When we left home this morning, she wore a plain print dress with one of my old sweaters from college draped around her shoulders. A shiny patent leather purse, larger than a small overnight case, contained a variety of trinkets of random significance. Red Nike running shoes with Velcro snaps (necessary because she cannot tie her own shoelaces) completed the ensemble. It took me more than an hour to dress her, even after allowing her to choose the outfit.
Our separations at day care are always traumatic. She cries when I leave, and I try not to cry about leaving her. At work, I concentrate poorly because of my concerns about whether she is participating with her group and cooperating with the staff. I've had to meet once with the day care director because she was becoming disruptive during reading activities. I worry that her friends will tease her about her clothes. I dread the day when I will find, again, that she has urinated on herself without telling anyone.
She is always happy when I come to take her home. Today she was almost effusive when she saw me at the door. It gave me some hope that she may be doing better, but I can never tell for sure. Her enthusiastic smile changed to a pout when I asked her about her day.
"They wouldn't let me read to the others," she said, picking at a pair of silk summer gloves that I did not think were hers. She would say no more about it, and I didn't ask. I never push for discouraging news.
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