Emily had her last "regular" dance class this morning. She'll miss next week because she and Willem are going on a sleepover at the Museum of Science - poor kid, we never let her do anything fun - and the following week is the dress rehearsal, then the recital is the last weekend in June. Amen. I'm still irritated with the studio owners' "Let's overcharge for stupid things and make innocent 16-year-olds deliver the news so that when the parents go berzerk we don't have to deal with it" policy, which has caused me to start drafting a snotty letter to them - which I won't deliver until after the recital because I don't need them to take out my crankiness on Emily.

I already can tell that dance lessons are going to be an echo of last summer's soccer team: during the lessons, she looks miserable. She's bored, she doesn't do it as well as some of the other kids, she comes out asking what we're going to do next rather than chirping about how things went today, and generally doesn't seem like this is rocking her world. At soccer practice last summer, she told me her favorite part was sitting on the sidelines, picking flowers. But then after soccer was done, Emily talked about it with the fervency and intensity that you hear from televangelists or alien abductees. Apparently time not only heals all wounds, but also adds a certain level of bliss and surreality to them as well.

Speaking of alien abductees, I have to make a change in birth control methods fairly soon, and am being strongly encouraged to consider an IUD. Which seems like a reasonable consideration, except that the idea of a device plugged into my body makes me think of the tracking devices left behind after alien abductions. Think I should wear a metal colander for the procedure, just in case? And if I start doing wacky things like selling the children or supporting the current federal administration, be sure to point it out... often victims of mind control don't seem to realize that they've had such major alterations in personality.

Anyway, at the end of dance lessons, they hand out lollipops to the dancers and to any siblings forced to hang out in the lobby while we listen to the echoey music and random tap-tap-taps of the dancers. Jacob picked up on that right quick, and now if we try to head to dance lessons without him he files an official, formal complaint. Loudly. So he went along, and got his lollipop. Which I promptly confiscated, because we were heading immediately to Home Depot to do their monthly craft (which is free, so I love it, because it's free). He pouted a little, but he believed me when I said, "We're going to Home Depot to do the craft, and then you can have the lollipop." To which he replied, "Why-pop."
"Yep," I said, "Home Depot first, then lollipop."
"Why-pop."
"Home Depot first, though, okay?"
[silence]
"Jacob?"
"Why-pop."
"Soon, baby. After the craft. At Home Depot. Can you tell me, Home Depot?"
"Why-pop."
"Hmm. How about just, Okay, Mama!"
"Okay, why-pop!"

And as soon as the little toolbox was hammered together, he got his why-pop. And life was good.