Thirty-Nine Months

Dear Persephone,

We’ve been counting down your last days of “school.” I’ve been taking you to daycare starting when you were five months old. The morning time has been our special time together. Since you don’t have to be there at any specific time, and my workday is usually flexible, we’ve had the luxury of taking a leisurely approach, and this has been a responsibility that I have relished. We take our time, we talk about all manner of things, and we share the joy of starting our day together.

All that’s about to end in a few days. You’ll have the summer off with your mother, and then in the fall you’ll start going to school for real, to “Mama’s school,” where they have a pre-K3 program. Instead of riding on the bike with me, you’ll be riding in the car across the river. Instead of a leisurely beginning to the day we’ll be looking at an unforgiving clock and I predict a fair amount of chaos and stress.

So I’m doing my best to enjoy these last few days of the old routine. I’ll miss riding down the street while you ring the bell and call out, “Wake up, wake up, everybody, it’s morning times!” It’s the end of an era, and that makes me sad.

But just to prove I’m not an overly sentimental fool, I also have to report that this past month has been tough. You are really at the height of the so-called “first adolescence.” At least I hope it’s the height. You are stubborn to the point of pigheadedness. For example, tonight Xy was making a quick run to the store, and she was going to take you along. You wouldn’t put your shoes on, and so Xy left without you. That sounds simple enough in the retelling, but oh, the drama. The tears. The yelling. The hitting. After Xy left, you finally put your shoes on, but of course it was too late. I’d hoped you might learn something from this incident but I’m not sure you’re quite able to yet. It ain’t easy being three.

A week ago, after some long, drawn-out conflict (over what I can’t even remember) I told you that I love you, and you said that I didn’t. You maintained that you loved me, and you loved Mama, but that we didn’t love you. Now that you’re over that particular fit of pique, you still say from time to time, “Nobody loves me.” I don’t know that you believe it. I don’t think you do. But I think you enjoy the way it sounds. Anyway, you sure know how to hurt a guy.

So as not to end this note on downer, I’ll recount something you said to me at Aidan’s five-year birthday party last night. You got in the jumpy castle, and you were jumping up and down with the other kids, and you turned to me and said, “Dada, can you sing that song that goes, ‘Bounce for the Juvenile?'”

That Magnolia project keep slangin’ iron
A bunch of Uptown villains who don’t mind dyin’
That Melpomene project keep slangin’ iron
A bunch of Uptown villains who don’t mind dyin’
That Calliope project keep slangin’ iron
A bunch of Uptown villains who don’t mind dyin’
That St. Thomas project keep slangin’ iron
A bunch of front of town villains who don’t mind dyin’
That 13th Ward keep slangin’ iron
A bunch of Uptown villains who don’t mind dyin’
That 9th Ward posse keep slangin’ iron
A bunch of Downtown villains who don’t mind dyin’

Now bounce for the Juvenile, bounce for the Juvenile
Bounce baby, bounce, bounce, bounce
I said bounce for the Juvenile, bounce for the Juvenile
Bounce baby, bounce, bounce, bounce

I was happy to oblige even though I felt like Steve Zahn on Treme.

Oh, and several weeks ago you requested “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” as your bedtime lullaby.