At the daycare where I work, we’ve found that, for new students, often the most emotional day is the second day. The first day is all rainbows and songs and art and friends, but doing it all a second time makes them realize that Mom was serious about this. A child in my class screamed almost without breathing for three hours, till he threw up on us, and agreed to sit with me while we waited for mom to come. I read a beautiful, oversized, full-color Eric Carle book to him on repeat for an hour. Pausing made him cry, and it was naptime, and he was keeping awake every single child in the center, so I read straight on through. I can’t stand to look at the book now, but I have hopes that some experience someday might redeem it for me.
I lay awake last night wondering about how much soul-baring I might be able to stand. I tried to sleep in, but (1) I’m old and (2) I kept rethinking everything I had said and I couldn’t stand it and I went downstairs to find my laptop and make sure that I said anything offensive in my first post. My name is Emily and I have issues. Big ones.
Maybe I’ll play it tame and talk about things like dog adoption and dessert, things people love, things that don’t actually say anything about me.
Or someday I’ll graduate from dogs to adopting people, move from dessert to 5ks to body image to our massacred ideas of beauty, risk honesty about hard things – things that make people stop reading or start fighting.
But I aspire to be a thinker and writer and a friend, not a referee, and I’ll try to take it one baby (conniption-inducing, shell-shattering) step at a time. And get some sleep, dangit.
At the moment, my mother and I are making scones, drinking coffee, having ourselves a good old time while the menfolk are away. It is a good morning and a good second day, full of nothing to fight about.