What powder? Oh, that would be the powder that Nate dumped All. Over. Part. Of. My. Bed. And. Right. Next. To. The. Bed.
Yep. Just for kicks and giggles.
Please note: I’m not laughing.
*sigh* Regression. It happens. It’s not fun, but it does happen. I don’t think this is unusual, something like this happening not just on the eve of a big change (kindergarten starting), but as the big change starts. Add to that other changes — bedtime being moved up, for example, and you have a recipe for Regression. I understand all of this, but it’s still frustrating.
The powder isn’t the only thing, believe me. Last night, as I was sitting here at the computer while Frank gave him his bath, I heard a litany of tears and pleadings:
I don’t want to lose Teee Veeee
I don’t want to lose my loader
I don’t want to lose . . . . [whatever it was]
Tonight, Frank’s brother John came back into town. Nate adores his Uncle John. We had dinner, the three of us, because Frank teaches late every Tues. and Thurs. night. John cooked on the grill and we ate outside on the deck. At one point, Nate said he was going inside to play with his construction toys (well, that would be some portion of his many many construction toys. Ummmm, yeah). He came back out and I saw this suspicious white stuff in his hair. And a bit on his shirt.
Come here, Nate. What is this?
“Nothing,” he said, like a typical kid.
I sniffed him, like a typical mom. My finely tuned mom-nose smelled talcum powder, the kind I use every morning before I get dressed, the Shower-to-Shower kind.
Nate, that’s my powder. Did you do something with it?
“No,” he said.
Well then, how did it get on you?
He’s dumped the powder before, you see, but I had also told him before that he was never to do that again. NEVER.
You want to know how he got powder on him? Who spilled the powder in my room?
“Callie [our dog] did it,” he said.
Note: Even IF Callie had opposable thumbs and/or the desire to do such a thing, Callie was outside.
Nate and I went inside and surveyed all of the powder on the bed. I started coughing because that crap, condensed like that, tends to collect in my lungs. Then I saw the floor. Ohhhhh, the floor. Feeling the container of powder, I understood. It was almost empty.
I didn’t scream (though I wanted to). I didn’t beat my head against the mattress (though the thought crossed my mind). I didn’t wail and beat my chest (though it would have been a great relief to have done so). I didn’t perform physical violence on any human being anywhere on the earth or in any galaxy, for that matter (though that would have felt good for at least a few minutes).
As calmly as I could, I said:
You know what, Nate. I know that you did this and Callie didn’t. You know how I know that? Because when this was happening, Callie was outside with Uncle John and I and you were inside.
At least he looked appropriate chagrined.
Yes, another consequence. I was going to have him help me clean up the mess, but honestly, it was just TOO messy for a 5-year-old. It really was. So I cleaned it myself, told him the consequence, and gave him the “this means that we can’t trust you to be inside by yourself for awhile” speech.
Later, I talked to him about how I know it’s difficult to have so many changes in his life, even if they’re good changes, but he still needs to have good behavior. I listed all of the changes he’s going through — kindergarten, going to a new school — and he piped up with “making new friends.” Ahhh yes, making new friends. He makes new friends very easily; he really has a gift for it, but still, I’m sure he misses his old friends. There’s only one kid from his preschool who’s going to his kindergarten and they’re not in the same class. They play together at recess, but that’s the only time they see each other. I can’t this weekend, but I think next weekend it will be time to try to get a playdate set up with a preschool friend of his.
Yes, many changes. And big-time testing of Mom and Dad. BIGTIME testing.
The real question is: will we pass the test? 
