Why is it that the parenting things you worry about seem to come in threes? Just like all the other bad shit in your life?
A) There is, by all accounts, a not-very-nice little girl at the Bear's preschool. Two of them, really. Tiny little four-year-old bitches. Last week, they wouldn't let the Bear play with them because she had the wrong color of hair. (!) Then, today, Little Miss Emily* wouldn't let the Bear play Ring Around the Rosie with her and Cynthia. The Teacher had to tell Emily to be nice (!) to the Bear. While I'm glad that the teacher has a good grasp of the situation and is reminding these little shits to play nicely, and while the Bear is completely unperturbed by all of this, and has her own little group of nice, sweet girl friends (god bless Nikole with a K!), and while I know as a teacher that this is just part of the growing up process, I am just. furious. In my heart of hearts, I would love to protect the Bear from all the unpleasantness of life, and I can't, and it just kills me. Somewhere out there, little Emilys and Cynthias are being MEAN. To my BABY. That's so not cool.
2) The Bear failed her hearing test at the doctor's today. We've known for almost a year now that she doesn't hear very well, and place the blame squarely on the 50 or so ear infections she's had**, but it still gives me visions of little tiny hearing aids, and mama don't like that very much.
C) The Bear has been talking to her Head lately. Out loud. She'll say, "Head! Stop bothering me! I don't want to listen to you!" and discuss at length with me the things that her Head is telling her to do/think/say/feel. Given my family history of mental instability, I'm convinced that I have a schizophrenic preschooler running around here. Is she or is she not hearing voices? I can't tell.
*You'll never know if that's her real name or not...
**I'm not even exaggerating here.