Posted by She Said
Emily started Kindergarten this week, and she has loved it. She loves the special cubby where her new Hello Kitty backpack goes. She loves her teacher, adoringly known among the parents as “The Kindergartener Whisperer”. And boy, does Emily love the special playground that is just for Kindergarteners.
Even with this excitement for school, getting ready in the morning and out the door has not become any easier on me. Any particular chore in the morning makes me sound like a broken record:
Me: Emily, Braedyn, get your shoes on please. It’s time to go. <me running around collecting backpacks>
Me: Emily. Braedyn. Time to go. Please get your shoes on. <me brushing my own teeth>
Me: It’s time to go!! Get your shoes on! <me making sure lunch and snacks are appropriately packed>
Me: Emily! Braedyn! Get your shoes on! NOW! <me watching my children blow bubbles in the backyard WITHOUT SHOES>
Me: GET YOUR SHOES ON! GET YOUR SHOES ON! GET YOUR SHOES ON! GET YOUR SHOES ON! GET YOUR SHOES ON! GET YOUR SHOES ON! GET YOUR SHOES ON! GET YOUR SHOES ON! GET YOUR SHOES ON! GET YOUR SHOES ON! GET YOUR SHOES ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <me spinning my head, pulling out my hair, and foaming at the mouth>
So, once we are at school, Emily picks out the “Kindergarten only” swing with the least amount of bird poop on it, sits, and begs me to push her. I oblige, knowing the time will come when the pumping of legs will render me useless in this task. There I am, lovingly pushing my daughter on the swing on her second day of Kindergarten, and I start to run through the checklist in my head, hoping that I remembered everything in the mad dash out the door.
Teeth brushed? Check.
Snack packed? Check.
Hair done? Check.
I continue to push Emily. She is happy. I am happy. And then as her dress flows up in the breeze…
Underwear on? Oh. Dear. God. Say. It. Isn’t. So. CRAP.
That’s right. My daughter went to school in a dress. Commando.
I let out a mumbled, yet loud, “ohmygodwhatamIgoingtodo?” intermingled with a gasp of epic magnitude. Thankfully, my friend, Emma, came to the rescue. Her oldest of three is in Emily’s class, but the poor middle child, who is only about a year younger than Emily, had her “knickers” taken from her and given to Emily for the day. Crisis averted.
We always knew that Emily had a soft spot in her heart for the Playa, so I blame myself for not double checking her “knicker” status. Trust me, it’s now at the top of my daily checklist.