...and beginnings.

Life Chez Crazy will never be the same again: JJ started Kindergarten on Monday.

Anyone who knows me in real life will want to run screaming into traffic when they see the word "Kindergarten" on my blog. I literally agonized for months about whether to send JJ this year. It got to the point where even Jack was sick of hearing about it. But it was a tough decision: JJ's birthday is in November, just a month before our state's cut-off date. Which means that he's starting Kindergarten at age four.

That wouldn't trouble me too much if it weren't for the trend of redshirting that's sweeping the nation. After all, I was four when I started Kindergarten. And like JJ, I was small for my age. (Of course, I was a girl, which I'm told makes a huge difference.) But because so many parents are holding their children back an extra year, many of JJ's classmates are more than a year older than he is. He's not the smallest child in his class, but there are certainly plenty of kids who tower over him. And when I think of what his life might be like in middle school, I break out in a cold sweat.

It's not that JJ's behind academically or socially. In fact, I'd venture to say that he's one of the more socially advanced boys of his age. But he's young. And maybe a little bit sheltered. (Which is undoubtedly my fault.) While the other boys are running around the playground being "bad guys" and gunning each other down, my sweet child is pretending to be a mermaid.

It's hard to know how to take his reports of school. On Monday he was excited: "We got to hear two stories! And sing lots of songs!" His enthusiasm carried over through Tuesday: "Today we got to hold the guinea pigs! They're so soft!" But Wednesday he seemed a little tearful: "No one wanted to play with me." And yesterday he told me he doesn't like school: "Two boys hit me. On the playground and then in the classroom." On the way to school today he said, "I just wish I were sick so I could stay home with you."

This is uncharted territory for me. JJ went to a cooperative preschool, so I was aware of most of what was happening even when he was away from me. Now there's a yawning four-hour period of his day that I know almost nothing about. I have this sick feeling in my stomach that makes me wonder if we've made a terrible mistake starting him so young.

I realize that any big decision we make will surely translate into years of future therapy, but this one really has me worried.

Endings...

My uncle died last week after a long battle with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I flew to the midwest for his funeral and spent time with my aunt and my cousins. It was good to see everyone even though it was a very sad event. And I'm glad I had the chance to say good-bye.

When I was little, my uncle scared the shit out of me. He was physically imposing with a big, booming voice—and a tendency to yell. I thought he was always angry, and because I'm basically a self-centered person, I thought he was always angry with me.

It wasn't until fairly recently that I realized what a wonderful, warm-hearted person my uncle was. Shortly before my grandmother died, I flew out to visit her and stayed with my aunt and uncle. My aunt informed me one day that she had plans for the evening and my uncle would be taking me out to dinner. I was terrified. I couldn't imagine what we'd talk about. I figured we'd stare at each other or he'd start yelling at me. I tried to think of an excuse, but there was no avoiding it.

I needn't have worried. My uncle chose a beautiful restaurant with great food. We shared a bottle of wine and sampled each other's entrees. We talked about so many different things: his psychiatry practice, my crazy family, my husband, and my uncle's children (my cousins). We laughed and cried and actually enjoyed a real conversation.

I'm not sure exactly why I feel so bereft. It's not as if I've lost a parent or even someone I saw very often. But I miss my uncle. I wish I'd known him better.