Please ignore the crooked door in his last day of school photos. You see, LittleBrother is difficult to photograph, as witnessed by the disintegration of his first day of school photos. He’s a spitfire, and we learned that even more this school year. He grew and changed and morphed from cute little LittleBrother to this cute but slightly ornery little boy with a sense of humor and an early case of sarcasm. I think we’re in trouble with this one.

I say that kindly, of course, because he is awesome in so many ways.

He hasn’t yet picked a hand to write with, but that’s mostly okay. He writes and colors almost equally with both hands. Though he does bat left handed. He says that he wants to write with his right hand, but he still switches at will; if he wants to color on the left side of the page, he puts the crayon in his left hand. I’m sure he’ll figure it out sometime in the near future, and we’re continuing to encourage him to do what feels right.

Apparently what feels right is reading. I don’t know if it’s because he was basically present for all of BigBrother’s reading lessons or his super awesome brain capacity or just his personality, but the kid is already blowing through early sets of BOB Book readers. When he asked to start learning to read this past winter, I kind of shrugged at him. I suppose that’s one of the problems with being the younger brother. Imagine my surprise when he got out a book and blew right through it. And it wasn’t a matter of having it memorized, because he just blew through a whole set that BigBrother never had. He’s just awesome.

He did a lot of other stuff this school year, too. He made new friends. He went on playdates — without me. He sang really loudly at his Christmas and Spring programs. He made lots of crafts, many of which he was personally affronted if I didn’t keep on the fridge for the appropriate amount of time. He is playing on a t-ball team — without his brother. He got stuck in a tree with his Buzz Lightyear wings. (No, really.) He got started on learning computer skills with his own monitored account and time limits. He can rock a Kindle Fire and an iPhone both. And he grew. A lot.

One of my favorite things about this little man is that he’s tough. He hasn’t met something that he can’t do if he wants to do it. On the flip side, he also won’t do something if he doesn’t want to do it. Both of those things are great traits — but they can be frustrating and hard to keep up with at times. He’s a fantastic little boy who is growing so quickly that I can’t believe my eyes.

He’s very excited to be on summer break. He’s been asking when we were going to the beach for vacation since February. He said last week, when we were going fishing on BigBrother’s last day of school, that he wishes we could go fishing every day. He wants to go camping. A lot. He wants to spend the summer playing and laughing and telling jokes that drive me crazy and poking at his brother and generally being… LittleBrother.

I’m looking forward to it.

So, both boys are now out of school for summer. Look for the OMG post soon.

“Okay, here’s a smile. And then we’re done. Right?”

“Another one? Okay. This is a smile, but I’m gritting my teeth and barely tolerating your Mommy Photographer antics. I mean, it’s morning. And you woke me up. And it’s kind of cold out here and you made me take off my jacket. But here’s a smile. Because I love you.”

“I hate you, lady.”

As I was writing yesterday’s post full of childhood innocence and bubbles here at church camp, FireDad logged on to tell me the news that the Pastor at the church where our sons attend preschool has been arrested on two counts of gross sexual imposition with a four year old. I almost vomited.

I vacillated last night between shocked and scared and angry and upset and angry and angry and angry. I tossed and turned all night. I forced myself to stay in bed for awhile this morning, only because I didn’t want to face more of the thoughts and fears and questions. Once BigBrother got up, I just kissed his precious little head and didn’t want to let him go. He looked at me oddly. I gave him breakfast.

I haven’t talked to the boys yet. FireDad has stayed behind this year, not attending camp with us, so he could remodel our bathroom. (Again: WOO HOO!) I want us to be together when we speak to the boys, and I figure we’ll have to break it into several different conversations. While the alleged criminal is supposed to have had no one-on-one contact with any child from the preschool, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to have had done what he did to this child as well. He ran the Christmas and spring programs. He has been in close enough proximity to my children without my supervision that the discussions have to be had… and I can’t do it without the support of my husband.

I am beyond upset right now.

Despite the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing with this parenting gig and I’m doing it wrong all the time — hovering too much, not hovering enough — I have always had an overwhelming weight on my shoulders to keep these boys safe. In therapy I was able to recognize that this overwhelming need stems from my perceived inabilities when I was pregnant with the Munchkin and the many ways in which I feel that I failed her. And while I worked through some of that, that need is always there: protect these boys, don’t let anything bad happen.

I have accepted that bruises and scrapes happen despite my medium-not-quite-hovering actions. I anticipate future stitches. Maybe a broken bone. Probably some broken hearts. But I’ve been sitting at the playground all week here at camp, reading while they run and jump and climb and slide and swing and sometimes forget what they’re doing and walk in front of the swing while someone is indeed swinging. But they only did the latter once, having learned a lesson. I’ve been pretty proud of myself all week. “Look at me! Look at me sitting and reading while they play! Look at me not being all helicopter mom up in this piece! Look at me letting them run to the playground, which is out of site of our cottage (but just barely) and requiring them to come back in 10 minutes to check in! Look at me! I’m finally doing this. I’m allowing them to spread their wings. I am finally calming down and accepting that life happens and I can’t save them from everything. Look at me!”

Yeah. Well. Look at me now.

I enrolled them in one of the best preschools in the area. One that some moms fight to get their kids into for a variety of reasons. And it’s a good school. The teachers are exactly what you wish for preschool teachers: kind, loving, fun, patient. They love my boys — even when my boys talk too much. I had patted myself on the back about this preschool. “Look at me! I got my kids in the right preschool. Whew. What a relief!”

Yeah. Well. Look at me now. Again.

I was doing what I thought was right. I was doing what other parents told me to do. I trusted that they would be safe. I trusted that the church-based school would take care of my sons. They were safer there than somewhere else, right?

But they weren’t safer. Apparently our children are never safe. Ever. Anywhere.

I recognize that my children have a very slim chance of having encountered this man in an unseemly way. I get that. But it’s like watching a child get attacked by a shark when your sons are swimming four feet away and you’re on the shore watching it all unfold. Yes, they come out of the water unscathed. Maybe they didn’t even see it, too busy doing what they’re supposed to be doing. But then you want me to let them go back in the water?

You want me to let them out of my sight?

You want me to trust that they’ll be okay next time?

You want me to let go of my already deep-seeded insecurities and just hope and pray that they’ll be okay?

Oh, sure. Let me get right on that.

There’s apparently a meeting coming up at the preschool. I am already upset with the school that the parents of past students weren’t notified before the article came out in the media with two days between his arrest and the break in the news. I am SO grateful for people who know bits and pieces have contacted me and allayed some fears — though I’m obviously still a hot mess. Of course, I fully expect the meeting to fall this coming week after FireDad and I have already left for San Diego for BlogHer ’11, because that’s my luck. I don’t know what we’ll do. Sure, this Pastor — and I use the word very lightly — is to have no contact with minors. I’ll venture to guess he won’t be back in the preschool, probably even if he is found innocent as he’s 71 and the dude should probably just retire and get out of dodge. Quickly. While looking over his shoulder. And I don’t care if that doesn’t sound very Christian, because I’m not feeling very loving right now.

But how am I supposed to shake the dread that has been awakened within me? How am I supposed to send BigBrother off to Kindergarten in two-and-a-half weeks? How am I supposed to send LittleBrother back to the same preschool? How am I supposed to sit here while my children are currently up the hill in their camp class? When something like this happens in another city or even in a nearby school, it’s someone else’s problem. When it’s in your school? And you don’t know the details or if the person had access to your children? It’s sickening and scary and makes you doubt every decision you’ve made leading up to this point.

The only good thing — that so many have pointed out — is that both boys are very verbal, especially for boys. But I’m shaken to my core. I trusted very few people to care for my children prior to this news and now I feel like I trust people even less.

But let it be known by every person who has contact with my sons: Don’t you ever, ever lay a hand on them. If you think I talk Mama Bear, you should see me act Mama Bear.

Despite all of that, these boys sure are cute. And they’ve grown this year. Changed. Learned — good things and bad.

I think, perhaps, the most mind-boggling comparison is to look at BigBrother on his first day of preschool ever in August 2008. I seriously shed a few tears.

I still see that little, teeny-tiny boy in the bigger version. The head tilt. The sparkle. But he’s grown — so much — in the past three years. He was reading to me this morning while we were all getting ready and I just wanted to put some bricks on his head and yell, “SLOW DOWN! I can’t handle the speed at which we are progressing through your life! YOU ARE MAKING ME SAD!” But I helped him sound out “first” before telling him to brush his own teeth. And sighed, yet again.

And knowing that LittleBrother is on the same fast track makes me flip out just a little. I can’t believe the changes he has made this year, and I also want to put some bricks on his head and say, “QUIT TRYING TO KEEP UP WITH YOUR BROTHER! YOU WILL GROW UP FAST ENOUGH.” But I watch him put on his shoes and walk away. And I sigh. Again.

And now it is summer in the FireHouse. We have a busy summer, full of travel and camping and vacations and all sorts of summery goodness. I don’t want to think about the fall just yet. So many changes will come this fall. I want to put bricks on this summer and say, “STAY. FOR JUST AWHILE LONGER.” But it won’t. It will fly by.

Just like preschool did.

It was the morning after a long, anxiety filled night and my loving husband let me sleep in. As he got to school, he realized that it was picture day. He dutifully returned home after dropping off the boys, filled out the form (that, no, I had not filled out), wrote a check and returned to school with the necessary stuff to capture our boys forever on (digital) film. When I realized the error of my ways, I panicked. They were in t-shirts! And sneakers! Woe!

Quite a few people said that they had forgotten picture day in the past and that those photos ended up being their kids’ best shots. Ever. I rolled my eyes, panicked some more and wept into my pillow. (Note: The morning after an anxiety attack I’m a little, uh, dramatic.)

The pictures came back today. Hot snot if you guys weren’t right. My kids look like… my kids.

First we have Mr. SchmoozerPants:

Followed by Mr. IReallyHateWhenYouTakeMyFreakingPicture:

(Ignore the coloring. I scanned low quality because I’m not trying to reproduce.)

I — honestly — don’t hate them. In fact, I — honestly — kinda like them. Yes, BigBrother looks like a schmoozer, which is far better than his Scaredy McScaredyPants look from last year. And, really, I’d like to know how the photographer got LittleBrother to look at the camera; she’s a better man than me. Are they as good as the pictures that Heather took on family picture day? No. Do I care? No. That’s right: I don’t care. That’s right: I just let something go. Stop the presses.

So, let’s recap: I got to sleep in after a difficult night. Neither the children nor the parents dealt with any getting-ready-for-picture-day stress (that usually happens when, uh, someone else is in charge). And the end result happens to be cute (5×7 sized so as not to replace the official photos in the 8×10 frames) photos of my children?

FireDad is officially in charge of school picture day.

Not family picture day. No, that’s still a day of stress that makes everyone hate each other and end up in tears — because that’s what families are for! But school picture day? I’ll be in bed. Okay? Okay.

(This is my not-so-humorous way of saying, “Thank you, honey, for being who you are. I couldn’t do this crap without you. And yes, I said crap. I didn’t even spell it.”)

I didn’t notice that there were different kids on my bus as only one girl in my class rode my bus and she didn’t always ride in the morning. I went bopping into my classroom and stopped short when I realized that I didn’t recognize one single kid in the room. Panic set in, tears started flowing and my teacher walked me to the office. I sat in the lobby and waited for my equally panicked Mom to pick me up. Not-quite-six-year-old me was traumatized for life. In fact, any time I wanted to stick it to my Mom, I reminded her of how she sent me to school on the wrong day.

Because what kind of parent does that, right?

Parenting karma sucks.

March has been difficult schedule wise. FireDad has been working extra overtime. I’ve been busy with some projects and deadlines. And since we’re busy, it figures that the school schedule would have extra stuff in it this month. Extra stuff never seems to happen in one of those easy, lazy months (though, it’s been awhile since we’ve had one of those…).

Case in point: I forgot preschool picture day a few weeks ago. And I was devastated.

A few (kind! beloved!) friends on twitter tried to tell me it was no big deal, but let’s remember one important point: I’m a photographer. Photos are kind of important to me, even if I don’t take them. And while I could easily take a great picture of my boys and claim it as a school picture, I’m mostly concerned with the class picture. Now my kids will look like the kids whose Mom forgot it was picture day. Because I did.

After an emotional collapse on my husband, I decided to get over it though. Yes, I’m a photographer. No, it’s not the end of the world. And if my kids someday look at the class picture and question why they’re wearing what they’re wearing, I’ll just blame them. (No? Okay, okay. I’ll blame their Dad.)

Which brings us to today…

Today I helped BigBrother get dressed for “Wacky Day” at school. He reminded us that it was Wacky Day, which made sense to me at the time as we love Wacky Wednesday by Dr. Seuss. I started to second guess myself — and I couldn’t find the school calendar — so I called the preschool this morning and asked the younger kids’ teacher if it was Wacky Day for the big kids’ class. She said yes. So, BigBrother went to school looking like this:

She was wrong.

I realized the error as one of the teachers came out for drop off carrying a sign that read, “Wacky Day! Friday!” I may have cussed under my breath before I turned to face BigBrother.

“It’s not Wacky Day.”

Panic crossed his little face. “Oh no!”

He ripped off his Shrek ears and Waldo glasses as I attempted to pull his soccer socks down off of his pant legs and fold them over like regular socks. I was thankful — oh so thankful — that he had outgrown his sandals, as I had been planning on having him wear one sneaker and one sandal. At least he was wearing matching shoes. As one of the big kids’ class teachers opened our car door, I sucked up all of my pride.

“Mrs. Teacher, can you help BigBrother turn his shirt the right way. I thought it was Wacky Day today.”
“It’s Friday.”
“I know. Now.”

When I picked the boys up, BigBrother’s sweater was on right-side out. He didn’t seem to be traumatized, which is good. On Friday, we’ll gather up the Shrek ears and the Waldo glasses and a different sweater and pair of pants and we’ll do it all over again.

But FireDad is taking them to school on Friday. I need a break. I’ll probably call my Mom on Friday morning and apologize for all those years of chastising her for one messed up morning. I can’t even count my messed up mornings anymore and my kids aren’t even officially in elementary school.

I’m doomed.

I tagged along on my first field trip ever. I was nervous about how BigBrother would act, mainly because it’s his “turf.” I was pleasantly surprised and very proud of my little firefighter. FireDad was as well. Speaking of FireDad, watching him give the speech about smoke detectors (you checked your batteries, right?) was the first time I got to listen to him speak. I was proud of him, too.

The highlight of the trip, however, was the children getting to squirt water out of the fire hose. Despite having been to the fire department nearly once a week for five years, BigBrother has never gotten to use the fire hose. He was, well, I’ll let you guess his emotions.

Yeah, just a bit excited. A few more, because they’re too fun not to share.

This experience may have pushed him over the edge with the wanting to be a firefighter thing. Of course, when FireDad viewed these pictures, he admitted that he occasionally still feels the same way when he gets to play with the fire hose, too.

I’m only sad that I didn’t get a chance to spray it. Then again, I kind of loved capturing the joy of a firefighter with my lens. Maybe it’s meant to be this way.