The kids are downstairs watching a “Signing Time” video. Ian’s speech therapist is trying to get the boy to convert his home grown signs into official ones. This woman seems very tightly wound, but we’re going along with it right now. Ian hates her because she won’t let him whip through the puzzles, but instead holds each piece by her mouth and makes him look at her mouth. It’s good for him, I know, but hearing him howl in frustration while belted into his highchair puts my intestines in knots.
With a sick Jonah in tow, we dropped off Ian at school this morning. In addition to two days a week of speech therapy, I’ve thrown him into nursery school for two mornings a week. It’s a touchy feely coop nursery school, which is just perfect for him. No pressure about circle group and lots of parents in the room.
This was the first morning that I left him alone, and I was rather stressed that Miss Barbara wouldn’t be able to decode his language. Jonah and I sat in the parking lot with the cell phone on my lap for 45 minutes before I had the courage to drive away. There was some whining, but nothing catestrophic, Miss Barbara later reported.
Even though the doctor declared that Jonah’s throat was raw, it didn’t stopped him from wearing me thin with questions on the trip to Ian’s preschool. With the seriousness of a Talmudic scholar, Jonah asked, Did you ever wish that you had twenty toes? No, because I have enough trouble with pointy shoes. How do make trains? Steel, wood, coal, and rubberbands. Lots of rubberbands.
Ian just walked in the office to check on me. I said “airplane” And he did the sign. A fist with an outstretched thumb and pinky descending into LaGuardia. Lots of clapping for smart boy.
Apt. 11d 