A few things that have little to do with one another.

I'm a worrier, ain't no two ways about it. I come by it honestly, with two parents who are worriers each in their own distinctive ways. My father will plot out a trip to an unfamiliar destination as far in advance as possible, probably do a test-drive or two, and still leave early enough on the day he has to be there to arrive at least an hour early. (I got that from him.) My mother worries in less predictable ways and often about unlikely scenarios (i.e. If I didn't call when I was supposed to, she might jump to the conclusion that I'm dead rather sooner than most). That's a mother thing, and I'm developing my own.

But I worry (ahem) when I see the same tendency in Alex. I don't want to label him because he's FIVE and he's CHANGING and there's no way to know if what he's experiencing is natural, age-appropriate worry or if it falls somewhere a bit higher on the scale.

He had fun at his Halloween carnival but only after we convinced him that it was fun. Before that he was just jittery and reluctant and infuriatingly close-mouthed about what was wrong.

He thinks ahead about things that he will worry about in the future, i.e. "I don't want to go to college because it's too far away from you and Daddy." My response? "Well ... let's revisit this in twelve years or so."

He worried on his school's Pajama Day that he would be the only one in pajamas, and asked us each on three separate occasions to check the calendar and make really, really sure we had the right day. As if we would play some cruel, traumatizing prank on our sweet boy and send him into a den of kindergarten lions to be made fun of for wearing his Mario pj's, which are pilled and tired-looking but the only ones he owns that actually fit. (No one needs to know my son prefers to wear pajama shirts that don't cover his navel and pants that don't come near his ankle, right?)

He is at the same time brazenly confident and heart-wrenchingly uncertain, and it's all part of growing up, and whenever I stop and think about it, the hugeness of everything that lies before him, I have to catch my breath and remind myself that he's got to do these things and that he WILL find his way. Just like I did. Just like we all do. But when it's your little boy who comes home devastated because his best school friend didn't wait to walk with him, it's harder to accept that truth.

And all I can do is tell him how wonderful he his, how bright and funny and sweet and kind and beautiful, how insightful and observant and emotionally more mature than your average fully grown man. Hopefully the words don't lose any of their impact spoken, as they are, by someone who still often has trouble being assertive, taking the first step, going to the grocery store with no makeup on.

I believe in him and I know, in my heart, that he'll be fine. He'll be more than fine.

But the mother in me, the mother that IS me, now, still watches, waits, and worries.

Katherine has woken to her world completely and lights it up everywhere she goes. She has a wide-open, crooked grin and a coquettish flirty smile, eyelash batting and everything, that she saves for her daddy. Her giggles are impossibly contagious; they sound a little like hysterical coughs, and the sound always seems to surprise her. She's still bald as a cue ball, and I love her that way. She's grasping things: toys, blankets, shirts, hair. She can roll from belly to back but not the other way yet, and I wonder if that's because she simply despises being on her belly. Why would she go to such lengths to get there?

She is eating rice cereal and carrots, and by rice cereal I mean she's had several bites on several occasions that did not immediately ooze back out onto her bib, and by carrots I mean I shoved a couple of spoonfuls in her mouth tonight while we were waiting for her bath water to warm up. I figured carrots = messy. Handy bath was a good idea.

Steven's recuperating nicely and returned to work on Tuesday. Next week they take the staples out. He asked me if I thought that was going to hurt. Um. Well. They're going to PRY the STAPLES out of your WOUND. It probably won't be ice cream and puppy dogs. But I didn't tell him that.

That's all I've got for now, for this "blog" that's quickly becoming more of a "dumping ground" for "random thoughts du jour." (Though, really, that should be the official definition of blog.)

Good night.