For two years The Rock Star has come home spouting knowledge about paleontologists, various species of animals, and our solar system. When I tell him the names of the planets he laughs at me. Apparently, nowadays, they're pronouncing the seventh planet Yer-ah-nis instead of the way I learned it. "You're saying it wrong, mom!" he tells me.
No, you're saying it wrong, I long to tell him but don't because, really, I'd rather have my kid saying Yerahnis all over town than the alternative.
He brings home papers with his name on them. He practices writing three letter words. He makes paper turtles. He gets a sucker when he's the magic helper. He learns, creates, and grows each and every day.
He whispers, "Mommy, a fart is the same thing as a toot. And pee is the same thing as potty. I know. I learned at preschool." And, while I wonder what else those kids are teaching him, I'm willing to deal with the peer influence.
Because of the learning, the creating, the growing.
And because my son is becoming quite the artist.
I love my thick, meaty arms. I love my two stubby legs that shoot out at a 90 degree angle proving that, on paper, I am incredibly more flexible than in reality. I love the permanent look of shock I wear. This is depicted by my circular mouth which looks exactly like my round, blue nose. I love the fact that I am only clothed between my head and my shoulders. It's as though I'm wearing only a drape used for nursing an infant. Or a muumuu made for a toddler. Most of all, I love my hair. I love that, apparently, I'm sporting a flat top. Unless, perhaps, that's a crown. Does my beloved firstborn fancy me a queen? Or maybe, just maybe, I'm the Statue of Liberty.
I love that my four-year-old drew a picture of me. I love that he came bursting out of the classroom waving it around. "I drew a picture of you!" he shouted through a giant smile. And, truthfully, I wouldn't love any portrait more. It's a masterpiece. It's his masterpiece.
I heart preschool.