I told a friend last night that yesterday was a teary day for me.  For some reason, I felt a tidal wave of emotions, and I wasn’t able to articulate what they were or why they were coming at me.  I think it’s the last eight weeks catching up to me.

I went to a play date with Liliana mid-morning.  I watched as she proceeded to play alone, side-by-side with five other children of various ages.  We mothers sat on the floor and talked, engaging with the children in their imaginative play.  “May I have some tea, please?”  “Oh, thank you, it’s quite delicious.”

We mothers talked about Montessori, and one of them asked me what was so special about Montessori, and although I’ve read every book on the subject, I was tongue-tied as to how to explain it.  You almost have to see it in action.  I did a horrible job of laying out the premise and expectations of Montessori, so much so that I left a little confused myself.  I’ve observed classrooms.  I’ve listened to my sister Worthy’s stories about her preschoolers in the program.  I’ve been extremely impressed with the work that the children do.  They’re taught to engage with their environment, to clean up after themselves, to dress themselves, to feel their surroundings with all five senses.  [But, certainly, other types of education might do the same thing.  I think the teacher is the key.  And let me make something clear here.  Just because I choose to discipline or teach one way does not mean it’s the right way; it’s just the way I’ve chosen.]  I’ve not decided about what Liliana needs, but I know that she’s been deprived of such fabulous learning (and resources) for the first two years of her life, and now she’s soaking it all up.  I can barely keep up with her.

She points to things, and asks me to name them.  I do.  She repeats the words after me.  You have to understand.  I don’t care if she doesn’t know her alphabet at age 4.  I simply want to provide what she needs as she needs it, and right now, she wants to do everything–including cook and clean and water plants.  And I think it’s valuable to let her try, even though it slows me down considerably.

I’m more able to verbalize today what I was feeling yesterday.  I’m the type of person who absorbs my environment.  What I mean by that is I absorb what the other person is feeling, and I, literally, experience the same hurt or joy.  I carry it with me, even when I’m distant from the source of it.  Does that make sense?  It’s a strength, but a weakness, too, because by doing so, I’m unable to pull away from it to see it objectively.  I felt sad for Liliana, playing by herself.  I felt frustrated that I couldn’t communicate what I wanted to say.  I felt out of my element, much like Liliana, and it made me sad.

Imagine my relief last night when my friend said, “Elissa, you must know about parallel play.  Kids Liliana’s age play by themselves in the midst of other kids.  It takes a while before they start playing with other children.”  Okay, so silly me.  Why hadn’t I thought of that?  And what else am I worrying about that is ridiculous to fuss over?

I need to take a chill pill.

One story for today.  A couple of days ago, I took Liliana out to the front of our house where we have a whole grove of quaking aspen trees.  The wind was blowing through the coin-shaped leaves and making a wonderful rushing sound.  She stared for a long while, then she said, “Whoosh,” or something that sounded very close to it.

The next day, I had forgotten about it, but right after breakfast, she went to the sliding glass door, indicating that she wanted to go out.  I opened it for her, and she curled and uncurled her fingers, like she wanted me to come with her (she’s learned “Come here”).  We stepped out into the cold and sat on the top step.  She pointed to the high crowns of the aspen trees and said, “Whoosh.”  We sat there, silent, for maybe three minutes, then she was done and wanted to go back inside.

What a precious inquisitive soul.