Dear Jack,

Today you are, hmmm, let's see, 39 months old. That's a lot of months, little man. You started school two weeks ago and it's been interesting and a little bittersweet to watch some changes happening. You were so excited the first day. You didn't cling to me at all, but you did ask where I was going. All this time you've seemed really concerned with what I'm doing while you are at school. The second day I took you, you told me "My belly is excited but my self is not." I can't think of a better way to describe the feeling of being nervous or anxious. What a beautiful way to articulate a complicated feeling. You've been reticent since then to go to school. Before we get in the car, you plead with me to stay home. You've told me that all of your favorite things are at home (myself included) and that you NEVER want to leave. You've told me that your teacher is mean to you and that you don't have ANY fun. Well, I'm calling your bluff, son.

Each day when we walk in, you happily let go of my hand and enter the classroom. You smile when the older students say "Hi, Jack!" You give nary a glance in my direction. When I pick you up, your head is sweaty from the playground and you're all smiles. You ask where I've been and aren't exactly forthcoming about your day. If I ask pointed questions, though, you elaborate. Your favorite "work" is to hammer golf tees into a block of modeling clay. I find the evidence under your fingernails each time I pick you up. You love to talk about Gillie, the class pet (a guinea pig). You brought some salad to her last week and were proud that you got to feed her yourself. Last Tuesday you got in the car and beamed, "MOMMY! I poured the milk all by myself and drank it all the way up!" This is the proud moment I anticipated - the one that has made some of the difficulty of the transition worthwhile. I knew you'd thrive on this new independence and these new abilities, and I'm so proud of you. I also noticed that you mostly quietly sat through the first part of church last Sunday and joined the other children for the children's sermon, raising your hand and waiting to be called on by Pop. That's a huge change for us, and one I welcome. Being quiet is not necessarily what I value, but knowing how to do it is a great thing. When we're quiet, we learn.

The toughest part of the transition, I think, is separation from our little nuclear world. You're not the center of attention at school. Your voice (albeit a very LOUD one) can't drown out the voices of the other students the way it can mine. You're in charge of yourself, and it's tricky to learn how to navigate the world this way. Believe me, I'm still learning. The part of me that wants you to always be happy and thrilled and excited and charmed has to give way to the part of me that wants you to live in a community and learn how to guide yourself through challenges. What Montessori may lack in creative songs and focused comfort is balanced here at home. We still sing our silly songs. We snuggle all the time. The world doesn't owe you that stuff, but I do - and there's the balance.

You're a little taller than last month, but seem to be growing from the belly button up. Luckily, your pants from last year will fit for a while. Your shirts and getting a bit short. You've taken to talking to yourself more again. You play in your room making conversations between toys. It's almost always someone's birthday in your imagination. You like to make up words and strings of nonsensical blathering. It seems random, but sometimes I'll ask you to repeat something and you can. You gave a little action figure the name PeePee JoLo and told me (several times) that he was a "fascinating factor dashing thing." I love you, my little weirdo. You've been sweet and apologetic lately, too, more cognizant of how you might hurt us by playing too rough. You sweetly offer to share almost anything you have, and thank me for sharing. You've always done this a bit, but now it seems like part of your normal interactions and I love it.

You're okay in my book, kid.

Love always,

Mama