With Martin away for a business trip, and our nanny visiting family in the United States, I am completely on my own with the kids this week. Just on Monday morning alone, I dealt with a missing permission slip crisis, a tick discovery followed by tick removal that sounded like major surgery without anesthesia, school drop-off, and a “sprint” to my own appointments and meetings at my full-time job until I had to dash back home to get the girls to their spring music concert.
Because she’s going to German school next year, this upcoming formal dance may be the only one of its kind for Miss C.
So, we allowed her to ask one of her friends (a fellow American in our village who used to attend the same school) to be her date. Strictly as friends, but as expected, Martin isn’t very enthusiastic: he was shocked when he saw Miss C trying on my formal dresses, and he’s pretended not to be supportive any time the subject came up.
I feel like I should say that Martin and I are completely knocked over by this, but the truth is, we were a lot more emotional when she turned ten. Weepy — a little — when she turned five, but ten really did it to us. Something about the double digits, the necessity of both hands to display her age, the idea that an entire decade passed since she was born.