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Until I had an almost-five year old,
I did not realize that I am the
stupidest person in the universe.
Before you get your pen out to write a letter about the word “stupid”
and how small children shouldn’t say it, etc., rest assured that we
have made it clear that this particular s-word is not permitted in the
house when said as an insult. We do have some standards.
Still, it is abundantly clear that even though the Diva refrains from
saying “stupid,” that she is thinking it. Somewhere during the last six
months, she became an expert on more or less everything. I’m treating
this as a warm up for those dreaded teen years, but without all of the
eye rolling.
The hints about her feelings vis a vis my stupidity started during an
episode of Dora. It could also have been Go, Diego, Go or Blue’s Clues,
since most of these shows have melted into one giant kid-friendly blob
full of maps and puppies and rescue packs and flying monkeys and
tie-dye. Which is, incidentally, the way I also envision the ‘60s.
Regardless, it was during an episode of one of those shows that stops
periodically to direct a question to the camera, like “Where do we go
next?” or “does that sound like a baby llama?” or “why is there
peanut
butter on the cat?” Given that I have seen every blessed episode of
each of these shows more times than is allowed under the Geneva
Convention, I helpfully shouted out the answer from the kitchen, where
I was while trying to get peanut butter off of the cat.
“Mo-ther,” came the voice from the living room, “ I already know
that.”
It was uttered with such patent disdain that I briefly wondered if we
had had some major rip in the space-time continuum and moved forward
ten years. Based on the tone, I could just see the teen she will
become, pink-haired and lounging on the couch with a phone in her hand,
which she has pressed against her chest so that her friend doesn’t hear
how foolish I am. And, yes, in this vision of the future, the Diva
looks like Avril Lavigne. No, I don’t know why.
I had to stick my head out to check that time hadn’t done something
strange. It hasn’t, for what it’s worth. But it does seem to be
speeding up.
Even when more experienced parents would assure my husband and I that
the first few months with a new baby do seem endless but that time
“just flies by” later, I thought they were full of stupid. Now, I find
myself telling new parents the exact same thing. Time, as they say,
flies more and more each day. It’s one of those things that you only
notice in hindsight or near a milestone, like “first solo playdate” or
“first time writing your name.”
Or like starting kindergarten, which the Diva will do in this fall.
Until we went to the official kindergarten registration a few weeks
ago, she was firmly against this whole turn of events, despite our
reassurances that her days would be about the same as they are now
because she goes to preschool anyway. Come fall, she’ll just be in a
different building.
But kindergarten, in her mind, simply became a change and change is bad
in Divaland. She had reached a point where she was telling everyone who
asked that yes, she was going to be five soon and yes, she didn’t want
to be five because she’d have to start school but no, there wasn’t much
she could do about it. Then she’d sigh, like the weight of every last
Wiggle was pushing on her shoulders.
Admittedly, she was excited on K-garten registration day, which is
where she’d get to see her school, meet some of her teachers and run
around on the playground. We figured the hardest part would be the
small batch of tests that the rising kindergarteners do, which they
have to do by themselves. Both my husband and I had visions of prying
her fingers off of our calves while she shrieked. Which would, of
course, put her in some weird remedial program for weird kids who
shriek.
That worry was for nothing, as most of our worries turn out to be. She
skipped off when her name was called. Skipped, I tell you.
Mostly, the Diva’s newfound joy for this change is because her best
friend O. is going to the same school and will most likely be in the
same class. This wasn’t a new bit of information. I’ve been telling the
Diva this for months. Still, when O. walked in for her appointment, the
Diva said, “O. is going here, too!” as if the idea had never even
occurred to her and that I was the stupidest mom ever for not having
figured this out already.
Now that she’s been there, kindergarten can’t come fast enough. Some
mornings, she wakes up and asks if today’s the day. It will be soon,
especially since she looks just a little bit older with each sunrise.
When she lets me put some barrettes in her hair, I swear that I can see
the woman that she’ll be in her face. She looks a lot like my mother,
and, I suppose, me. And one day, if she is very lucky, she’ll have a
daughter who thinks she’s stupid, too.
About the Author:
Adrienne Martini has been a theatre technician, apprentice
massage therapist, bookstore bookkeeper and pizza joint waitress. Eventually,
someone started paying her for her words and an editorial mercenary was
born. She has written theatre reviews and features for the Austin
Chronicle, blurbs about tofurkey and bottled water for Cooking Light and
a piece about knitting summer camp for Interweave Knits. She is
a former editor for Knoxville, Tennessee's Metro Pulse and
recently picked up an AAN award for feature writing. In July 2006, her first
book Hillbilly Gothic: A Memoir of Madness and Motherhood will be
published. During the day, she fields freelance gigs and crams
knowledge into the heads of college students in Upstate New York. At all
hours, she is mom to Maddy and Cory, and wife to Scott.
