1 Mother 2 Another

Cora has done a fantastic job adjusting to
kindergarten, but the plain truth is that it’s just darn
hard. Seven hours a day can wear an adult down, but throw a
five-year-old in that situation and make her navigate new
friendships and scary bigger kids at the same time, and it’s
a miracle all kindergarteners aren’t in therapy.


So most days I can tell how Cora’s doing just by how she
hangs out with me as we wait for second grade to be dismissed from
school: she’ll often run and fling herself at me, and then
happily let me sweep her up in my arms and snuggle, and if she
clings extra hard, burrows extra deep, or begins burying her face
in my hair then I know it’s been a darn hard day.


Yesterday was such a day, and we only avoided an entire afternoon
of tears because of Maddie’s generous sacrifice.


I’ll explain.

Cora was burrowed deep in my hair when I
whispered in her ear, “So, was today a good day or a hard
day?” and she replied, “I’m not sure yet.”
I squeezed her tighter but then had to put her down as Maddie came
out of the building. As soon as Cora hit the ground she began
twirling her hair with her fingers, a sure sign she’s upset
or worried. Uh-oh.


As we walked to unlock the girls’ scooters, Maddie said
happily, “Guess what! We did a bunch of science experiments
today, and my favorite was when we got to put a Hershey kiss in our
mouths and time how long it took to melt!”


Cora’s brow darkened. Double uh-oh.


As Maddie skipped ahead to her scooter, Cora pulled me aside.
“Mommy, can I have a piece of candy when I get home since
Maddie had a Hershey kiss?” I looked at the girl, a hard day
etched in her face, and smiled, “Yes, baby, you may have a
piece of your Halloween candy.”


Cora beamed and began to skip, but then stopped. “And Mommy,
since Maddie already had a piece of candy today, she won’t
get one now, will she? It’s only fair.”


I thought hard. “Well, baby, I will let Maddie have a piece
of candy now; sometimes you or your sister get extra treats during
school, and that’s just how it is. Remember how you got a
piece of candy every Wednesday in preschool?”


She did, and apparently it did not matter.


For the rest of the trip home Cora was miserable. At first she
tried to argue with me, to win her case and make sure Maddie
didn’t have a piece of candy. When it became clear I was not
changing my mind she went ahead by herself, trying to deal with her
emotions. At one corner she threw herself down on the grass,
sobbing, until we caught up with her. Then she got back up, got on
her scooter, and kept going. Poor kiddo.


By the time we walked in the house she was sobbing those big
hiccupping sobs, clearly not putting anything on for show,
thoroughly miserable. I grabbed a picnic blanket and Cora’s
lovey, walked Cora to the back door and said, “Come on, baby,
let’s go outside.”


“Why?” she wailed, but followed obediently.


Once outside I flung the blanket down on the grass, grabbed my
girl, and snuggled up on the ground for a good gorgeous-day
snuggle. We lay on the blanket, Cora once again burrowed in deep,
breathing in and out as she calmed down. We stayed outside, silent
and content, for a good five minutes before Maddie found us.


“There you guys are!” she said cheerfully. “I was
wondering where you’d gone.” And she ambled over and
joined us on the blanket, two puppies piled around me in a happy
heap.


For a moment we were all silent but for the last remnants of
Cora’s shudders. And then Maddie spoke up and said,
“Cora, I’ve been thinking. You’ve had a hard day,
it seems, and I just want you to know that if it’ll help you
feel better I won’t have a piece of candy now. Will that
help?”


Mutely Cora nodded. Maddie smiled at her, got up, and ambled off to
play in a leaf pile.


That, my friends, is my beautiful seven-year-old.