Curling Time

At the end of every night, when the living room TV has been turned on to Duck Dynasty or American Pickers and it's my turn to give the final sweep of evening kisses, he asks me,  "Mommy? Do you have time for curling?"

Curling means swirling my tired, frizzy hair around and around in his fingers until it makes a curl.  Or a rat nest.  Or until I whimper because he really got into it and tore some out.  Grayson has used my hair as his lovey for years.  When he was very small, he'd take my ponytail out, hold a hunk of mommy freedom hair in his grasp, and growl like a kitten practicing his cat.  My mom always called this "The Passion" which is just one of the many things my mom names that have become our family's indigenous language. 

The Passion was such a crutch for baby Grayson to soothe himself that I co-slept with him until well after a year.  When we finally braved up to stick him in his own crib, Dude was pissed.  In desperation to reclaim my own scalp and space, I bought the only doll I could find with dark hair like mine.  She was basically a Spice Girl knock-off in a shiny green, painted-on catsuit.  A ho bag we named Lolita.  Grayson wasn't fooled.  This imposter was no mommy hair replacement and she was chucked at the wall faster than I could make it downstairs to watch through the baby monitor. 

Those nights kept me awake for more hours than anyone else in the house.  Watching my baby boy and his plumped up nursing lips at midnight, then at 3, then again at 5 and 7 (He was a VERY hungry baby.  He was hangry.) was the only reward for the loss of brain cells and sanity happening in my own milk-bloated body.  When I think back to that time in his soft nursery, I remember the beige slider, Iroquois drum/chanting music on replay, and the way his baby socks always looked too small on those chunky baby thighs right before he fell asleep in the crook of my arm.

Somehow, throughout the years, we got Grayson to sleep in other ways.  Now, he rarely gives us any trouble at night and goes to bed without a fight.  Like clockwork, he asks me to kiss Abby first and then come back for him.


"Mommy?  I have to ask you something.  Do you have any time for curling?"

Most of the time I say yes, crawl in bed next to him and lay my head down on his Lightning McQueen Pillow.  He makes curls in my hair while we chat about "Luke Skywalkers," a bad call from the umpire in his last baseball game, or if I think he should be a Marine he grows up.

Lately though, Andy and I have been bustling, hustling and plain ole desperate for extra kid-free minutes to get housework done or even an adult conversation about which fundraiser to fill out or "recycle" for the next morning.

On those nights Grayson hears:
"Oh Honey, I have to go make lunches."
 "Maybe tomorrow, Mommy is SO tired."
 "I would but your sister is still milling about in her underwear."

Immediately, I hate myself as the corners of his hopeful eyes lower in acceptance.  "Ok.  Maybe tomorrow.  Goodnight Mom.  I love you."

That little meatloaf love muffin turns seven tomorrow.  I don't wistfully wonder where the time has gone because I've been right here inhaling the minutes and exhaling out the seconds for nearly every speck of it.  The decisions we've made for this family - me staying at home with our kids have made us beyond frustrated, without frills, and with somewhat funny medical side effects of fatigue.  For me though, they've allowed a keen understanding of shifts going on that I might otherwise overlook.  The subtle changing going on every day I can't see but can feel without that extra look back at the bus stop.  All this helps me fully appreciate that soon our Curling Time is coming to a close.

His once chubby baby legs now reach past the middle of his twin size bed.  His Spiderman jammy pants are always too small.  There are Lego Batman books in his bed instead of loveys.  Books that he now can read to himself before bed.  Stuffed animal friends that he once meticulously lined up in order of who comforted him the most are now strewn about in the closet, forgotten until I hold them and cry vacuum.

 

 

This little hangry, loving babe has been doing a phenomenal job in becoming a beautifully intuitive, smart boy.  I could not be prouder or luckier to be this boy's mother.

And yes, you can bet your catsuit I will always say yes to curling whenever he asks.

My Something

Me:  Sorry I was so out of it tonight, Bud. 

Grayson:  You mean because you were all pink-face, Mommy?  You still are pink-face, what's wrong with you Mommy?

Me:  It's the usual, Honey.  You know...

Grayson:  I already know (He admits as he brings my face close to his on his pillow, pushes his velvety little hands through my hair, and finishes off the sentiment with love pats.)  Uncle Jimmy, right? 

Me:  Bingo.

Grayson:  Ok, Mommy.  But you forgot something.

Me:  I forget a lot of somethings.

Grayson:  There are two Uncle Jimmys. 

Me:  There are?  Well then where in Simon Says is the second one hiding?  In the closet?  (Grayson told me a while back he thinks Jimmy is hiding in a closet somewhere.  Abby added that yes he is hiding in there with Tillie.)

Grayson:  No, the second one is not in the closet.  He's right here in open air.  You are tucking him into bed right now.  It's me.  I am your second Uncle Jimmy.

Me:  Oh, Baby.  If anyone could be, it would be you.

How Not to Mend a Broken Heart

We were so sheltered in Virginia. 

I thought we were worldly.  Urban.  Right from the street, son.  But now that we're in Louisiana country, down where the "water don't move," I have changed my tune. 

First major difference is how kids physically run back and forth between homes to play here.  What?  People still do that in this day and age?  News to me.  In Virginia, we have play dates where parents almost always attend.  Some of us hover or at least spy-plane during the entire play date to make sure our kids are not making murals from Sharpies all over their walls.  Moms drink booze chat, discuss perimenopause, and occasionally referee an argument to save any child's feelings from getting smashed into pulpy remains. 

I see youuu.

Here in the south?  So very different. These little buggars are largely on their own.  Kids play, moms need not always apply.  No mama girlfriend in tow with a bag of Veggie sticks in one hand and a bottle of Bailey's in the other.  No in-home cookie decorating to keep all age groups united.  No being a 39 year old preschooler along with the 5-year-olds so everyone plays fairly.

It's like going back in time.  Kids are allowed to be kids again, not inmates being policed and monitored by parents who worry for their children's safety.  Kids here are watched from behind closed windows as they scuttle across the street, then outside then inside, then mudroom, sunroom, driveway, back yard, front yard then back inside with their motherless snail rot shoes still on.

"Miss Lady, do you have any snacks," the new group of bellies ask me. 

"Umm...  Yes.  I mean...have you eaten lunch yet?  Are you allergic to peanuts?  What is your name again?  Do you like cucumbers?"

You guys, it's an entire new thing of beauty here.  Pretty much 1984 without shoulder pads and Speak & Spells.

"Grayson, please let me know when you leave the house, and make sure you walk your sister across the street she doesn't look she trips every time thank you!"  Our door closes, the kids shuttle each other across the street and I look sideways for another child to help but none are singing my name whilst on the john or inside a cupboard.  Ahh, such new found freedom in this retro lifestyle.

Until. 

Until the fight.  My boy and his new friend get into a tiff.  Not a fist fight but enough where I feel the need to halt my joyous cleaning frenzy to mediate.  I, however, make a very poor social worker and New Friend still leaves in a huff even after an apology from my own boy who stands at my left confused that "I'm sorry" does not work.

"Oh Bud, give him some time.  He might come back."

But New Friend never does come back.

Later that night, Grayson tries again but is denied.  He comes to me with chin quivers and tears pushing at his pupils.  "He's not home.  He went to his best friend's house to play with him instead of me."

Oof.  Zing.  Yeah, that one does hurt a bit, Little Man.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask praying he will rather play Lego Batman.  But he does want to talk about it so I pull out my best Maya Angelou and let him know that new friendships are fragile,  take time to grow into something more reliable and firm, and that no caged bird sings or some shit like that.

He lets me squeeze his little bony shoulders to my soft ones and brings his eyes to meet mine.

"Do you think he'll want to play with me ever again?"

Of course I want to say YES!  Every fiber of me wants to reassure him that this too shall pass and everything will be sunflower and coconuts once again but something stops me.  This time I resist the urge to explain away human suffering.  I refuse to give him any more empty promises.  Instead, I hold his face and let him know that I have no idea how things will turn out.

And man alive is it hard to watch my boy and those hurting eyes that, up until that point, believed I always had the power to fix any of his broken things. 

But this time?  I don't feel mending his broken heart is sound parenting.  That practice is getting much too risky now that he's getting older.  He must learn to navigate these sticky social spider webs himself.  And how can he practice that if I keep hovering/spy-planning/mediating the way I've always been?

Grayson and New Friend have not seen each other since the tiff but Grayson seems eager to try again.  His tenacity is admirable but scary.  Personally, I would not try again, after the second rejection. 

Luckily for him, he is not me.  Sadly for me, I must remember that I am not him.  And his heart?  It's his to run inside, then outside then inside, then mudroom, sunroom, driveway, back yard, front yard then back inside with his motherless snail rot shoes still on.

And my heart is to wave to him from behind those closed windows.

Not as Bad

 

Okay Kindergarten, I get it.  Sometimes my kid needs me to believe in him instead of bail him out.

I'm learning.  Slowly but surely.

Last night, I didn't fix a pretty significant school issue for Grayson (not being bullied or anything Dateline-ish, don't worry) even though I could've. (I'm using the singular parenting pronoun because my husband was on travel although really, if I'm being honest, most of this crap happens when he's not here anyway.  What's with that, moms? Something else they don't tell us in Lamaze class.)

It was one of those parenting decisions made based on empowerment.  Based on trying to teach them how to cope with life's adversities when they arrive. 

Unfortunately, this is the same breed that makes you question yourself.  It makes you second guess, hold your breath, and gut out the hours until the outcome is revealed because your mommy heart just wants to ask the teacher to be extra patient with your sensitive boy.

You know, like they are in preschool. 

Grayson is having a tough moment with Kindergarten.  He loves school, loves his new friends, loves to rise to the occasion but has been plagued with his "wiggly belly" again.

His nerves have made a serious comeback.  Headaches, upset stomach, dizziness, near bodily collapse, you name it and my poor boy felt it last week and now again this week.  

Last night we had a heart-to-heart right before bed.  He detailed his worries for me, right down to almost hyperventilating about a poem, and begged me to help him fix them with his big 'ol puddled up doe eyes.

I wanted to fix them all for him.  Oh Dear God I wanted to make it okay right in that second like all mommies do.  The most haunting part was that I most likely could've solved things with one e-mail or phone call to his teacher. 

This time felt different though.  I had a sense it would be more beneficial for him to do his own legwork.  Even if that legwork took more painful strides per mile to get there, it was his hill to climb, not mine.

After our chat and a good body hugging cry, we both felt completely ambivalent about the next day.  My "convincing" voice needs some work.  Neither of us bought an ounce of what I was sellin'.

Pep talk number two started in the a.m. when I could see his pale face starting to go Twilight on me again.

"You can do this, Honey.  It's going to be better once you get it off your chest.  The worry is always worse than the outcome," I prattled off to my own shaky hand trying to apply eyeliner.

Oh no. What if he throws up in class?  What if I throw up in the car?  What if they are too busy to help him today?  Am I some kind of horrible mother expecting too much too soon?  He's just a little boooyyyyyy!!!!  Breathe, Freakshow.  It's Kindergarten, not Iraq. 

Before either of us needed a paper bag, we grabbed our things and scooted out the door to drop Grayson off at school.

Then Abby and I went about our day.  We distracted each other with make believe Polly Pocket villages.  I worried, fretted, and regretted my decision to have him deal with things himself.  I needed pick up time to be here so I could wrap him up in my arms, apologize for making him do the scary thing, and feed him several cookies while streamlining Jessie on Disney.

Four o'clock finally arrived and do you know what?  Everything was fine. 

"Mommy!  Our class got FIVE stickers today and a special treat from the office!!  But a few kids did not because they got to yellow and that means they do not get the treat.  I think even some of them got to red."

I listened intently while checking his daily folder for the note about how many times he was sent to the nurse's office with a migraine and hives.  What I found instead were papers with "Grayson" in his own handwriting (I will miss you "Grayzon" ) AND the names of two of his classmates...all written out legibly!  By him!  The boy with the wiggly belly and sad sorrowful eyes.

"Did you talk with your teacher today about ______?"

"Yep."

"How did that go?"

"I don't remember."

-give him a second, shut your piehole woman, wait for it-

"Actually, I do remember. 

















(I know, the suspense was killing me too.  He's a man of few words, like his father.  Sometimes I can read an entire article on Huffington Post while waiting for either of them to respond.)

















"She said, 'Oh,' and then we lined up for lunch."

"Did that seem to make your belly feel better?" I ask with a quick prayer to the Kindergarten Gods.

"No...I still have a wiggly belly at the day time but it is I think....it is not as bad."

Not as bad.  A parental win, as far as I'm concerned. 

I will certainly be happy to take Not as Bad from him over All Better from me who wants to fix every boo-boo and climb every mountain with Julie Andrews.

This growing up thing is hard to do but I think we're both getting somewhere.

Water Balloons and Hammocks

We knew something was up when Abby regressed into not having a "thing to wear" while her wardrobe is filled with the softest clothes this side of the Delaware River.

Andy thought of taking her temperature before I did.

103.9

Aha.  Why don't I ever think of that first?

We Tylenol'ed her right away and felt confident she would be feeling better in 20 minutes.

I took myself straight to Giant for chicken soup ingredients, frosting for a doll party Abby insisted on having, and TP.  Three hours later (Someone got carried away reading labels.), I came back home to find Abby's fever was worse, not better.

Andy was buzzing back and forth talking about emergency rooms and cold baths.  Poor man.  He lives with so much stress on his shoulders all the time and this surprise fever was not on his syllabus.  His motherboard short-circuited so I put grocery bags in his hand to calm him down.  Food and organizing the pantry is his happy place.

Even with Tylenol, Abby's fever sky rocketed above 104.  Thankfully, a kind nurse on the phone squeezed us in as the last appointment for the day.

Abby's doctor couldn't have been better.  She took one look at Abby glossy eyes and flaming throat and called it. "Strep."  She was so sure in fact, that she wrote out a prescription for amoxi before we went to the lab downstairs.

Minutes after Abby and the tech tussled, the strep test came back positive.  Thank goodness, an actual diagnosis; something we can work with.  Not a mysterious ailment bringing with it a fever connected to nothing.  I will take strep any day of any week.

But poor kid, she really did have a rough day yesterday between body aches, chills, and generally feeling like hell.  I knew she was hurting when she shunned a Strawberry Shortcake marathon for her own bed and closed shades.



Grayson watched TV most of the day because Andy was stuck outlining historical wars in the study and I couldn't spin the nurse plate and the 5 yo boy plate just then.

By the time I was finished sponging down Abby's scalding hot body, it was near 4pm.

"Can we have a water balloon fight, Mommy?"

Seriously, kid?  I'll have you know I want to curl up on that there couch you've been camped out on all day to close my eyes and dream of rocking in a hammock over fields of barley.

"A water balloon fight.  Okay, yes. Go get your shoes on."

With that, I forced myself to ignore the great desire so sleep and we had ourselves a grand time.

 Granted, the water hose was not the fastest method but it got the job done.

 Which gave Grayson plenty of time to practice his I-Will-Crush-You-Like-A-Samurai faces

 This one kind of had me nervous.

 "I won't throw these at you, Mom!"

 "I will LAUNCH them at you like the scary ball of boy angst that I am!!"

 Ahhh, the One-legged death toss!!

 He even had the dogs running.

 But look who came outside with us later on for a quick visit?  

She didn't last very long but it was good to see her upright again.

I guess sometimes a water balloon fight really is much better than a boring old hammock anyway.

Sky Writing

Get this, you guys.

Tonight:

A tornado warning (a tornado warning!?) at 3pm here in VA. 

Looming green skies, swaying tree limbs, and thundering rainfall for thirty minutes around 4pm.

Lights flicker.  Power dims.  We grab blankets and head to basement.

Storm surges then wanes and is just a mess of tricking clouds after 5:30. 

At 7:55 my father-in-law hollars upstairs, "Hey, a double rainbow, come see!"

And this is what I caught with my camera:

 So excited...that I forgot the flash.

 It was a double rainbow but I was a bit too late to catch both..

 Flash on, rainbow fading.

 Fading more but still there.

I mean, really.

We could have had the tornado warning at noon.  Or last Tuesday.  Or never.  But it was this afternoon, at 3pm.

It could've rained just a normal rain and then passed us by but it came down like angry nails for thirty minutes, coating everything in its path with a swirling pool of water.

The storm could've ended without any encore but this sky had other plans:

(This looked about 10x more incredible in person.)

This sky had something to say.

And I pray Anna got to "hear" it too.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

The air moves cool between us in the mornings now.  We all walk a little faster.

Except for Abby who always lags a bit behind.

 

"I'm still little, you know," she defends and I'm glad she says so.  Because sometimes, with her, it's easy to forget.

Grayson's bonding with new friends.  Like souls with whom he can play and talk quietly.

 

 There is homework to pour over every night.  Andy is here, like a relative seen-and-not-heard- sitting under a glowing Owl lamp.  I enjoy proof reading and feel guilty for loving his new schedule much more than he does just because he's home.

Creatures from other planets visit us in red buckets while we squeal and shriek over its hissing mouth.

Abby paints and paints, and paints.  She adds color to everything around her.

  

Sparrow is catching up on lost dreams.  She knows Sadie will get all the bad guys so she sleeps in with me who knows these days of sleeping in are numbered.

Late days of summer are not so bad at all.

Can We Build It?

For 12 dollars from the thrift store?


YES, we can!

My Son, The Theologian

Grayson has always been a sensitive child.

When he was only six months I was beside myself with wondering why he wasn't anything like those happy Gerber babies I saw in play yards cooing at stuffed caterpillars and sweet-eyed baby elephants.  He wasn't content unless one of his "people" was near enough.  I mean near enough to see them, smell them, feel them with his invisible tentacles that couldn't reach across a small room.

Grayson never wanted to be alone.  I realize most babies don't like to be alone but if you ever met us in the first year of his life, you would see a baby who could sense when his person even thought about sprinting to the upstairs to bring down some clothes to fold without him.  He required lots of attention and loved having things explained to him.  In detail.  Until your brain fell out of your ears.  And then again more. 

It was sweet but difficult too because sometimes I just wanted to have a cozy little uncurious lump on my chest who slept for hours instead of minutes.

And if he was handed off to someone he didn't particularly have memorized, all fury broke loose.  Dude was not having any substitutes.

My "friends" told me I needed to socialize him more.

I considered drinking.

My family reminded me he was Grayson and had his own personality way before we met him.

This idea finally sunk in the day a book called, "Parenting Your Sensitive Child," literally fell into our shopping cart on one of our thousands of trips to the thrift store.  I practically read that puppy cover to cover before we left the parking lot.  It would be my new bible; paragraphs highlighted, sentenced underlined, pages dog-eared to show Andy.

THIS AUTHOR KNEW GRAYSON!  Where was BOOK TWO?

This book, my family, and a gigantic learning curve taught me how to appreciate Grayson for who he was:  a sensitive, beautifully deep, and compassionate boy.  Little did I know just how deep.

When he was very small, not quite two, we took a nature walk around the neighborhood.  Grayson stopped to smell a neighbor's cluster of flowers.  He gibber jabbered something about them and began walking again.  "Mommy?  What dey name?"

"What, Honey?"

"What dey name, da fowers name."

"Ohhh, the flowers?  Those are called, ummm, they're petunias I think."

"No, Mommy dey not toonias."

"Then what do you think they're called?"

"Dose fowers name imp-AY-shuns."

And hell if he wasn't correct.  Those flowers were impatiens, I had forgotten that was their name.  I should've known because my grandmother planted them every year in the front yard.

"You're right, Grayson, how did you know?"

"She tell me."

Um, what the who the what?!?

"Who told you, Honey?"

-Pointing to the yard- "Her.  Dat Lady tell me."

OMGOMGOMG  he can see my grandmother.

"Is she an older lady?"

"No, she is same as you."


So who knows who he was talking to but I can promise you I've never met an under-two-year-old child who can tell you the difference between a petunia and an impatien.  It fa-reeeeaaaked me out.  But in a good way.  Suddenly I gave way to a possibility that Grayson's sensitive nature just might be a bigger blessing than I knew.  Or it could just cost us playdates, playground playdates, and other people in general.

So many more stories to share about Grayson's take on the cosmos but zoom ahead to a few nights ago to a conversation we had right before he fell asleep.  He was practically snoozing while he was talking which only loaned itself to the eery innocence of his words for me.  I will warn you that the first sentence is a doozy.  Consider yourself forewarned.  He's not a child who cares much about Legos or riding his bike although sometimes I wish he was.  Sometimes I wish he wasn't so consumed with the bigger picture.  But he is.  It's the undercurrent of his thoughts that comes out when he is comfortable, peaceful, and feeling safe.  It always has been.

 

Our Conversation Not About Power Rangers

 Grayson: Hey Mommy, we're all going to die. 

(Oh boy, here we go again.)

Me: Why would u say that?

Grayson:  No, I mean all the people on earth are going to die because 

people can't live on and on forever you know.

Me:  No?  Can anyone?

G:  God.  

Me:  Yeah?  How do you get to be that guy?

G:  You die an then you become God.

Me:  So people who die get to be God?

G:  Yeah.  Mommy?  What do you think God feels like?

Me:  Probably like flying.  What do you think?

 Long serious pause, I actually thought he fell asleep thinking about it.

G:  Like guarding.

Whoa.  Never thought about it that way.  Poor tired God. 

Me: Sounds exhausting.  Do you think God naps?

G:  No.

Me:  That's a raw deal.

G: What do you mean, raw deal, Mommy?

Me:  Nothing Honey.  It just means I hope you're wrong about the napping

and right about everything else.  

Proud of Me

Tuesday afternoon was Grayson's Kindergarten Orientation.

 I had a stomachache all morning long.

I forgot the paperwork on the dresser once, my coffee mug on the van twice, and lost my keys which were already in the ignition before 9a.m.

By the time I got the text from my husband at 1:30 that he had biked home and was showering I had broken a nail, panicked as the "low gas" light came on in my van, and scratched the bottom of my purse for gum or at least a pulverized mint. 

Finally, at ten past 2:00 (late again) Grayson, Abby and I pulled up to meet Andy in front of the elementary school.

I ran into the curb where my husband was standing.

My hands dropped keys, registration papers and sunglasses when I got out to let him park and meet us inside.

I led Grayson by the shoulder as we walked toward the biggest door in the universe.

Suddenly there was ice in my chest.

We found the end of the parent/child line and I tried to steady my hands long enough to scribble, "Grayson" on a nametag.   He looked up at me while I smoothed it on his superhero T-shirt. 

I needed to find a restroom to throw up but climbed the stairs toward the auditorium like the rest of us wide-eyed parents being ushered along like jittery sheep instead.

A lady with mouse brown hair and a sunny smile asked Grayson to line up with the other blue nametags.

They were taking the kids to their new kindergarten classroom while the parents sat to listen to blah blah blah wondering where the hell our children were going.

I let go of his hand, smiled reassuringly, and promised to come get him when they were finished.

It was all happening much too fast.

He lined up quickly and went with the others like he was supposed to.

 Without looking back.

I fumbled for a seat, then my breath, then my heart.

My baby is going to kindergarten.

Through hallways that never end.
With kids bigger than mine.
For hours that go on and on forever.
With teachers who go by their last name, not their first.

 Ready or not, my baby is going to kindergarten.

"Grayson, I'm so proud of you for today," I tell him before dinner.

"Then why are you crying, Mommy?"  

"Because I'm so proud of you for being ready for kindergarten, Bud, that's all."

Hugging me tightly my little man says to me in all his boyish wisdom, 

"Mommy? I'm so proud of you for letting me go."