Today you did not want to go to school. I know this because you yelled "I DO NOT WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL!" several times. You picked out a shirt to wear, but then refused to select any other articles of clothing to go with it.
"You really need to wear pants," I told you. "Or a skirt." See how accommodating I can be?
"NO!" you screamed.
"How about a tank top under your shirt?" I asked, like a glutton for punishment. You threw things.
"Hmmm," I said, after many, many minutes of this. "This tank top is sparkly."
You got quiet.
"Do you want to wear this sparkly tank top?" I asked.
"And I will call you Miss Sparkle?"
"Miss Sparkle, would you like to wear underpants and jeans?"
And just like that, we were dressed and out the door. I know that you like school. When I come to pick you up in the afternoon, you run up to me, thrilled to tell me about what you have been doing. Although your information is questionable at best. I don't really think you had soup with parrots for lunch last Thursday. You do seem to be picking up some Italian, and you are constantly asking things like "What is stork in Italian?" "What is rice cake in Italian? "What is Pops in Italian?"
Dad and I are going to our very first parent/teacher conference tomorrow afternoon, and I plan to use the time to find out what you really do for four hours every Tuesday and Thursday. I know what you do with the rest of your time. You have a new keyboard and you like to play it constantly. This basically means that you hit the button that runs the song bank, and then you stand up and spin around while the keyboard plays Ode to Joy and Yankee Doodle. Our dear friend Amanda was here this weekend and she introduced us to some new music, including Elizabeth Mitchell and Harper Simon, son of Paul. You made her play their songs over and over and over. Another new favorite is the Putamayo Italian Cafe. You sing along on the way to school, which is hilarious, because you are basically just making Italian sounding noises.
There is more to say. Always. But for now I will leave it at that and spend some time watching the Democratic National Convention speeches with Dad.
Sleep well, Miss Sparkle. I love you.