Shhhhh. Just...shhhhh.

Every other child in this area, and apparently on God's green earth, has started school already. Every child, except for Henry. And, presumably, Henry's schoolmates. Henry's school starts tomorrow.

We have spent two full weeks together. The first week was jam-packed with fun as his many friends were also out of school, and there was much merriment and pool-going and beach adventures and etc. But now all his friends are in school, and Henry has turned to me for companionship. And boy howdy, I love my kid, but he talks ALL THE TIME. He narrates everything he's doing. Everything. I often delight in his extensive vocabulary and the stuff he comes up with is often so clever and adorable I'm weak with love, but then he keeps talking and talking and talking and whoops I just jammed a fork into my ears. If he can't think of something to say he launches into a stream of nonsense words. I admit that I can get pretty voluble when I'm in the mood, but when I have nothing to say I don't shout BOOP BEE BOOP while throwing myself to the ground and slapping my head.

Okay, sometimes I do that.

As I was typing the above Henry joined me at the dining room table. He can spend only a few minutes playing by himself until the need to share his ongoing adventures overcomes him. Here, verbatim, as it pours from his mouth—or as I call it, his sound-hole—is an excerpt from Henry's narrative as he shoves a Transformer under my nose: "It has a magic glider with a horse, and a shirt and that shirt is magic. And it also has robotical powers for him. Is that cool sounding? Is that cool sounding? Isn't that cool sounding?"

Yes, son. It's cool sounding.

Adding insult to emotional injury, this new school of his features a ridiculous, painfully drawn-out phase-in. I can appreciate the thinking behind the phase-in, but they haven't taken into account that I AM LOSING MY MIND. The first day is thirty minutes. THIRTY. I will drop him off, head home, open the door, close the door, and head right back. Or I will sit in my car and chew gum. I will bet that my gum will not have lost its flavor by the time school's done. The second day? 45 minutes. Maybe I'll have to move on to a second stick of gum by then. Maybe I'll choose a different flavor, mix things up a little. Wheee! The days continue like that until Friday, when he stays for enough time that I could possibly run home to write an email and toast a waffle. If I eat the waffle while composing the email I might be able to pee before heading back out! Jubilee!

"Know where these two people went? Do you know? Do you know, Mama? The guy went into his own mind with one of his friends. He went into his own mind. The robot went into his own mind. He went into his own mind with one of his friends. SHHHHOOOOOOOOoooooooooooop."

So in other words, school doesn't actually begin until next week. School, by the way, being pre-school, because I was stupid enough to birth my child on October 7th, when the cut-off date for kindergarten in New Jersey is October 1st; no, they won't put him into kindergarten, there are no exceptions, yes, I CHECKED. And frankly I'm not too broken up about him spending an extra year in preschool. He's probably ready in-tee-lek-shully for kindergarten but physically he's a teeny bit behind, and every year he's been the youngest in his class and has literally been unable to catch up to his classmates as they race circles around him. (Of course the fact that he wants to stop and comment on everything doesn't help him move any faster. Here's Henry at the playground: "Wow, you sure can climb those monkey bars! I would climb them but I don't know how and anyway I don’t really want to learn. But you're doing great! You're almost at the end now! And hey, now you're running and you run really fast! I'm going to run too! Hey, wait up! I'm following you!")

Also, the public school kindergarten here is a half-day. It ends at 11:30. That is too early. So even though we can't eat because of all the money we're paying for preschool, at least he's there until 3 p.m. Of course not this week.

"Look at this guy, I tied him up pretty good. I tied him up with a special magic rope. He's a cryto-robber. Look at this guy, see? Are you looking? Look at this guy, look how I tied him up? Do you see it? Look. Look! Look at how I tied him up? Are you looking?"

I may have raised my voice a teeny bit with that last one. YES I SEE HIM GREAT WHATEVER. I'm losing it. I just gave him three Fig Newtons, because at least then he'll be quiet. Right? Wrong.

"I turned my Fig Newton into a boot. I bited it and it looks like a boot. See? Now I'm eating the boot. Now it's a car. See? See? Now I'm eating it. Now it's the wind. Because I ate it all? See? See how it's the wind? See?"

Dear school: please start. Thank you. Love, Alice.

P.S.: Hey, look: a Wonderland post from last week! Do you see? Look! Look! Look! Look! See? Do you see? Look!

Pondering the imponderable.

You want to talk about death, again, but your mother's not into it.

Lately death is staring you in the face at every turn. You look down, and there's a deceased earthworm baking on the sidewalk. Look up, and WHAPPO, your cat just murdered a fly. You go for a drive with your mom, and there's another cemetery, on your left. That's where all the people go to die.

"Not to die," your mother says. "Those people were dead when they got there."

"What got them dead?" you want to know.

"They were very old and very sick," she says.

"How old? Grandma old?" You bite your lip.

"Nonononono. Older. Much, much older. Hey, look at that funny guy doing that, uh, thing!"

What funny guy? What thing? You can't see from the car seat. What were we talking about, again?

Die, death, dying, dead, you hear it all the time, it pops out of conversations, like your name. "You're killing me," your mom says to your dad. That's an expression. She won't die yet. On the television they're killing each other but then they bounce right back up. Your grandma's friend dies. You tell her, "I'm sorry your friend is dead. I hope she gets better." After a little rest, you think, she'll stand back up. So why do they bury people?

You keep asking your mom, but something happens and you don't get the answer, or at least not the right answer. You say "even when I die" a lot, testing it out. "I will always love you," you say to your best friend, "even when I die." Your friend gives you a funny look, or maybe that's just his face. After a day at the beach, you tell your mom that you will always love the ocean. "Even when I die," you add. Your mom mutters something.

"I want my grave to be in the ocean," you say. "I want to be buried on a surfboard."

"Wow," your mom says, "you really DO love the ocean."

"And maybe your grave can be in the ocean, too, and we can be buried facing each other so we're kissing, because I will always love you—"

"Oh boy," your mom says.

"—even when I die," you get out.

"Can we not talk about death right now?" your mom asks. "No one's dead, no one's dying, we're all here, let's talk about something else. Okay?"

"But someday," you say.

"Someday, but not now. Not for a long, long time."

So: not now. But someday. And what then?

Henry wants you all to know...

My head is made of poop. I smell worse than garbage. Although my head is made of poop, my son wishes to poop on my head, which is poopy. Or else he will poop on my butt. Which, incidentally, is smelly. I should also mention that my son hates me. It's perfectly reasonable that he hates me, as in only the past few days I have reminded him to wash his hands, told him I had no money for an ice cream sandwich, and asked him which movie we should watch. All of these actions are unforgiveable. I know that now. And thanks to his lengthy, and at times deafening, explanation, I see that the reason is my giant feces-head, which is awkwardly propped up here on my neck. It's amazing that I can even type or think or have any opinions about ice cream sandwiches, but nevertheless I do, and this renders me loathsome. I am a bad mommy, and he doesn't like me anymore, well, he does, but more importantly he hates me. Let's just say that his feelings for me grow increasingly more complex. But he consistently feels that my head is, as I have mentioned, poopy.

Let's all hope that my behavior improves in the near future.

At least it was invisible.

I am inexplicably delighted when my son expresses any displeasure with me. I think it's a combination of surprise that it doesn't overly bother me, and relief that he's (mostly) passed the stage where he just has a fit on the ground while I watch.

This morning I was in full-on nag mode; we were ten minutes late for camp, and I was all GET ON YOUR SHOES and YOU CAN BRING ONLY ONE TOY INTO THE CAR NOT TWELVE and HOLD YOUR LUNCH BAG LET'S GO COME ON C'MON C'MON. Finally, Henry walked out of the house. Just walked out, and stood on the porch, refusing to face me.

"If you don't hold your lunch bag, you're not getting lunch," I said. I am one tough broad. Also I had no free hands to hold the damn thing.

He slammed back into the house. "You're ann-oying me," he said. He glowered.

I tried not to kiss his flushed little pissed-off face. I can't help it! He's cute when he's angry! "I'm being pretty grumpy this morning," I said.

He nodded. "Worst. Mommy. Ever."

"Ever? Does that mean I win an award?"

He thought about this for a minute. "Your award is a bunch of garbage. But it's invisible." He looked me over. "You're holding it right now."

I couldn't help it, I cracked up. He did too. "Stupid mommy," he attempted, then he saw my face, and said, "Just kidding! Not stupid. Only worst."

-----

In other news, there is a new Wonderland post up today. Also, I will be away next week on yet another family vacation, this one with my delightful in-laws, who are much more accepting of my SPF 90,000 usage. Also, did you see my new masthead? The design is courtesy of Scott, who was tired of watching me attempt to use Photoshop, and the tagline is from Henry, who I think meant to say, "You're going to regret this," but I like his version better.

UPDATE: Apparently no one can see my masthead. Yes. Well. I will strive to figure out why.

UPDATE #2: Masthead now visible? Yes?