On the way home, I had to explain to the airport security lady that she should let me carry on 40 ounces of liquid, despite TSA’s 3-ounces-only rule, just because this was breast-milk. She was surprisingly understanding. “Who are you delivering this to, honey?” she asked. It’s for my own baby, I explained, who I’d abandoned all weekend, left with his poor father. “Oh,” she reassured me, “it’s good for them. It’s good for dads to have a weekend with their kids.”

I think she’s right, and I think, actually, that it’s good for all of them. Here is just one of the skills that Sophie learned this weekend, from her dad:

Yup. I had to wait til after I had stopped laughing, after I took this photo, and after I praised her surprising skills of strength and not-spilling, until I could finally bring myself to explain to her that it’s not actually a good idea to drink straight from the jug.

Soph got to eat mac’n'cheese for nearly every meal, this weekend. She got to watch 6 videos — which sounds like a lot until you realize that’s actually only 3 hours of television, which is what most kids get in a day. (Soph only gets tv on weekends, and it’s mostly PBSkids videos — and I don’t think it’s ever been 6 videos, so, really, we’re probably depriving her of critical pop-culture by being so puritanical about screentime, most of the time.) She got to build a model truck with her dad and go to the beach with him too. She discovered that she can dress her larger stuffed animals in Everett’s clothing. And she got to go two full days without a shampoo — which is most four-year-old’s dream.

Everett got to learn what a bottle was. He got extra time with his dad. And when Everett fell asleep in the car, Ben gave Sophie $5 and sent her in to our neighborhood doughnut shop ALL BY HERSELF while he sat outside with sleeping Ev. Soph reports that it took a while before the man behind the counter noticed she was there, and then she had to say “Two maple donuts, please” three times before he understood her, but she did it, she bought her own doughnuts.

It wasn’t an easy weekend, but it was good for them. She bought her own doughnuts, learned to drink from a jug, gained some independence, got a break from my strictures. Ben managed to keep two kids happy and healthy. I got time to be just a professor again, time that makes me a better mommy in the long run, I hope.

And, in another milestone, Soph tried riding her bicycle without training wheels. She was surprisingly good at it. I’m having trouble uploading videos to this blog, so you’re just going to have to believe me when I tell you that she shouted, with great delight: “This is CRAAAAZY!”

It’s because our 14-year-old neighbor had asked if she could take Sophie to Disneyland (along with her 16-year-old friend).

I said yes. I don’t like amusement parks myself, and I’m especially not fond of the way Disney colonizes children’s imaginations — but I don’t believe in banning anything. We do live about an hour from Anaheim. I didn’t want Soph to be the last in her class to visit those Princesses. I liked the idea that Soph would get to see Disneyland with an expert friend. I liked the idea that Soph would get to go without me actually having to go, too.

I believe that our fabulous neighbors are far more normal than I am. It seems like a good idea to expose Soph to normalcy.

But when I told this to my mom friends, they all gasped. I let Soph go alone with a young teenager, fairly far from home, to the most crowded place imaginable? “What could go wrong?” I asked, and they all gave me a look, then said, “Do you really want an answer?”

So I wrote my phone number on an index card and made Sophie put it in her pocket, in case of emergency. I know we’re not exactly living in the days of Paddington Bear, but this still seemed like a good precaution.

My teenage neighbor took her own precautions. She mapped out the route they would take through the park, planned how to avoid the crowds, supplied me with a packing list (mittens for the evening, a pull-up diaper for the car-drive home: this 14-year-old thought of everything), and requested to borrow a camera so that she could document Soph’s wonderment so I wouldn’t entirely miss out.

But the moment that made me most adore this neighbor was when she arrived to pick up Soph and I reminded Soph to go use the bathroom before the long car-ride. Soph hates to be told to use the bathroom. But our neighbor cheerfully said, “I’ll go with you,” cleverly circumventing all whining. They emerged a few minutes later, Soph ready for the trip, hands washed more thoroughly than usual, and proudly sporting a fluorescent pink streak in her hair. Yes, we keep bright-pink hairspray in our bathroom — but it hadn’t occurred to me to use it on a regular basis. That’s why my neighbor is a magical friend to Sophie. That’s why I encourage this friendship.

“Does she have our phone numbers programmed into her cell-phone?” Ben asked.

“I don’t know, but she dyed Sophie’s hair pink,” I told him. “They’re both so delighted. It’s going to be fine.”

And it was.

My neighbors’ mother reported that, on the late-night drive home, Soph woke up only briefly to say, breathlessly, “There were dancing gingerbread men!”

She’s grumpy, other adults I trust have confirmed. Soph herself seems to come home from school grumpy, but it’s hard to tell how much of this is due to school and how much is due to being four and a half, and a new big sister, and all.

The first thing I noticed about Soph’s teacher is that she is a terrible speller. She not only misspells every second sentence in every handout she sends home, she also consistently misspells Sophie’s name, which particularly irks me, because how hard is it to spell Sophie, and how important is it to a 4-year-old to have her name spelled right? In a class of 15 kids, you would think the teacher would be able to spell each kids’ name. But I am trying not to judge her on her spelling alone.

The problem is that I worry her curriculum is as stupid as her spelling. I have posted about this before. There’s a lot of emphasis on worksheets. Even more disturbingly, every kids’ art project almost always looks the same, because, it seems, conformity to directions is the highest value in her classroom.

Other parents tell me that she prepares kids fabulously for kindergarten by teaching them most of the kindergarten curriculum while they’re in her preschool class. I realize that this puts me in a minority, but I actually don’t see the advantage of learning kindergarten curriculum a year early. I suspect it will make Soph stressed in preschool, bored in kindergarten, and then frustrated in first grade. I realize that I should be happy that Sophie is truly mastering her letters and numbers, but what I would prefer to see is a deeper sense of creativity and joy in Soph’s preschool classroom.

I was worried I was being too picky. I tried volunteering in Sophie’s class, to spend more time and allay my fears: but while I was there, I saw this teacher sternly disciplining kids in a way that used public shaming. Too many of her students seemed more cowed than four-year-olds ought to be. And then this teacher had the gall to complain that, while volunteering, I breastfed Everett in front of her students. She didn’t even complain to me directly, but asked the preschool director to pass on the message to me in a way I found particularly irritating. The preschool kids keep asking when I’ll come back to teach again, because they loved my creative children’s theater activities — but I have  explained that I can’t return if I can’t breastfeed my baby.

I am trying to separate my personal dislike of this woman from what really matters. And what I end up focusing on is the art table.

The art table in her classroom has seats for 4-6 kids, but in October, this teacher declared that only 3 kids at a time could sit there, because it was getting too messy. In November, she decided only 2 kids at a time could sit there. Sophie spends a good portion of each day waiting in line for a chance to do art. This really doesn’t seem like a good preschool policy.

I talked to the school’s director, who seems to share my values, is not a fan of worksheets in preschool, and has now ordered this teacher to shift to a bigger art table so there will be no limits on the kids’ art time.

The problem is that I’m not at all sure this particular teacher shares my values. She will obey the director’s demands, but she doesn’t see what’s wrong with privileging cleanliness over art, and doesn’t seem to understand my suggestion that perhaps the kids can be taught to do art neatly.

When I talked to the director, I asked if Sophie could be shifted into the other four-year-old class in this school, where I think the teacher is more appreciative and nurturing. It doesn’t look likely. I can understand that the school doesn’t want to set a precedent of shifting kids between classes every time a parent complains. And I realize that I am being That Parent, the one who over-scrutinized everything.

All this means that, dear blog readers, I am wondering yet again: should I shift Sophie to a different school? There is space in Soph’s old school, a loving and wise space. It has horrible hours (9-2, as opposed to the flexible 8:30-4 of the current school), and is off all summer (as the current school isn’t). But it has teachers whom I love and appreciate, who teach things that matter.

Sophie herself doesn’t seem to mind her grumpy teacher as much as I do. Soph actually likes worksheets. She would like a shorter day and less competition for time at the art table, but maybe I can give her that by talking to the director, and also giving her plenty of art time at home, maybe.

If I do switch schools, January is the time to do it, so I need to decide soon.

That doesn’t even include the TWO trips to see Santa at the San Diego Botanical Gardens, which are magically lit up at night all December. Or the Daddy-daughter trip to the Nutcracker. Or the many Christmas parties and one Hannukah party we’re attending this week. Or the fun trips to drop off Christmas cookies and cards to everyone we love. Or the drives around town, enthusiastically shouting “CHRISTMAS LIGHTS!” every time we see Christmas lights.

But, oddly, I keep feeling guilty that we aren’t celebrating the season enough. Some nights we forget to open Soph’s advent calendar (mostly because we’re out late at Christmas parties, but still). Most nights, we forget to light the candles on our advent wreath. We skipped our town’s Christmas parade this year (partly because of another party that day, I think: it’s all a blur, really). And I had to modify the shout-at-Christmas-lights ritual with the addendum that if Everett is sleeping in the car, we have to try to speak quietly enough not to frighten him.

I was trying to figure out why, no matter how much I do, it doesn’t seem enough. Then I figured it out. It’s because it’s sunny and 60 degrees out. It’s Southern California. It will never fully feel like Christmas to me.

Everett got to meet his namesake, his great-grandpa, Dick Everett Doherty.

Dick charmed me by declaring that my Thanksgiving meal was the best he’d eaten in 91 years. It was pretty good, if I do say so myself.

After the food, we had a very competitive game of Chinese Checkers.

Other amusements: swimming in the hotel pool, riding in the hotel elevator, and shopping at the cowboy clothing store.

Everett tolerated being toted around Anasazi ruins.

Soph actually enjoyed it, most of the time.

Until we made her take one too many family photos.

But, really, it was worth it for the family time.

And the views.

You can see all of Ben’s photos here.

• the beach
• the bathroom — especially while giving Soph a bath or helping her brush her teeth, although it is hard to help her brush her teeth when I have only one hand free
• every room in our house, including the garage
• at yoga class
• various bike races. Watching the races, not racing.
• my office. I use a hooter hider, there, although elsewhere I confess I don’t always bother with that scarf cover-up.
• my classroom — just once, when the sitter brought Everett over for the break-time in my 3-hour seminar.
• the aisles of Costco. Thanks to my ring-sling, I can actually breast-feed while pushing a shopping cart, even the ginormous Costco carts.
• hiking at Torrey Pines State Park and along the Pacific Coast Highway. Yes, I’m especially proud of this mobile breast-feeding.
• while trick-or-treating. My halloween costume this year was regular SoCal Mom attire: knock-off ugg boots from Costco, yoga pants worn all day, and a semi-interesting t-shirt, accessorized with a 14-pound infant in an elephant costume who was conducting his usual 5-7 pm nursing marathon. I think this costume was either SuperMom or FoolishMom, or maybe both.
• the parking-lot of Target — and other parking lots too numerous to remember, across California, Arizona, and New Mexico.
• dirt roads by the side of the highway on our recent road-trip to Navajo Nation. Somehow, with my first baby, I don’t remember spending this much time sitting in the front seat of a parked car, feeding her.
• inside a reconstructed Anasazi kiva — after I said a silent prayer to the Pueblo Indians’ ancestors, telling them I meant no disrespect. I assume the kiva people had to feed their babies, too?
• every single restaurant I have eaten in since September 13
• my friends’ living rooms
• beside other breastfeeding babies. Will Pippa, Calvin, or Kyler remember that they used to breast-freed side-by-side with Everett? Will they stay friends that long? I hope so.
• in the parking lot of Sophie’s school. Also, once in her classroom, when I arrived for pick-up while the preschoolers were still eating snack. Everett is a hungry baby and he likes to eat whenever he sees others eating. This may be why, at 2 months old, he is wearing the 9-month-size clothing.
• at the swimming-pool where Soph takes swim-lessons. Also at her gymnastics lessons, when she took those.
• at the doctor’s office. Ev likes to reassure himself, in new places, by breastfeeding. It makes him feel more comfortable to know his food is there.
• while playing hide-and-go-seek with Sophie. It gives the game an extra challenge.

“How do you spell Rad Dad?” Ben was off at a bike race and she wanted to write him a note.

“Do you remember when Great-Grandma Kay turned blue?” That was a year and a half ago, when Kay’s supplemental oxygen failed to work but she didn’t want to come down off the Colorado mountain, one of her last times in the mountains before she died. I can’t believe Soph remembers 18 months back.

“Tell me another story about what happened at this highway exit.” Music to my ears. Do all kids ask what happened at Junipero Serra Boulevard, or is it only the kids of professional historians?

“What does God look like?”

“Did you know that nothing rhymes with orange?”

“Do you know who I’m going to marry?”

“When will I be the boss? Wait, what does ‘boss’ mean?”