No, Zach’s not three yet.

I’ve spent three days, now on my fourth day, being evaluated to see if I can handle a class full of ten three year olds.

I’m begining to wonder, myself. Yesterday, a little boy named, oh, shall we call him DAMEON, pegged me with Legos for ten minutes straight while I attempted to

1.) not lose my cool.

2.) prevent him from doing it using every child psychology stragegy besides a firm beating.

I didn’t take it too personal because later that day he hissed at the daycare director, attempted to bite her and remained a feral child until lunch.

“Maybe he was hungry,” my director laughed as he quietly scarfed down his food.

“Or, maybe he was raised by wolves,” I thought.

Strangely, this has been one of those life-shaping years. But unlike the other life shaping years, such as, the first year of marriage or pregnancy, or college, or Zach’s first year, nothing major is happening on the outside. Yet, something major is happening on the inside. At the grand old age of 34 (in May 35) I am being softened, banged into a new shape and then submerged into cold water, merely to be reminded that I am malleable. It’s like the expression, being tested with fire. After all these years, I may, in fact finally be melting my crunchy candy shell and exposing the chocolate melty interior. But I don’t feel weak and sticky, I feel peaceful with my new pliable texture.

So, this being said, today I ran across this picture. And even though I’ve seen it about 100 times before today, I looked at it in a new way.

You can click to take a closer look. It’s a picture of freshly 18 year old me, with my God Father, who probably is about 38 or so in this picture (not much older than I am now) via 1992.

For years, I’ve looked at old pictures of myself thinking, “Yikes, I guess that was it. The prime, now it’s gone, gone gone.”

Today I looked at it and thought, “Oh look, she’s cute, she looks sweet, wholesome and nice. The kind of kid I’d like to have.”

I actually felt maternal toward my former self, not competitive.

I was a normal-looking, freshly de-braced, happy, well-adjusted teen. That’s more than can be said about me during any point in my 20s. Maybe that’s what it means to embrace your inner child. Not that tiny child, but the child you were just before you tried to be an adult.

And that was me, at my graduation party in 1992, on the cusp. Here I am now, dangling between 34 and 35, melting the exterior it took me 17 years to create.

But I know now that it isn’t me that’s doing the melting.  

Wow, I feel old. I am utterly exhausted.

Ten 1 1/2 to 2 year-olds have wiped out every ounce of energy from my body in only two days. Gone is the will to encourage structure, to encourage picking up for themselves, to stop them from screaming, kicking, throwing things in a tantrum.

There is just…too..many…of..them (insert William Shatner voice)

Soon I will be the one throwing toys, crying, screaming and refusing to pick up. If only I could move my back….

My father, a farmer, says that even in a group of heifers, one heifer will feel the need to be first.

Such is true with all women I suppose when congregated. Maybe it goes back to the days of multiple marriages or when we ran the market places. Who knows?

It’s odd that that one heifer needs to be first even though they are all walking the same cow pie laden trail together. Maybe not looking at another cow butt is what makes it better.

Anyhow, I’m trying to put away my intense rage for my fellow Heifer. I did find this one picture that made me laugh and looks a bit like the suspect. Ironic, why is there a need to be the Queen bitch. So much for sisterhood.