Ellie just learned how to whistle. For five solid days, she’s been blowing wind out of her pie hole. Yesterday, it turned into sound. One note. Over and over again. I’m looking forward to car trips this summer.

We’re putting our summer holiday to the Mediterranean on hold temporarily. We’re thinking it might be more fun to just stick around home and have Ellie’s adenoids removed.

Well, aren’t I the ninny for thinking that THE BLOOD DRAW might be a topic difficult to shed for five or six YEARS. When will I learn?! That was so last week.

Tank tops are the true nemesis. I don’t know what exactly it is about them, but Ellie finds them oddly peculiar, hates, them, loves them, and is drawn to them. She cries when I have them on and questions me constantly about when I’ll be changing. She wants to wear one. Then it’s in a heap on the floor for committing some fashion faux pas known only to her. There are constant questions about them.

* Do you like tank tops Mom?
* Is your tank top made out of fabric?
* Why do people wear tank tops?
* Can you wear a tank top whenever you want?
* Will you please take off your tank top?
* When can I wear a tank top?
* Does this tank top make my arm fat look fat? Well, maybe that one was mine.

Our IEP at the beginning of this preschool year included goals of sitting in circle time with the other kids and saying good morning. I left that meeting in tears. So hopeful, that if just that goal was met one time, for the entire year, it would have been a complete success.

This was my girl at the end-of-the-year party. Awesome!

During the blood drawing yesterday, there was the screaming and terror that I expected. And, although I felt horrible that Ellie had to have this procedure at all, my mind was in the “how long is this going to occupy her thoughts beyond this three minutes” mode, for the Aspergian mind of a three-year-old is adept at staying on target with a topic until, well, the end of time.

This topic could stick around for three months, like our previous perseverating visitor, the stinging bugs. Or maybe two weeks like the pain she must have endured from the umbilical cord clip seen in her baby picture. Maybe it will be a visitor that arrives at the same time daily, like our current topic, “When I get my driver’s license, will I better understand the difference between the yellow lines, white, lines, how lanes work and how to use a clutch than I do now?”.

Wind down time from stressful events involves sitting in her bean bag chair, sipping juice from a sipper, snuggling with meeper (most prized and beloved blanket), and watching Nemo or Horton Hears a Who. So, of course after our trauma, we hunkered down. Ellie randomly paused the movie, at one point to the very picture below, and when she returned laughing, said, “HEY MOMMA! That was me a little while ago, but the shot didn’t go in my mouth.” And, that is indeed, exactly what she looked like.

Send tequila. Ellie is having blood drawn tomorrow. And not with a pencil.

Yesterday
Ellie: Mom, when is it going to be Mother’s Day again? I like making you happy all day long!

Today
Ellie: Mom, you aggravate me all the time. Stop aggravating me!

As I opened the door to Ellie’s classroom, I witnessed her stretching her arm out as far as she could, wiggling her fingers, and saying goodbye to a girl from her class. With a loud voice. Using the girl’s name. A voice that wasn’t heard at first, but then she repeated it. This little girl then turned to Ellie, said goodbye, and approached Ellie for a hug. And do you know what frickin’ happened?!!? The earth stood still along with my heart. Ellie wrapped her arms around the girl. Aside from her father and me, I have never witnessed Ellie hug another person. It was the sweetest, most beautiful thing. EVER. In the entire universe of existence.

As I stood there trying to take in what just happened, Ellie tied her jacket around her waist (to be like just like the teacher she adores) and we started out the door. Apparently, wearing your jacket around your waist gives you a wiggle like you own the place. She sauntered down the hall unaware and not caring if I was beside her. Head up. Shoulders back. A little girl at the end of the hall watched Ellie approach. As we neared, the girl put her hand up in a motionless wave. I’m assuming she was in awe of the confidence exuded before her. Then, as if she was greeting a coworker at the office where she worked for twenty years, Ellie looked at the girl, put her hand up, and rounded the corner. Off to get her coffee before heading to her cubicle.

Ellie’s Great Grandma came with me to ballet tonight. We both cried.

Today is Ellie’s maiden voyage into ballet class. Much like a lot of four-year-old girls, the key to success is the wearing of the ballerina ensemble for a solid 72 hours straight. I’m hoping she will be like an invincible Meerkat and really enjoy it. If not, at least she has an outfit to wear. Forever.