the Scarlet O'Hara. By the time The Boy and I strolled into the donutery this afternoon, they were down to a skeleton assortment of treats, and so a plain old non-pink feather boa was picked up instead.

Trapped in one of the hardwood slats that make up our floor is what looks, at a glance, like the returned glare of a crooked-snouted pig's face. I haven't given him much consideration since we moved in, perhaps because it creeps me the hell out every time I do. Like right now. Totally creeped out.