Growing pains

The class of 2011 graduates tomorrow. I will not be there, because I will be getting ready for my little girl's birthday party. Her first real birthday party with friends her age, in fact -- not to minimize the delight of the equally wonderful family parties we've had since she turned one. Still, it feels like a milestone. There will be a bunch of little kids running around, and there will be cake and ice cream and Backyardigans decorations and presents, and the best part is that it will not be at my house. Suzannah loves gymnastics class so much that we booked a party for her at The Little Gym, and maybe we are paying too much and maybe it is not the most original thing in the entire world, but the appeal of turning over the games and entertainment -- not to mention the set-up and clean-up -- to a couple of friendly and energetic gymnastics coaches who seem to genuinely delight in such chaos was too great to resist. I will be there with my camera and my smile and my bursting heart.

(I'd planned to go to graduation, really. But we ended up bumping back the date of Suzannah's party for a couple of reasons, and secretly, I'm sort of relieved -- I love watching "my" kids walk across the stage, I love hugging them afterwards, and I'm usually glad to be there, but I don't love graduation traffic, and graduation ceremonies themselves are excruciatingly boring, for the most part. You know it's true. It's why Carmen and I always drove to Barnes and Noble for reading material to prop on our music stands before graduation at Concordia. We probably did that for our own graduation. But I really do love you, Class of 2011.)

My girl, my lovely little girl. She is five years old now, and so spoiled that she is celebrating her birthday two weeks after the fact.

So anyway, here we are, on the cusp of a beautiful summer -- a beautiful time to be a mom, especially if one is lucky to have time off to enjoy it. Summers with my children mean lazy afternoons in the backyard, splashing in sprinklers and swimming pools. It means walks to the park, hard play and sweat, and a constant sheen of sunscreen. Trips to the zoo, the aquarium. Swimming lessons, maybe Kindermusik again. It means reading books without the worry that I should be grading papers, going for evening runs, and learning how to make a perfect black bean burger that holds together on the grill. One more week of teaching, and all this is mine.

Isaac is old enough to really play outside now. Last summer he and I did a lot of sitting on a blanket while Suzannah pranced through the sprinkler and splashed in her pool, but now that he's a sturdy little walking fellow who loves the backyard, we'll all be in on the fun. I only hope there's enough yard for both of them, as Suzannah has become a bit territorial lately. Not that this is especially new; as soon as Isaac was old enough to take any interest at all in baby toys, Suzannah developed a renewed interest in, say, the soft cloth blocks she hadn't even glanced at since 2007. ("But they're mine," she said as she hustled them off to her room.)

This morning I glanced in the rear-view mirror at my two kids in the back seat. Suzannah was draped over the side of her seat, her arm extended almost to her brother's seat.

"Mom, Isaac's touching me. He scratched my arm," she complained.

"Well," I said, "maybe you should move your arm."

"But I was here first."

And like, what am I even supposed to do with that? Reason with her? (This is the point at which my mother would like to remind me about all the times I complained about my brother taking up more than his fair share in the back seat, although I still maintain my complaint was totally legit as he would fall asleep with his head on the armrest in the middle, and that clearly violated the "each kid gets half of the arm rest" rule that I tried to enforce with absolutely no help, but nevermind, this isn't about that.)

Anyway, Isaac is persistent and is learning to hold his own with his big sister. He uses all of his rough-and-tumble boy-ness to his advantage; he's not afraid to grab, to pull, to push, to throw, and to bellow at the top of his lungs just because he can. And if that doesn't work, he has this terribly tragic routine in which he throws himself facedown on the floor and sobs pitifully, sometimes kicking his legs for good measure. It's especially tragic when he forgets to wait until he's on the soft carpet of the family room floor instead of the less forgiving kitchen floor, which tends to leave a red mark on his forehead during his more enthusiastic tantrums. ("There goes Calculus," Matt and I mutter to each other.) But he's also my sweet, sweet little snuggler, who often waddles over to throw his arms around my legs and look up into my face and just beam. And he climbs into my lap and wraps his arms around my neck and hugs, really hugs, with back-patting and everything, and that is just too much. When he does that, I turn to my husband and say, "He's still my baby, right? He's still little? I really still need him to be my Little."

Matt rolls his eyes (although I think sometimes he tries not to be obvious about this) and says, yes, Baby, Isaac is still a baby. He's still Your Little. At least, you know, compared to some things. He's still smaller than Suzannah. Kind of. And your students.

And whatever spats Isaac and Suzannah have throughout the day, what never changes is how protective she is, and how proud. How she will announce to anyone who will listen, to anyone she is meeting for the first time, that she has a brother. She is a Sister. And every night when I carry Isaac to bed, she insists that I carry him to her first so she can kiss the top of his head with its goofy little cowlick and hug him and say, "Aw, look. I made him happy."