finslippy

Why you should not fear Five.

I do not wish to terrify my friends who live with children under five, or don't have any kids yet. I certainly don't want them to make life-altering changes due to my outbursts. Do not worry, friends! All is not horror and shrieking when the child becomes five! No, the five-year-old, at least the one at our house, often exhibits many charming and lovable behaviors. I would even say that these behaviors cancel out the awfulness, so even if you're exhausted and enraged, Five can turn it all around, sometimes within minutes. That's why we keep them around.

This is a small sampling of the Charms of Five. I'm sure there are more, but then, we're still three weeks away from official Five-dom:

1. He likes to be a helper. (Uh, usually.) Want someone to set the table? Five will do it! Need your surfaces dusted? Hand your five-year-old a damp cloth and he'll get to work! If you're having dinner and Five announces that he wants another glass of milk, guess who can go get it his own damn self? That would be Five! As long as you don't mind poorly folded napkins, dust streaks on most everything, and the occasional milk puddle, this new Helper is a wonderful person to have in the house. Especially if you're incredibly lazy, as I am.

2. He's a deep thinker. Five will ask many questions about, say, hypnosis (he didn't get it from me! I blame children's programming); when you answer them, he'll ask relevant and probing follow-ups. ("You mean it's like your brain is taken over? Can you make someone do whatever you want them to do?") Suddenly you realize you're having a conversation. With your child! It feels sort of miraculous.

3. He's ridiculously fun. One day your child's humor is relegated to poop jokes and puzzling squeaky noises, and the next he's performing uncanny impersonations of friends and family. He's rolling his eyes at you and uttering bon mots that you can't write down fast enough. And he can perform dance moves that leave you weak with laughter. When you walk to school, you don't just walk, you Leap Over Pools of Lava while Running From Double Agents. This, FYI, is an excellent way to get to school on time.

4. You can share cool things with Five. You can read books you remember loving when you were little; you can watch moviesand shows that don't make you want to retch into your cupped hands. No more television shows whose plots revolve around a loose shoelace or a broken cup. (Goodbye, Miffy, and GOOD RIDDANCE.) You can browse the Internet together for funny images. (If you want to make Five crack up, find pictures of hairless cats. You're welcome.)

5. He goes to SCHOOL. And then you can have some time to yourself, and get some work done, and also remember why Five isn't all bad.

An open letter to five-year-olds.

Listen up, jerks. You may think your place in the household is secure, but your parents have had it with you, and are seriously considering some drastic changes. Like maybe a move to a Preschooler-Free Household. Yeah, that's right. One of these mornings you might just find your Thomas Suitcase all packed up on the doorstep. Your parents will tell you there's an AWESOME SURPRISE waiting for you outside, and once you're out there, oopsie, the door locked behind you! And why aren't they answering the door? And what's that cab pulling up the driveway?

Oh, don't give me that look, with the big wet eyes. All right, probably they won't do that. Or definitely. Definitely they won't do that. Okay? Pull yourself together. But sometimes they dream of it, and do you want them thinking of you like that? No, right? You're staring at me blankly, so either you agree or you don't understand a word I'm saying. While I have your attention, here are some behaviors you might want to avoid in the future:

1. Whining. Bad idea, short stuff. I don't know when you first learned the super-smartastic lesson that making a sound like the air being slowly let out of a balloon will cause your parents to finally see your point. In fact, all they can hear is EEEEEEEE. All they can think is "Where's that suitcase of his?"

2. Talking. As in, that much. Yes you're witty and brilliant and yes your parents sometimes enjoy hearing of your Lego Batman Adventures in Prehistoric Space, but the occasional pause would serve you well. For instance, when your mom is calling the bank and she gets one of those automated voice-activated menus. The kind that respond to YES and NO, not MOM HEY MOM LISTEN HOW BATMAN EXCAPED THE ROBOTRONIC DINO-RAPTOR.

3. Behaving in a nutty fashion. News flash: sometimes your parents think you're a complete loon. Like when you're tired but instead of sitting quietly or GOING TO BED LIKE YOU CLEARLY NEED TO, you leap from room to room, alternately wailing piteously and cackling with mirth. Then when your parents sensibly try to direct you upstairs you engage in multiple wacky pratfalls until you finally injure yourself. And blame your parents for your injuries.

4. Baby talk. There was a time when you talked like a baby, and you're not in that time anymore. You can't fake it. It's not charming when you try. You like to combine it with the whining. No one else likes it. See how your mom is shuddering? Okay. Let's move on.

5. "Again!" Here's the thing: if something happens that was fun, we get that you enjoyed it. And that you wish you could freeze that moment in time and replay it as many times as you want. Unfortunately, you cannot. So when your mom hangs you upside-down by the feet and you're greatly amused, and you ask for it again, maybe she can do it one or two more times. But after the fifth time, her spine begins to give out. And when you're issuing threats and caterwauling because you can't do that fun upside-down thing a 37th time, you've pretty much sapped the fun out of the experience, and also caused your parents to think twice about ever engaging with you, in any way, until the end of time. Let it go.

There are 17 other behaviors we need to address, but this is a good beginning for now. If you make an honest attempt to improve yourself in the ways I've outlined above, your place in the home might remain secure. Of course I can't promise anything. And no, you can't have a cookie. No, I said. Not now. No. No. Okay, just one.

It'll all be better soon. Right? Right. Right!

Why yes, my upper back and shoulders ARE seizing up, thank you for asking! How could you tell? The way I keep leaning my head against one shoulder and then the other, wincing in pain, pawing at my shoulders like that's going to help anything? I guess that's a giveaway! Or was it when I shrieked MY BACK HURTS when my husband asked why I was muttering and gasping as I poured coffee? Husbands! They mean well!

Why do my shoulders hurt, you ask? Could it be because I'm owed almost four thousand dollars from a client who has owed me since March? And with the combination of my whopping dentist bills (thanks, cardboard teeth!) and an unexpected contractor visit, we now have no money? And the first preschool payment is due? And last night my husband informed me that WE CAN'T AFFORD PRESCHOOL just as I was attempting to drop off to sleep? And instead of sleeping I stared at the ceiling, clenching my jaw, plotting ways to make lots of money real fast? COULD THAT BE WHY?

No, I'm sure it's something else.

Hey, here's my Wonderland post for this week. Which I wrote at 1 a.m. last night, shortly before heading down to the basement and climbing on Henry's old rocking horse, whispering there must be more money into its fuzzy ears for a few hours. (It didn't work, by the way. Henry's rocking horse is only concerned with how pretty he is, wouldn't give me even a single tip for OTB. Never take advice from D.H. Lawrence. What's that you say? What's a "cautionary tale"? Can't hear you over the whispering house. And the literary references end...now.)

Next week, Henry's in school all day, every day. (Which we can't afford! Ha ha! Ow!) Although I should be working hard, I will more likely be cavorting about town, skipping and singing and making an ass out of myself. I'll probably see this guy doing the same thing. Only I'll be sober.

Okay, less drunk.

Shhhhh. Just...shhhhh.

Every other child in this area, and apparently on God's green earth, has started school already. Every child, except for Henry. And, presumably, Henry's schoolmates. Henry's school starts tomorrow.

We have spent two full weeks together. The first week was jam-packed with fun as his many friends were also out of school, and there was much merriment and pool-going and beach adventures and etc. But now all his friends are in school, and Henry has turned to me for companionship. And boy howdy, I love my kid, but he talks ALL THE TIME. He narrates everything he's doing. Everything. I often delight in his extensive vocabulary and the stuff he comes up with is often so clever and adorable I'm weak with love, but then he keeps talking and talking and talking and whoops I just jammed a fork into my ears. If he can't think of something to say he launches into a stream of nonsense words. I admit that I can get pretty voluble when I'm in the mood, but when I have nothing to say I don't shout BOOP BEE BOOP while throwing myself to the ground and slapping my head.

Okay, sometimes I do that.

As I was typing the above Henry joined me at the dining room table. He can spend only a few minutes playing by himself until the need to share his ongoing adventures overcomes him. Here, verbatim, as it pours from his mouth—or as I call it, his sound-hole—is an excerpt from Henry's narrative as he shoves a Transformer under my nose: "It has a magic glider with a horse, and a shirt and that shirt is magic. And it also has robotical powers for him. Is that cool sounding? Is that cool sounding? Isn't that cool sounding?"

Yes, son. It's cool sounding.

Adding insult to emotional injury, this new school of his features a ridiculous, painfully drawn-out phase-in. I can appreciate the thinking behind the phase-in, but they haven't taken into account that I AM LOSING MY MIND. The first day is thirty minutes. THIRTY. I will drop him off, head home, open the door, close the door, and head right back. Or I will sit in my car and chew gum. I will bet that my gum will not have lost its flavor by the time school's done. The second day? 45 minutes. Maybe I'll have to move on to a second stick of gum by then. Maybe I'll choose a different flavor, mix things up a little. Wheee! The days continue like that until Friday, when he stays for enough time that I could possibly run home to write an email and toast a waffle. If I eat the waffle while composing the email I might be able to pee before heading back out! Jubilee!

"Know where these two people went? Do you know? Do you know, Mama? The guy went into his own mind with one of his friends. He went into his own mind. The robot went into his own mind. He went into his own mind with one of his friends. SHHHHOOOOOOOOoooooooooooop."

So in other words, school doesn't actually begin until next week. School, by the way, being pre-school, because I was stupid enough to birth my child on October 7th, when the cut-off date for kindergarten in New Jersey is October 1st; no, they won't put him into kindergarten, there are no exceptions, yes, I CHECKED. And frankly I'm not too broken up about him spending an extra year in preschool. He's probably ready in-tee-lek-shully for kindergarten but physically he's a teeny bit behind, and every year he's been the youngest in his class and has literally been unable to catch up to his classmates as they race circles around him. (Of course the fact that he wants to stop and comment on everything doesn't help him move any faster. Here's Henry at the playground: "Wow, you sure can climb those monkey bars! I would climb them but I don't know how and anyway I don’t really want to learn. But you're doing great! You're almost at the end now! And hey, now you're running and you run really fast! I'm going to run too! Hey, wait up! I'm following you!")

Also, the public school kindergarten here is a half-day. It ends at 11:30. That is too early. So even though we can't eat because of all the money we're paying for preschool, at least he's there until 3 p.m. Of course not this week.

"Look at this guy, I tied him up pretty good. I tied him up with a special magic rope. He's a cryto-robber. Look at this guy, see? Are you looking? Look at this guy, look how I tied him up? Do you see it? Look. Look! Look at how I tied him up? Are you looking?"

I may have raised my voice a teeny bit with that last one. YES I SEE HIM GREAT WHATEVER. I'm losing it. I just gave him three Fig Newtons, because at least then he'll be quiet. Right? Wrong.

"I turned my Fig Newton into a boot. I bited it and it looks like a boot. See? Now I'm eating the boot. Now it's a car. See? See? Now I'm eating it. Now it's the wind. Because I ate it all? See? See how it's the wind? See?"

Dear school: please start. Thank you. Love, Alice.

P.S.: Hey, look: a Wonderland post from last week! Do you see? Look! Look! Look! Look! See? Do you see? Look!