Raising Her Hand

Last week, the girls were fancy-free on Spring Break. They played all day long. I didn’t worry about bringing them all over town to entertain them. Their imaginations were in full bloom and some days I rarely saw or heard from them all day, even though we were in the same house. They were just busy playing and creating inside and out.

Playing, exploring, and putting on plays.

 

Come Sunday, we were hardly ready to go back to school and really hadn’t adjusted to the time change, but as we tucked two giggly girls into bed, I stood back and looked at Ella. I swear, she grew over break. Not just physically. Granted, as I took in her once small body, all I could see were arms and legs. The baby cheeks are gone, she’s now a gangly girl with bright eyes and a big smile. But in the last few days, I’d noticed her diction and enunciation was better, and I shrugged it off as, “her speech therapy is really working.” She was writing actual legible words (and using kindergarten spelling) and it made sense and I could actually decipher the letters, and again, I shrugged it off as, “she’s really learning a lot in Kindergarten.”

Monday, she was back at school. Remember how I said we hadn’t adjusted to the time change over break? Well, I got a note that a certain girl was dozing off on the carpet at school. On Tuesday, after more rest, I got an amazing note in her planner.

Umm, okay? What’s the big deal about raising your hand? That’s what you do in school. But that’s not what Ella does in school. In fact over break, she point blank, out of the blue told us, “I don’t raise my hand in class.” When asked why, she replied, “Because then Ms. Ciccolella would call on me.” Yeah…that’s how that goes. However, she doesn’t realize that teachers are sneaky and will still call on you even when your hand isn’t up. We learn that in teacher school.

Needless to say, I was very excited by this note and was sure to tell Ella I was proud that she had raised her hand. But then, I got a phone call from her teacher. Mainly to tell me that Ella’s forgotten coat and book were at school (a relief, since parts of her wardrobe are typically left on the bus on any given day). But then I heard the report that Ella must have raised her hand at least 25 times. She was on fire, knew the answers, and Ms. Ciccolella was so impressed by this, she was going to extend the lesson to the following day to see if Ella would continue her exuberance.

She’s truly growing every which way. Physically, cognitively, emotionally…it’s all there.

This week, our neighborhood welcomed a new baby. It made me reflective of all of those firsts the new parents will have to look forward to, but also made me ache for the lasts. Sure, there are the lasts that we were aware of: the last newborn sized diapers, the last time in the high chair, the last bottle. But I’m more focused on the lasts that we don’t know. Think about it. There was a last time you sat in your mom’s lap. You and she probably don’t know when that was, and you probably didn’t know at the time it was the last. But eventually, your legs got too long and your body too heavy. The last time you wiped up spit-up (hard to believe, but there was a last time!) The last bedtime story. The last time getting your hair washed by a parent. The last time you played in your childhood sandbox. The last time you were picked up and carried by your mom or dad. As I infrequently hoist a heavy Ella into my arms, the physical reminder of her age is there. Obviously, the whole point of this parenting thing is to launch them into the world as fully functioning, competent people who ideally don’t need help in the bathroom, can stomach a sandwich crust or take care of it themselves, and can buckle their own seatbelt. I love seeing the growth, the firsts, but I’m quietly mourning the silent lasts and I stare at awe at my girl: all arms and legs, one missing tooth, reading books on her own, bearing a strong personal sense of fashion, riding the bus to and from school, eating lunch with her peers at a table that is not mine. There she goes…time is slipping away.

And then, as I’m in the midst of forming this post in my head the past week, I sneak in to the girls’ room in the dark of the early morning to wake Ella for school and find my girl cuddling her lovie. My heart can’t help but swell at the sight, and I can’t help but rudely wake her with a camera flash. Sometimes, a mom needs evidence that their baby is still there.