My big kid graduated from Kindergarten today. I was a sobbing mess while the kids walked down the aisle to some Taylor Swift song chosen specially for its ability to get me from standard-issue-proud to snot-nosed teary mess in ten seconds flat. Enough so that Mr. T had to operate the camera. She is just simply not allowed to be that big.
I am also freshly downstairs from putting said big kid to bed. This past week has found me dancing around the house to my own personal rendition of, “I like big planters and I cannot lie,” while Ellie sings back-up. Planting is going so fast, you guys. I love it. Bring on the debt. I will sell my soul to Case IH. Big planters mean Mr. T will be home again soon. But, in the meantime, I have a little question: it’s not being taken advantage of if you’re totally in on it, right? Because the secret I’ve been keeping from Mr. T is that while he has been gone, Ellie’s bedtime has lasted longer than it should. Like, by an hour? We’re cool… right?
She’ll ask me to read her just one more story. And I will. And it gives me all the guilty pleasure that I might get from watching one of my famously bad indie or foreign films that I love to indulge in when I know Mr. T is too far away to make fun of me. Then she’ll ask me for a song. Tonight she said, “Mama? I want a baby song. Please? Like you sing to Lorelei?” I am pretty sure my heart stopped for just a moment while it was swelling up with love and adoration for that girl snuggled next to me in the bed. So I sang her one song. And another. And another. Until looking over at the clock had me issuing an audible, “ouch,” under my breath. I regretfully thought of all the things I needed to get done before I could go to sleep for the night. I kept right on singing. She was playing me like a record, but you know what? I couldn’t find it in my heart to care.