Hold My Hand, Mama

"Mama?  I thought about it all day.  I want to go to Full House with you tonight and skip gymnastics."

"You sure?"

"Yes, because gymnastics is one day a WEEK and Full House is one day a YEAR.  It's important."

"Sold.  Go get your happy clothes on, little mama, let's roll."

And off we go.  To Abby's Full House or Open House as those administrators like to call it.  We arrive a bit late on purpose to miss the general meeting.  Neither of us are interested in joining the PTA or sitting in cafeteria seats.

Full House is no misnomer as the halls are pulsing with parents in khaki pants, belted dresses, and scrubs.  (I miss wearing scrubs to places where nobody knows if you are just getting home from your residency, the ER, the OR, or the kennel.  Oh, the mystery.)  Immediately, I withdraw from the crowd in front of us.  Abby pulls me onward, her tiny hand in mine.

"Mama, C'MON!  We'll be late!"

Her confident presence fuels me to motor not only into the throng of people, but through it.  We come out the other side a smiling semi-circle, attached at the palms.

As we enter the classroom, Abby's teacher points to her, winks, then kneels down to hug a little boy showing off his herringbone jelly necklace.  She makes a big fuss and all I can see are her eyes, blue as daytime, and her pink painted toes.  She is a magnet for the children.  Before we make it to Abby's desk, I count four kindergartners tugging at the teacher's blouse, excited to see her after-hours and to show them something from their very own home.

Abby's major modus operandi is strictly to stick with the program.  She has an agenda and follow it we must, leaving no cubby unturned and no folded paper house untouched.

Proudly and reverently, she walks me to each corner of her classroom.  "This is where we nap, Mama.  But I don't really nap.  I might close my eyes but I don't really nap, I don't think, please and thank you."

Abby's nervous "please and thank you" started a few months back.  It's her go-to filler phrase when she doesn't know what else to say.  There are others that have come and gone like, "I think" or "Maybe I just dreamed that" or "I don't know" but "please and thank you" has stuck around the longest.  It's what I will remember when I think back to Little Abby.  That and her love of bubbles.

Moms and Dads are holding Chicka Chicka Boom Boom charts.  Some are pointing to cut-out pictures of their own children on the wall.  Most are making the exaggerated, "Oh my!" face so their children will know their art is not going under-appreciated.  We are all walking slowly.  But I notice something.  The other children are running around the classroom, to each other and to their beloved teacher.

All the children are untethered from their parents except mine.

Worried, I'm holding on too tightly and of course, ruining my daugther's chances at a successful future and marriage, I give slack in our hand and let my Abby go.

"Mama, I have to show you the HALLWAY!!"  She is already moving as she gobbles up my palm in hers once again.  Like a silent wish being answered, it is her doing, not mine.

Again, we weave in and out of people clusters like two coils of one busy DNA.

This tiny hand of hers in mine is everything in the world right now.  I can't make small talk, parent-teacher niceties, bend down to admire a little friend.  My girl has my hand in hers almost on accident  as though it's the most natural thing in the world, to connect herself to me -voluntarily- because she wants to.  Not because she needs to.

It's more than wanting to show me the hallway.  (The HALLWAY.)  It's more than attending her very first Full House.

It's a connection.  A connection that will be paraded through crowds, schools, projects, arguments, boyfriends, girlfriends, sleepovers, dances, graduations, and time.  A connection that will sometimes disconnet, momentarily, but always find its way back again.   A connection that I believed was one-sided:  me holding on to her for dear life.  

All these years, I've been so worried about what happens when I let go.  

Until I did.




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Hive Update:  Didn't mean to leave you all hanging about Abby's hives.  After she finished the cocktail of medicine her doctor put her on, she is all better.  No hives, no fever, no more mystery virus that caused them in the first place.  The ER doctor (yes, Dr. McSteamy) warned me that it will come back when I least expect it.  He's a realist, after all, just like an imaginary boyfriend should be.

How I Met My Mother

There comes a day when we rip off the band-aid and see our mom as a person separate from her role as our mom.  If we're lucky, and I was, we get some of that while growing up.  And then again after having our own children.  And then last week over FaceTime.  

Seeing her this way is like meeting a stranger at a party, listening to her catch up with old friends, and watching as she orders a drink you've never heard of.  She's fascinating, engaging, and very, very funny.

Here are some of the many ways I got to meet my mother.

• Mom as Surgical Assistant - When my brother was 16 he got into a bad car accident.   The ER where the ambulance took him had only a skeleton crew that night.  After a three-hour wait, Mom went back to the room, let the doctors know she was an oral surgery assistant so she could see her son.  Mom left me in the waiting room with clear instructions to wait for her and not go back there.  Being a dutiful voyeur, I snuck back to find a familiar face scrubbed in.  In a matter of seconds, she had two patients as my head became swimmy and I passed out right into a garbage can.    

• Mom as Ginger Rogers - Sometime in the early 90s my mom decided to take ballroom dancing. She couldn't talk her then boyfriend into taking the lessons, too so she just went by herself.  I remember waving to her from the driveway as she drove off with a nervous smile.  Even without a recital, we could tell lessons were going well from the flowers showing up at our door.  Dancing dude was smitten with Mom and tried very hard to win her affections away from the boyfriend.  Mom stood firm, however, and she (with those elegant long legs) bowed out of dancing lessons gracefully in the end.  

• Mom as Animal Rescuer - One time in the 80s while I was roller skating to Debbie Gibson in our basement, Mom was grinding up dried dog food for two orphaned baby birds she found near our house.  Without Google, Mom figured out how to nurture these bald and blind critters to health and a wealth of feathers.  I'd find her feeding them with a tiny eyedropper, teaching them how to grub for worms, and bathe in the dust.  Mom was very thorough.  To our surprise, those baby birds took off in flight when it was time to let them go.  Eric and I didn't have the heart to tell her they never left our backyard trees.  Their great-great-great grandbirdies are probably still populating those trees to this day - oddly intransient birds who hop only from limb to limb of the same tree.

• Mom as Collector - When my mom crushes on something, she falls hard.  Then she wants all of them.  In the world.  Through ebay.  Somehow she started on those glass jars that store brandy.  What are they called, decanters?  She owns maybe 15 of them (thrift finds, I'm guessing) and doesn't even drink liquor, bless her heart.  And please don't ask me how many Vera Bradley purses she might have tucked safely in their dust bags.  She only has two arms and one daughter but that doesn't stop her from bargain shopping for another one to send to me in case I need to wear it with something ecru.  

• Mom as Mrs. Somerhalder.  My mom thinks Ian Somerhalder is her boyfriend.  She adored the man well before I knew him as an animal activist.  She watched him as the vampire bad boy in Vampire Diaries because my mom loves all that creepy stuff.  Before that I couldn't call her between 9pm and midnight lest I interrupt her Ghost Hunter marathons.  Let's just say she asked for an electromagnetic field detector for Christmas one year.  And still uses it.    

(Ian is far left for those of you who aren't into vampires.)

• Mom as Facebook Dropout - My dear mother does not get Facebook.  She has an account, occasionally uses it properly, then one day calls me in a panic because Ian Somerholder just left her a picture of himself on her wall.  Oh Mom.  That's your newsfeed.  I got the same picture of Ian. He's just using you to get to me, Dear. 

My mom does have a point, y'all.

• Mom as Aesthetician - Without fail I spend more time watching my mom pat down her neck or push toward her temples than actually engaging in conversation over FaceTime. Mom, you look great.  Listen, I want to talk to you about our summer vacation.  Dear God, do I really look like this?  Why can you only see the inverted skin on this thing?  Does my skin look all inverted to you on that end?  Mom.  Seriously, I don't even know what that means.  You look beautiful as always, I really like your hair.  Oh thank you, my hair is about the only thing behaving today...Oh Honey, have you gotten your brows done recently, your eyes look so open!  Oh good.  A two-way mirror.

• Mom as Diane Keaton - A little over a year ago, a friend of mine told me my mom reminded her of Diane Keaton.  Perfect, I told her.  I canNOT wait for her to hear this.  She's going to love that.  Come with me so you can see her reaction, will you?  Hey Mom, guess what?  What.  You know who Jen thinks you look like?  Kate Winslet.  No.  Um, no.  Diane KEATON.  Ah, yes, I can see that.  

• Mom Unplugged- I can't remember the first time I saw my mom play the guitar but I can tell you it never gets old.  When I was little, I'd beg her to sing Roger Whittaker's Whiskey in the Jar and Peter, Paul & Mary's Puff the Magic Dragon just so I could hear her voice rise and fall and watch her fingers reach and press strings I still barely understand. 

• Mom as Lent Observer - This year my mom gave up meat for lent.  She's lost about 12 pounds from her already svelte frame and thus, has been barely able to peel herself off the couch to play with her boxer puppy.  Other than that, she says she feels great - ?!?- and that she doubts she'll ever go back to a carnivorous lifestyle...until our last FaceTime session when I caught her gnawing on a hunk of Filipino beefsteak that had been marinading in soy and something else yummy overnight.  Thank goodness.  I think maybe we'll ease her into a vegan world one week at a time.

• Mom as YouTube Aficionado - Most recently I mentioned to my mom I've been trying to build more muscle.  She no sooner heard me say that when I received a few emails in my inbox from her that led me to a YouTuber named Leslie who has excellent workouts for busy moms.  I mean, excellent workouts that make you grunt and want to stop at 5 instead of 15.  A few videos and one yoga ball later, I've shaved off one inch from the hipular region and can feel ab muscles underneath the layers of loving kindness womb cushion still remaining.  Thanks to my mom (and Leslie), I am feeling better about my ability to get back to me.  Me as The Old Me.  Me as Her Daughter. Me as Stranger Ordering Mysterious Drink. 

Cheers to all the mamas out there whether you mother children, fur babies, feathered babies, yourself, or your friends.  May we all get to see the real sides of one another shine through more often than our Hallmark versions.  It would be such a shame to cover up the good stuff. 

Forward March

There is contented snoring all around me.  My dogs have been lulled to sleep after a trot around the neighborhood and a quick meetup with a puppy.  Sadie never appreciates youth.  She doesn't relate to their doppy paws or their inability to recognize her as high priestess.  Sparrow whinnies like a small pony, overwhelmed by air, forward motion, and mailboxes.  Their lazy inhales make me feel like a good mom.

A basket of folded laundry waits for me to stop avoiding it.  It will have to learn to snore, too.

Blinds opened for sun on my shoulder, I can see four ducks trail up behind one another to carry on their mysterious geometry while they paddle the pond.  Line, turn, line, turn, line.  Suddenly, they sidle up the bank, following their fearless leader.  He has decided where they will go for lunch.

Abby's happy morning voice is still in my head from preschool dropoff.  Arriving to carline on time, she had a few minutes to unbuckle and play.  She used that time to slowly place one pink and one purple plastic connecting stars on my face to see what I'd look like in star-shaped glasses.  She watches me all the time, I can feel her eyes taking me in and putting me down somewhere for later.  I will always disappoint her.  This is one of those things moms must learn along the way.

Her innocence stares back at me in pictures now.  I imagine her older, her vibrancy taken down a notch, quieted for her peers so she won't stand out.  I miss her impossible shine already.  There is nobody who exists more than my girl.  She is all in.

My boy is soft and cuddly when his father's not home.  There is a gender distinction that never was before in Virginia.  There, Mom and Dad were his parents.  Here, Mom is soft, silly, and safe.  Dad is fun, fast, and revered.  Another thing a mom must learn along the way.  A boy loves his mother.  A boy wants to be his father.

My role is changing here and it makes me want to carve my name in all the trees.

Abby notices her brother doesn't want to play Leap Frog Hide & Seek anymore.  She wants me to hide his Kindle on the weekends.

When Abby and I drove across a long bridge recently, she told me she can feel the earth spinning and see it moving on the rippling water.  She asked me how to slow it down.

Such girls we are.  Both of us trying like hell to achieve stillness...sameness... for just a little while.

Easy as ABCs

Abby's preschool teacher seems very concerned she does not know all of her letters or numbers yet.  I'm still very concerned Abby won't eat carrots anymore and cannot breathe through her nose.

Perspective.

Abby's 5.  She is in preschool.  Since my chat with the teacher I've thought really hard about things and my conclusions are:

A.) Preschool is where kids learn to stand in line, sit criss-cross applesauce, and try not to walk around with their hand in their pants.  If they're wearing pants.  Basic readiness skills.  Pre = Before.  Before School skills.  Seems simple enough.

B.)  What happened to readiness anyway?  Did Common Core eat it?  This preschool is well sought-after and typically wait listed and now I'm learning why.  They move forward with academics.  Which is awesome.  If your kids is developmentally ready for that.  While mine rolls her eyes, has mastered a straddle split, and mispronounces "evidentally" yet uses the mispronunciation correctly, she is not developmentally ready for letter/sound recognition.  Her brain is soaking things in at such a rapid rate that it will soon be ready.  But not yet.  Right now she is busy making rainbows on every pond stone in our garden and I am going to support the live arts dammit.

C.) Part of me is tragically embarrassed that I, a former special education teacher of 5 years, cannot get her child to learn her ABCs by the end of preschool.  What kind of credentials do I hold if my own daughter hands me a Q when I ask for a K?  Bless her heart, she is pushing for accolades.   "Watch me read, Mommy!"  And I do.  I watch her recite three BOB books in their entirety and marvel at her ability to memorize.  What kind of determined spirit memorizes - verbatim- three books of words she does not yet understand are words yet.  A very bright and hopeful spirit.

And then there is this.  "Mommy, did you know "a" is a word all by itself?"  She's getting there, it's a process.
Despite the fact that I have worked on ABCs with her, Abby's teacher has given her nightly homework and I agreed to it, like a chump.  The first one was completed this morning.  She cranked out those As like a star student.  Then she colored each one in the center with pink.  Then she connected them so they wouldn't be lonely like a lacy Valentine.  Because she's five.  A bright and hopeful five.

I do understand that the teacher's heart is in the right place.  She wants Abby to keep up with the class.  She doesn't want to leave Abby behind.

But that is where the trouble starts for me.  Behind.  Behind what?  Behind whom?  Is Common Core such a threat to the educational system that it is now infiltrating our nation's preschool curriculum?  Will my daughter join the other 5-6 year olds in the fall and not be able to sing The Wheels on the Bus?  Will she be a poor line leader because she thinks S is a C because it makes the "sss" sound?  Will Abby kick other children in the shins at the water fountain because they can find R without singing the entire alphabet song?  Maybe yes for the last one if the kid is mean about it.  

I am in the process of letting Abby be her five:  painting by number on the porch (she does all the 1s, is exhausted, and asks for a snack after that), dragging her stuffed animals along for a walk causing neighbors to rubberneck, feeding her babydoll spinach instead of more Goldfish.  I am letting Abby be her five.

But I didn't at first.  After conferencing with her teacher, my knee-jerk reaction was to buy ABC puzzles, games, books, that make learning "fun!"  Only a mother like me cannot make teaching a daughter like her fun to save her soul.  When Abby kept calling E a V, I lost all worldly compassion and drilled her with direct instruction until we were both in tears.  My investment was too high, her risk was too deep and our frustrations imploded all over the living room rug.

Suddenly I am the one kicking kindergartners in the shins at the water fountain.  I felt like I was bullying her into learning to slalom before she learned to ski.  My girl tries and tries but covers up her understanding with silly faces and clever insight, "Mommy!  Why did the walrus have a baby?  Because it wanted to kiss her all the time."

Green witch.  Flying monkeys.

But no more.  I'm releasing my teacher guilt to the universe where it can feed stars.  I was a teacher in another life.  It was awful.  It was glorious.  I have nothing to prove to anyone.  It is over.  Right now, I'm Abby's mom with her best interest at heart and I can't forget that.  I'm the one who knows when she's ready for something or not.  She's showing interest in letters and she's getting there to learn them, gradually.  At her pace.  I'm the one who protects her from pressures and stress.  I will not be the one causing it.

Pants Hero

Abby and I have gone to war over clothing.

She and all of her lively skin neurons cannot deal with pants.  She will wear skirts, shorts, knee-high socks, leg warmers but not actual pants.  This isn't normally a problem since we live in the south now.  However, this winter has been colder than normal, dipping into the 40s with cold rain at times, and she still refuses to cover those legs.  For the most part I back off and let her walk out into the frosty air in her Pippi Longstocking getups and go home to drown my mom guilt in tea.

I let her sort through her bureau and find what works.  Sometimes it's this:

Other times I hear her in her room, tearful and standing in her undies looking around for the "purple skirt with the stripes," that she rejected just yesterday.  It's like she's looking for something that doesn't exist....all the time.

It's like she's me.

I hate it when I see her be me.  I hate it that this drives me so crazy that I walk out of her room spitting mad because WTF, they are just pants.  I hate it when I am reminded of what hurts by watching what is hurting her.

We are both overly sensitive souls.  The main difference is Abby needs LOTS of outside stimuli to function whereas I need LOTS of inside quiet to be ok.  Other than that, I can relate.  I feel for this child because I hate pants too.

When I was younger I would stand in my room, changing outfits hundreds of times because nothing felt right. At the time I thought it was just a wardrobe war.  Now, with some distance between me and my teenage closet, I realize I was uncomfortable in general.  Something was always too tight, too baggy, too squeezy, too bunchy, and eventually I'd throw on some leggings and "borrow" my uncle's baggy sweater.  In my quest to find the perfect pants, I found a proverbial bag to throw over my body so nobody would see me there. Thankfully it was the 80s so this passed high school muster.  

My Abby is struggling through her field of discomfort now.  It is beginning with pants but it won't end there.  And I don't know how to let her figure it out herself.   Isn't it my job to help her?  Isn't it my role to help her be comfortable?  Be ok with everything?

I want to help her.  I want to purchase the exact thing she can wear because it's 100% cotton, seamless, weightless, and sparkly.  I want to be her Pants Hero. Watching my girl wind up frustrated and distraught because she just can't get comfortable for the public is hard.  But it's necessary.  She has to push through itchy, scary, rude, bunchy, "blooshy and paf *as she calls it*" to get back to ease.  Ease with herself in her own skin.

Life is going to give her pants.

I just hope she discovers a love for leggings.