On her third day of preschool this week, Emma cried.

She didn't whack her knee and wasn't forced to eat a ham sandwich. She wasn't picked on by a bully or unhappy with the puzzle choices and didn't fall off the teeter-totter. Nor was she pining for Adam or I.

She was, however, missing Grandma.

Adam's mom arrived last night, and Emma tackled her as she came through security. And she didn't let go while we waited for Abby's luggage or hiked to the car. She kept her arms wrapped securely around Grandma's neck.

Grandma read Em's bedtime books and Grandma did the nightly cuddle. (A pretty big deal, since Emma usually insists Adam and I do it, even if Grandma's here.) The first words of out of Emma's mouth at 7:15 this morning were, "Where's Grandma?"

She went off to preschool excited this morning, but told me as soon as I picked her up that she'd cried. She wanted to come home, to be with Grandma. Of course, she soon got distracted by the visiting artist and the snakes someone (please let it be a zoologist or biologist or herpetologist, not just "some boys and their grandpa," as Emma told me) brought in. And she got a "tattoo" of a snake painted on her arm, chronicling all the fun of the morning. So she's glad she stayed. But she did tell us again and again over lunch how sad she'd been.

I feel bad for both of them every time Grandma has to get back on the plane to Phoenix. (And not a little sorry for Adam and I, who don't have the luxury of a free babysitter or emergency pick-her-upper nearby.) But every visit, even those that are only two days, like this one, is special. Em's a lucky kid. And I'm a lucky daughter-in-law.

Something is rotten in Norman.

Specifically, somewhere in my Saturn wagon.

When soon as I opened the doors to load Em up yesterday morning, the stench hit us. Adam said it smelled like the upholstery had gotten wet (a smell he knows well, given that he's always in the process of trying to get it out of his car, which means it gets rained in while he's got the windows open to air it out). I disagree that it's the moldy smell, though, and I know nothing has gotten wet. Still, I've sniffed all the seats and floorboards ( it's very dignified to be on my hands and knees, nose pressed to the carpet) and can't figure out where it's coming from.

And letting it cook in the Oklahoma sun all day just makes it that much worse. I can't leave my windows down at work, either, because I park about a half mile away. And I'm in the basement, so I can't see when it starts to rain -- which at this time of year could be any given afternoon -- even if I wanted to sprint and roll the windows up.

I've looked under all the seats, suspecting I'd find some rotting food (though Emma usually only consumes snacks in the car, stuff like animal crackers and raisins, which aren't known for their odors). No go. My next move is to pull up the carpet in the trunk and look around the wheel well. And to pop the hood and see if a rodent has crawled in there and died.

We've been letting it air out in the safety of the garage, but as soon as the windows go back up, the smell returns. Yay. Emma's theory is that a skunk somehow crawled inside and sprayed it. As I have no desire to give my seats a tomato-juice bath, I'm glad that's not the funk I'm smelling.

I just wish I knew what it was and how to get rid of it. And if it's not gone by Sunday, I may go in for an oil change and wash and hope someone else can figure it out.

This is not my usual thing ... but Dwayne tagged me, and I can't be a good sport and not play along, particularly since he's sending folks my way.

So, tag. You're it.

Go forth and tag more.

I had a first date yesterday.

With a hairstylist.

And if that's going to be my metaphor, I've got a handful of one-night stands in my past, many of which left me burned (and in one case, my scalp specifically). I've also had two less-than-perfect long-term relationships. In one, I was often stood up or left waiting, without even a phone call. I put up with it, though, because she left me satisified.

In the other, I had to do the chasing. She was often hard to reach, unavailable, a long drive away at inconvenient times. But again, I put up with it because she was worth it. I finally gave up this week, though, when she didn't return my call. If she doesn't want me, I can find someone else. Can't I?

Flipping through the phone book was like reading the personals. I didn't even have a friend to set me up ... I had to judge on appearances: a pretty logo here, a convenient location there.

And while it wasn't the most thrilling two hours of my life, it wasn't a bust, either. She was quiet, but given that I've had to listen to more personal details over foil wraps than my best friend would share, that's not necessarily a bad thing. Discretion is the better part of valor and all. I have to admit I was a little bored. I can only make so many conversational gambits before giving up entirely. But, you know, maybe she's shy. We'd just met, after all.

She deserves big props, at least, because it wasn't a disaster. I'd put off the call for weeks, just afraid to make the first move. I've been let down so many times before.

So will I call her again? I need some second opinions and a few days to think it over. But probably, yes. Because it's easier than starting fresh, yet again.

I'm like many women. Sometimes the worst thing is no relationship at all.

As near as I can tell, I walked in on the only mishap of Em's first day of preschool.

Director: Hi! Emma B's mom is here! (It does make me sad that she's already got to go by an initial. That wouldn't have happened if we'd named her Harper. Of course, it boggles my mind to now think she could've been anything but Emma.) Where's Emma B?
Assistant: In the napping house.
Director (in a panic, running for the other building): She's not supposed to nap! Emma B isn't supposed to nap! Emma M naps!

As the director returned with Emma, she assured me, "She wasn't sleeping." I told her I'd have been shocked if she had been. In the car, as I asked Em if she was quiet while the other kids slept, she said no. "I was talking." "To who?" "To myself. I couldn't sleep. The teacher forgot to read me a book and she didn't do ANY of my home routine!" (Aww, she called it a routine.)

Emma's account of her day:

She had rice, green beans and pineapples for lunch. She didn't eat the pineapples. (And no leading questions could help me figure out what the rice was. Surely not just plain white rice, but Em swears there was no chicken or meat or anything else.)

She had "cheese melted in something" for a snack. A biscuit, we determined through questioning.

She did not make a caterpillar or paint, even though the director told me she had. "I chose puzzles," Emma said. She says she couldn't "fix the one with the hot air balloon. It didn't work."

She did not play with any boys, only girls. But she couldn't tell me the girls' names. Or any of the teachers', for that matter.

A teacher read "a bug book."

"There was no counting, no ABCs or dancing."

She pottied twice, and the teacher who tried to have her sleep helped her pull up her panties each time.

Her favorite part of the day: Running across the bridge on the playground, over and over. And the "TWO sets of teeter-totters" were a big hit.

Her least favorite: "There were no bad parts. I loved the whole day. I LOVE PRESCHOOL.

permalink Posted by Lori @ 2:14 PM

Well, Emma's there, at preschool. Adam and I dropped her off (coming in to fill out a form and ask just a few more questions), and then I took him back home before coming in to work. And I was able to handle it all without puking, though my stomach is still a little unsure about the proposition.

Emma seemed fine, even though she protested, "But I don't want you to leave" a few times. The look on her face as we walked out the door nearly killed me, but I kept walking. They were about to go outside, so I'm sure if the tears came at all, they were brief.

More thoughts on the subject at DotMoms.

And more later, I'm sure, when I know how the day went (for both of us).

What a perfect summer weekend. We crammed in lots of things, but still had time to do stuff around the house, read and rest. I need that extra weekend day every week (though I should've put more thought into how to explain Memorial Day before I mentioned it to Emma).

It really does feel like summer around here. Adam and I've been playing board games (notably Carcassone's The Castle, much like the original only scaled specifically for two players), which is a favorite summer pastime. I'm actually happy when the spring TV season wraps up, because it means we'll have more time for games and movies in the evenings.

We had friends over for grilling and kid play. Watching Emma and Jack splash in the pool and dig in the sandbox, Cora rolling around on a quilt in the grass while the charcoal smell wafted by ... Perfect.

Sundaes and Swirls (Emma and us, respectively) on the patio of the Mont with friends. Now that's Norman in the summer.

Heck, Emma even swam with baby ducklings. In a wading pool. (Thankfully, not ours.) The neighbors of some friends rescued the pair of ducks at a gas station, wandering in and out of traffic. They set up a pool between our friends' house and theirs, and Emma was invited to play with them. The babies aren't scared at all, climbing up Emma's back to peck at the dots on her swimsuit or nibble at Adam's ankle tattoo. It was really sweet. (And potentially disease-ridden, I'm sure. The thought did cross my mind. I ignored it for the novelty.)

Our house is cleaner than it has been for months, and Adam even cleaned out the gutters and swept the roof (I can't emphasize how much of a mess our trees leave). He and I found time for a movie, I finished my book and even fit in a nap.

So if the weekend was so good ... why is there a heavy spot of dread in my chest? I can almost trace its outlines on my sunburned skin.

Preschool starts tomorrow. Yes, Emma will love it. Yes, it'll be a great experience for her. I know that. But it terrifies me. She'll be with strangers: kids we've never met and adults we spent one morning (and many phone calls) with. Caretakers that I didn't hand pick, using recommendations from friends and spending hours with beforehand. Eating food I didn't prepare or order.

Emma's ready. I'm not.

I've been filling in Julie's able shoes over at DotMoms the last week. If you're not reading there daily, you should be. It's been great fun to not just be a reader of these thoughtful women, but also to work with them on editing as well.

On top of all they do, these moms find time to share their experiences, thoughts, loves and trials with the rest of us. I'm lucky to be a part of such a wonderful community.

Julie needs to go out of town more often!

New listings in "Emma's current faves" in the sidebar. Even a CD-ROM this time. We're nothing if not versatile.