Shy Little Rosebud

Gillian has always had an uncanny ability to express herself in the most plaintive terms possible. Sam once had a trip for work--he'd been gone only a few hours hours when she said solemnly, apropos of nothing, "I'm all alone in this world without a daddy."  She was only two at the time.

In the intervening time, she has only honed this special rhetorical gift.  The day after the baby was born, she mused to Sam, "What if Mommy doesn't love me anymore?"  Part of what makes her little thoughts and questions so gutwrenching is that she says them so simply and plainly.

After her second day of school, when she'd been a little anxious at the drop off, I asked her if she had had fun. "No," she said solemnly. "We did not paint.  I did nothing fun.  I just was sad for you."

And today, in the hopes that things were getting better, I asked her on the way to school if she was excited to play with the toys they had there and with her new friends.  "No," she said, "I only play with toys that nobody is playing with.  I only play with trains [her favorites among the toys] when you are there."  She is just too shy to play with other kids she doesn't know.  And so as I dropped her off, I was left with the tragic image of her playing by herself with the undesirable toys, alone in the midst of 29 other joyous three-year-olds.  

Of course, when I pick her up, her teachers tell me she immediately cheers up, and she had a good day, and they are wonderful, loving, honest, and wise ladies, so I have no reason to doubt that it's a great experience for her.  In fact, her shyness probably means it's all the better for her to have the experience, and once home, she talks happily about school and proudly shows off her crafts and sings her little songs. But oh, the tugging of my maternal heartstrings!