On Traffic Lights and Red Cards: Marian at 6

It's been a big kind of week.  I mean, a really BIG kind of week.  You turned six and became a double-big sister all the in the matter of five days.  Linden Thomas (our newest addition) will be getting his own blog entry--I hope--but I will say that it was never my intention to have children born on the same week.  In the future, we will have to take this up with Linden.

For nearly the entire year, you have spent more time away from home during daylight hours than you have spent with me.  This was hard to get used to at first;  our mornings went from fairly laid-back affairs, to a more military-style grab, eat and go, complete with me barking orders regarding shoe choices, tooth brushing and hair ties.  The pace of our mornings has something to do with the fact that you turned into the world's best sleeper this year and sometimes getting you out of the cozy comforter could be a challenge.   So, I have few complaints about the pace of our mornings because it means that at least one of us is sleeping soundly through the night.

In my last post about kindergarten I was pretty sure that there would be days you would throw a fit about going to school.  That never happened.   Perhaps the best part of our day, the walk to school, was never complicated by you digging in your heels and refusing to go.  Usually, you were digging your heels into a mud puddle, examining flowers or birds along the path or dragging a stick behind you slowly.  So while our walks to school were generally the best part of our day together, they were, by no means, peaceful journeys.  Usually, we would rush out of the house with me yelling, "we're gonna be late!  That bell is going to ring!"  You were motivated by a fear of the "third bell," we almost always heard the second bell ring from the bottom of the big hill below the school.  That meant we had exactly five minutes to get you up the hill and in the building before you received a late slip.  It became a point of pride for all of us (Joseph included) that you never were late to school on a morning we walked.  In fact, the two times you received late slips, we drove to school.   When your report card showed zero tardies for the year, you and I gave each other co-conspirator smiles--we had certainly beat the system.

It was such a strange thing to hand you over to Ms. Clayton and HVES without knowing what was happening once you walked through the doors each day.  I learned to trust and you learned to be as independent as any five year old should be.  And each day, when I picked you up for the walk home, I adjusted to the fact that the details of your day would come only in fits and spurts and when you felt like sharing them.  One topic, however, that you were always willing to engage in was that of the classroom traffic light.  Each and every day I would ask (or sometimes Jojo would): "so, who got on the traffic light today?"  A name being placed on the traffic light, even the green light, meant that there had been some infraction of classroom rules.  The list of names on the traffic light were fairly predictable, with the same names popping up on a regular basis.  But not once, in the entire year, did your name end up on the traffic light.

The fact that you were the model of good behavior at school is both a point of pride for me and, if I'm honest, a little disconcerting.  You see, here at home, things can get pretty ugly.  You roll your eyes, you ignore my repeated requests to stop running while simultaneously holding onto the neckband on Joseph's t-shirt.  You throw a fit during violin lessons (oh, Suzuki, how I love thee) and can be downright obstinate.  People tell me this is all normal behavior.  But at school, you seem to be a paragon of good behavior.  Mata and Nona assure me that if a parent has to choose between good behavior at home, and good behavior in public, you always choose good behavior in public.  And I know they're right.  But I also hope that you allow a little bit of that passion and persuasion to shine at school.  Your father would probably have a coronary if he found out that you landed on the traffic light even one time (there was an "incident" in the lunch room this year when you were sent to the Assistant Principal's office with two other girls.  She sent her "precious girls" back to the lunch room with the mildest of reprimands to listen to Ms. Jack--who I have always imagined to be a kind of ogre.  You shared this story with me a month of so after the fact.  I was greatly amused, Poppa was not).

Part of my concern about you being the quiet type at school stems from the fact that I think you have so much to share.   From your earliest days I have been deeply touched by your empathetic nature.  You hate to see people hurting, physically or emotionally.  When I point out to you that an action or a few terse words may have hurt a friend's feelings, I can tell it bothers you and you usually try to fix the situation.  You are still a peacemaker among friends--and I have no doubt this trait explains your general popularity among the kindergarten set.  You seem to be friends with just about everyone--from the alpha-girl, Dylan to the shy and sweet Liam.  I love that you can walk into a room and find a friend, after you've had sufficient time to observe, of course, something you still spend a lot of time doing.

And while he's only been with us a week and a half, I already marvel at your connection to Linden.  The smile on your face when you walked into the hospital room was radiant and right away you became a protector and sweet friend to our little baby.  You shaded the sun from his eyes, made over his tiny toes and generally seemed besotted.  Because I already know something about the kind of big sister you are, I can only imagine the journey that Linden will enjoy with you by his side. 

I don't know how much you will remember of these first six years as you grow up.  But I imagine there is some part of your brain that holds onto a feeling, if not the distinct memories.  My greatest hope is that your memories/feelings are ones of comfort, where the sounds of wild giggling and the sensation of running as fast as your legs will carry you, reminds you of this time.  If you remember one good night kiss when, with tears in my eyes I told you how much I love you, that would be enough.  You are so precious to me, even when your wild spirit and rolling eyes make me want to issue red cards every night for a week.  I wouldn't change a thing, sweet girl.