She was a really good girl today at school, so I let her stay up a few extra minutes and watch a little bit of "Curious George 2: Follow That Monkey!" which she proclaims is "hilarious." She sounds just like me when she says it. So there we were, me folding laundry, her watching TV, and I started asking her about her day at school. It's been chilly and rainy and I asked what they did for recess when it rained. She said, "You mean for PE? We went with Coach Jackson to the gym because none of the other coaches were there yet."
This is my public-school big kid. She's not my baby anymore except in my mind, when I remember how tiny she used to be when she would sleep on my chest. She's not my toddler anymore except in my mind, when I remember her learning to talk and asking to be read "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" for the eleventy-millionth time. She's not my preschooler anymore except in my mind, when I remember her more or less teaching herself how to read and write and learning how to be real friends with other kids. She's the kid she's going to be for a long time, and I know that she's going to keep growing and changing and becoming ever bigger, and while I can't wait to see how she turns out, my heart almost can't take the thought of her not being exactly how she is. It's not that I want to hold her back. It's more that I regret the haze that falls over my memories, the clarity of every detail about her that I think I will retain forever that creeps away when I'm not paying attention. I remember her as a baby because I see the pictures; I remember her as a toddler because I can read my old blog posts. I remember her as a preschooler because that was just last year, but how she was then is already blurring and shifting in my memory, into the kid she is now.
So after we talked about her day and the extra reading instruction that she has in the library once a week, and after we talked about how they learned about the color purple and the fact that the daily temperature chart had been in the blue, we just hung out, her watching her movie and me folding clothes. We hung out the way I do with grownups with whom I'm comfortable, together but not talking. She's big enough to be my hangout friend.
And then she broke the spell when I told her it was time for bed and she pleaded for more time. She tried to argue that it wasn't actually late at all, and became again my 5-year-old who doesn't like to go to bed. After we brushed teeth and went potty ("But Mommy, I don't have to go potty. Oh, I guess I actually did."), when I tucked her in, she asked me to sing to her. She has always liked me to sing to her; when she was a baby I'd sing the songs from the TV shows she watched, or pop songs that I liked, or really whatever was in my head. She loved Ingrid Michaelson's "The Way I Am" and it was her lullaby for a long time- I'd sing it to her every night.
She asked for Katy Perry's "Friday Night" (which, !!!) and I told her I didn't know the words (even though I totally do, and I feel a little embarrassed admitting that), and she asked for suggestions. So I turned out the light and in the deep dusky darkness sang Paul Simon's "St. Judy's Comet" to her, which was Phoebe's lullaby for a long time. She told me her favorite part was the part about the comet sparkling in her eyes, and I had to admit it was my favorite part too.
"Mommy, I wish I were a comet."
"I don't, baby. Then you wouldn't be my big girl."
"But I'd spray diamonds! That would be awesome."
"I know, but you wouldn't be my big girl. I'm not a comet, so if you were, you wouldn't be my Caetlin."
"But comets have mommies."
"Maybe so, but it wouldn't be me."
"Mommy, if there were a bigger comet than me, and then a bigger comet than that, and then a teeny tiny comet, it would be a comet family!"
"Maybe so, sweet girl. Time for sleep. I love you. Sweet dreams."
"Mommy, maybe I'll be a girl who turns into a comet just to spray diamonds and sparkle, and then be a girl again."
"You sparkle for me just like you are, sweetheart. Night night."
"Night, Mommy. I love you."
"I love you too, sugarplum."
Things are always changing. I guess that's all we can count on out of life, that it changes and changes. She's growing up, I'm getting older, autumn approaches, literally and figuratively. I don't mean to be all Fleetwood Mac doing "Landslide" on you here, but sometimes it strikes straight to the heart of me that I'm failing to remember every single second of my children's brilliant lives. I get so caught up in the day to day, managing clothing and signed behavior sheets and healthy snacks and being Room Mom and making sure she doesn't watch too much TV and brushes her teeth and learns to be polite and good-hearted. I fail sometimes to just notice who she is. She's my beautiful comet, flying away from me every second of every day. At least I get to watch her sparkle as she goes.
