I bought a pair of Rayban sunglasses in 1987.  Last summer, I bought three pairs of sunglasses–one prior to vacation, one during vacation and one post-vacation.  I’ve since lost two pairs and broken the last pair.

The 1987 Raybans?  I have.  Why couldn’t they disappear?  Why do only new sunglasses vanish or break? 

So today, I purchased a pair and a spare from Marshall’s.  Hopefully, these will last through the summer.  (They say we buy more sunglasses per capita than any other city in the nation.  I wonder if it’s true?  Do we just lose them over the course of too many gray months?)

*  *  * 

My daughter continues to amuse me.  She’ll be four years old in September and pronounces most words perfectly.  But she still mishears a few words.  For instance, this morning, we went to church a few minutes early so I could photocopy something.  I told her we were going to “make copies.”  When he dad walked by the copy-machine, she proudly informed him, “We are making coffees!” 

At the pool this afternoon, crowds of kids splashed in both pools.  Being a reticent child, she sat on a chair and said, “I am not going in the pool today.  There are too many kids.”  Moments later, she spotted a baby in the pool and *blink* she was gone. 

She is drawn to babies like a moth drawn to a flame.  She wrapped her arms around her floating duck-ring and bobbed near the boy holding the baby in his arms.  I couldn’t tell if she talked or only gazed.  When the baby left the pool, she reappeared at my elbow, only to abandon me when she spotted another baby some distance away near the picnic area.  She zoned in on that baby, eventually setting up camp in the middle of a family preparing their meal.  I went over–twice–and reassured the father and mother:  “She is not an orphan!” I said, “She just loves your baby.” 

They laughed and waved me off. 

I wish that my daughter could have given me a little transition time when she transformed from Miss Cling-on to Miss Independence.  I’m a little dizzy from the change. 

The sun shone today and for the first time this year, I doused my kids with sunscreen.  I hear the drizzle is supposed to return.  I kind of hope it does.  It’s hard enough to concentrate on this final week of school without the distraction of beautiful weather.

*  *  *

My daughter likes to say, “Mom?”  (Repeat ten dozen times.)

And I say (in various degrees of annoyance), “What!?”

She says, “Did you know I love you?”  Pause.  “But only a little bit.”

I find this uproariously funny every time she says it–she tells her dad the same thing–and I wonder if perhaps something might be wrong with me that I find her confession so hilarious.  I never laugh, though, I just say, “You do?”  And she says, “Yes.” 

I know she loves me more than just a little bit and I have no idea why she says that, but it is what it is.  Kids!  They keep you just the littlest bit off balance all the time, just because they can.

My daughter was three months old when she asserted herself.  In no uncertain terms, she advised me that she would no longer permit herself to be held by any other human beings, with the possible, infrequent exception of her father.

Grandma?  No.

Sweet church ladies?  No.

Random stranger on a street corner?  No.

She’s a cautious one, this little girl of mine.  When I carried her into church as an infant, she’s scream right into the faces of the kindly church folk who dared invade her personal space, which happened to be a ten foot radius around her tiny body. 

I had to take her everywhere with me–and I’m not just talking about when I left the house.  If I went into another room, so did she.  If I cooked dinner, she clung to my left hip like an agile monkey.  She stood on my bathroom counter while I put on makeup and banged on the shower door until I opened it during my showers.

She’s never stayed alone in the church nursery.  We’ve never hired anyone besides Grandma to babysit her.  She hasn’t gone to preschool, to a class or to a friend’s house.

But yesterday at the pool, she and her best buddy went over to the grill area to beg for food.  His parents were grilling hot-dogs and steaks and to my great shock, my little girl climbed right up on a picnic table bench and made herself at home.  I sat at the edge of the pool, watching from afar.

I saw someone on the far edge of the pool that I needed to talk to, so I strolled over to tell my daughter where I’d be.  She said, “Mommy, can you go away?”  She was chatting up a storm, eating s’mores and watermelon and completely, utterly free of concern about my location.

Tonight, at the pool, her best buddy’s mom was in the big pool, so my formerly shy daughter insisted on walking over to say hello to her.  Before I knew it, my girl was climbing down the stairs into the pool and walking along the wall, clinging to the edge.  (The water comes up to her shoulders.)

Last year, she wouldn’t leave the stairs of the pool.  Last year, she wouldn’t let me out of spitting distance.  Last year, she was only two, going on three.  Now, she’s three, going on four and what a difference a year has made.

My girl walked away from me without even looking back until she was at the distant side of the pool.  I tried to be sad, to conjure up some tearful regret that my baby is growing up, but all I felt was relief that the tether between us has lengthened and that finally, my little shy girl trusts some other adults to keep her safe and to look out for her when she’s up to her neck in water.

And I was grateful for the little world I live in where other parents tenderly look out for my children and where I feel free to say, “Slow down, buddy!  No running!” to the little guy in a swim-diaper and saggy suit.  We were so lucky to be in a warm place with a cool breeze, watching the children frolic as the sun sunk lower in the sky.

And so begins another summer, even as the era of clinging monkey-girl comes to an end. 

(Then, when she got out of the pool, the other mother came over to tell her what a great job she did walking around the edges and she raised her hand–this other mother–and said, “High-five!”  And my daughter pointedly ignored her, so she repeated herself, “High-five!” and my daughter looked at her rather severely and said, “No.”

I was so proud.)

Dear Diary,

Today I woke up early.  Then I took care of kids all day.  I thought about stabbing myself with a red pen during school-at-home, but then I realized that would be kinda messy.  So I just gritted my teeth instead and thought how it’s easier to like some people when you don’t spend a lot of time with them.

After school (at 2 p.m.!), it was nap-time and I fell asleep for ten minutes.  I had a dream about football, which I considered a huge waste of dream time.  The kids were awake by 3:30 p.m. and then I started dinner (chicken, baked potatoes, asparagus) and cleaned up the kitchen for the second or third time today.

After the kids went home, we ate dinner.  After dinner, we all went to the pool, even Mr. Safety and one neighbor kid.  The boys had fun diving and playing water basketball and trying to drown each other.  I sat and watched my daughter and Mr. Safety frolic in the wading pool.

At 8:00 p.m., we went home.  By 8:30 p.m., my daughter was in bed and I left to go to the grocery store.  When I’m tired, I shop slowly, so I was a little dismayed to realize it was 10:00 p.m. when I finished.  I hope I bought enough food to actually put together a few meals.

The groceries were put away by 10:17 p.m.  Twenty minutes later, I’m here, typing this.  What a long day.  Tomorrow?  I’m napping for longer than ten minutes.

Good-night, Diary.