This is right up our alley. Abby adores clothes. In fact, at a little over 2 years of age, she has very strong opinions on fashion. She’s like a pint-sized Anna Wintour, but twice as temperamental.

I was getting us ready for the excursion, rifling through her overstuffed and crumpled drawer for an outfit suitable to wear. She was right there along with me, and just so happened to be nixing every choice I offered.

At first, I asked if she’d like to wear a lilac and blue striped dress. I know the answer to this question, but I still try because dresses are easy. It doesn’t matter how much I plead, though, she responds with a firm no.

I handed her pink pants, purple pants, a jean skort. She turned her nose at them all, brushed aside as if to say you’re kidding me here, right. Then, out of desperation, I suggested a full sea mist green skirt, accentuated with a petite bow on it’s side. “Yes!”, she agreed brightly.

That was just the start of it, however, because we still had to settle on a top.

All the while, J is eavesdropping and laughing at our conversation. When he finally speaks up to say, “I can’t believe you’re arguing with a 2 year old over what to wear.”

I can’t believe she already has a better sense of style than I do.

For their late afternoon nosh attack, all the kids were given bowls of popcorn while watching a movie. When I walked in to check on them, Jedi was discussing and explaining their simple feast with Abby.

“I told her that popcorn is like macaroni n’ cheese, but you eat it with your hands. And there’s no cheese”, he said, as if he had been really thinking about this perfect analogy.

“Oh, macaroni n’ cheese is like popcorn?”, I asked, confused. Maybe I don’t think like him enough, because it just doesn’t seem the same to me.

“Yeah, but there aren’t any noodles, either”, he quipped.

So macaroni n’ cheese is apparently just like popcorn, but without the cheese and noodles and you have to eat it with a fork. Amused, I replied, “They really aren’t anything alike then, are they?”.

“Yeah”, he agreed between bites. “But they kinda are.”

And that is why I am so happy he’s home.

I gave him a huge hug when he walked in, I could have done a dance. He’s back to his regular self. He looks like himself, he talks like himself, he was running and jumping around and yelling at his siblings, and he couldn’t wait to play games on his computer. Just like normal.

He was also back in his clothes, after being forced to reside in regulation hospital attire. The first night, during one of the rare instances we left him by himself for a few minutes, the nurses had changed him into their version of easy to slip on and off pajamas. With that, they also removed his underwear to make bathroom visits simpler. Except the boy isn’t used to going commando.

We were sitting together, commenting on the past few days with small talk. I told him how happy I was he was home. How much I’ve missed him, which is a lot. How great it was to see him like himself again.

“Isn’t it great to be back in your own clothes?”, I asked.

“Yeah”, he agreed, happily. Then, as if a lightbulb ignited, he remarked excitedly, “I even have my underwear back on!”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Well that’s a good thing, huh?”

It’s amazing what makes us feel like ourselves. I’m just so happy he’s home. And everything’s getting back to our new version of normal. Even his underwear.

Abby’s positioned on the couch, one of our decorative pillows in hand. I’m trying to do some work on the computer from the chair across from her, but she’s having none of it. If I take my eyes away for a second, she barks even louder, her face in a pout.

“Mommy watch!”

She takes the pillow and pretends to eat it, stuffing a piece in her mouth. Then takes it out, smiling, to do it again. I act briefly impressed at her latest benign talent as I attempt returning to more pertinent matters at hand.

“Mommy watch!”

I look over to find the pillow balancing atop her head now, a smirk resting across her lips. I laugh, saying another few words of strained encouragement before I try to continue working, getting nothing more than a few letters typed.

“Mommy watch!”

She runs to the center of the room before she starts off clumsily spinning. Small actions that to her seem huge. I dart my view away for a moment, when she files to me directly, capturing my cheeks with both hands and wrinkling her tender nose.

“Mommy watch!”

I get it, finally. Whatever I was working on can certainly wait. There’s dances and tricks and funny faces. Matters much more pressing that need my full attention.

Today is your very first day of school. I know, I should have written this last year when you headed off to kindergarten. Except we messed up, your father and I. We all know this by now. We weren’t sure if we were moving at that time or staying here, and your registration continued to be postponed. Clearly, we weren’t in any kind of rush.

Because I was afraid to let you go, you were held back.

“We’ve never had this situation before”, the school informed me. Which is polite code for geez, mom, what the heck are you doing? Good question. We decided that you would spend a couple weeks in a kindergarten setting, to make sure you’re ready to advance. What you know and your willingness to learn will be assessed and evaluated. You will be the oldest kid in the class, turning 7 years of age in November. For at least those first few weeks, anyway. Because you will rock their socks off, I have no doubt.

You will move forward. You will be in 1st grade soon enough, with your group, with friends, right where you’re supposed to be. We all know how incredibly smart you are, it won’t take long for them to know, too.

Today, we dropped you off for your very first day and I am so incredibly proud of you. For taking all of this in stride. For being nervous, but not afraid. For paying no attention as I shed a few tears. For walking through those doors, into your own.

I love you. I miss you already. I can’t wait to hear about your day.