Still in There

Entering this new phase of life is disorienting but really fun.

Kids need me but only between the crushing hours of early morning and after 4pm.  Dogs and kitten want things with their eyes every thirty minutes in between.  Husband is all newly flirty, sweetly romantic, and retirement-planning.

I knew this time would come but I must've been changing the garbage bags because I didn't see it arrive. 

Ten years in family-rearing trenches never felt so rewarding and so completely bereft of self.  I'm sure I was there because two small children call me Mommy but sometimes I wonder. Do you, too?  Do you wonder where you went and why you had to go all these years?  Do you miss yourself?

Where did that student go who finally earned a respectable GPA by her last year of grad school?

What about that new teacher who smiled at everybody except the principal?

Who did away with the girl in the band they called Dove because she was the only white girl in the entire studio?

Why didn't that writing thing take off?

Didn't she try photography for a while, too?

Well, here's what happened:

The student is resting.  She studied her eyes out for like 28 years, she's tired and taking an eternal break from putting pressure on herself to do better all the time.  

The teacher is still teaching.  Her class is much smaller now, more manageable for her.  Sometimes her students get mouthy and she still tells them to drop and give her 20.  The big one enjoys PT but the little one doesn't.  She prefers to answer everything in song.  

The girl in the band still gigs.  She has a regular show every night at around 8:15 when one of her students is scared to be in bed alone.  It's an intimate setting in a dark venue - a rocking chair with the lights on low.  The set list has been on repeat for about four years.  Time to work in a little O.A.R. and Juice Newton.  Man, I really loved Juice Newton.

That writing thing really did take off.  She authors her life story for her children to read someday when she can no longer recall the details of their beautifully busy days. 

She did try photography for a while but has decided to step away from a lens that is one more distraction during the day.  She'll bring it back when the time is right. 

Moms and dads, don't worry.  I know by the time you get to where I am - 40something and experiencing a shift of seismic proportions - you're going to wonder where you went, too.

You're still in there. 

Watch, I'll prove it. 

Did you sing in the shower this morning?  Yes, humming counts.

Do you daydream at work and linger at the water cooler so you can hang out with your friends?

Are you secretly DVRing that Roosevelt special on the History channel because you always thought Eleanor was Teddy's wife?

Do you feel resentful that you are expected to stand by and take pictures with your phone like a parent of all things during a really cool birthday roller skating party for your son's friend?  Instead of strapping on those skates to let your 16 year old legs - because that's how old your body still is in your mind - fly around the rink?

Yes?  Well, there ya go.  You are still in there.  Never left, actually.  Simply a change of focus on other people who needed you to focus on them for a few years instead of your impressive small turning radius on wheels.  

I won't pretend to know how to resurface after all these years of being subterranean.  But I can tell you it's a bad idea to think you'd make an amazing Roller Derby Girl if you've never actually seen a roller derby scrimmage in person.  

Oh yes, I highly recommend researching thoroughly and no, attending practice doesn't count.  The girls play hard during practice and sometimes there's a pack of ice on someone's ankle but the real bouts are where it really goes down.  Girls become women on a gurney to the ER.  

I had a name picked out and everything.  Many names, truth be told.  Every day the youngin' in me would come up with another bada$$ name to match my bada$$ idea of becoming a roller derby girl.  

Seize Her Milan

Bangers & Smash

Gin 'n Toxic

Queen of Tarts

Picass-Ho

and my all time favorite:  Venus Envy. 

Well, it's not going to happen.  Derby is for ladies who don't mind breaking bones and working through the pain of healing.  I mind all that very much.  Trying to imagine folding laundry and giving Abby a bath with a broken clavicle was all I needed to cure me of signing up.  I'm more of a "Here, let me get you a warm washcloth," and less of a "Hey Pansy, I'm gonna smash you in the throat!!"  

It's good to know your limits. 

Venus Envy was but a dream.

But it's ok because I'm still in there.  Bubbling up more and more every day.  You will. too.  

Enjoy the surprises you have in store for yourself.  See if your body needs plyometrics or a cozy nook in a cafe people watching.  It knows, all you have to do is shower and grab your keys.  Want to work with animals but feel you need experience?  Drive to your local sanctuary or Humane Society and they'll set you right up with a plethora of dogga kisses and kitten head boops.   Need to stop doing for others and instead do for your sassy self now?  I get it.  Peruse aisles of a store and listen for a new style to lure you in.  You've always wanted to try big round earrings?  Do it.  They might go great with your new short hair. 

I'm sorry, I should've warned you.  And yes, it's a little shocking to me, too.  We'll all get used to it.  I've always wanted this hairstyle.  Just on a much younger face.  Ha!

Yes, this might be a disorienting time but an exciting time to rediscover yourself or better yet - redefine yourself!  If not now, then when?  If not you, then who?  Someone else named Venus Envy, that's who.  You cannot let that ho steal your thunder.  Go out and make your own. 

I'll pass you a warm washcloth. 

Not the Summit

Last night I watched my five year old daughter exhaust herself during gymnastics.  Abby was working on a drill by herself without any instructor to please or frustrate, yet she pushed herself to utter muscle fatigue.

The tears escaped the second our eyes met after practice.  "Mommy, I'm so, so tired."

"I bet you are, Baby.  You know something?  I'm so proud of how hard you are working out there.  I can see how great you're doing and so can your instructor.  And you know what?  You can rest at times.  I think maybe go slower sometimes.  You don't need to work so hard."

"Let's go home, Mommy."

Then I felt the zing.  The parenting boomerang that headbutts us when we've rallied against the machine.

You don't need to work so hard.

Those are the words I choose to usher my girl into her formative years?  Don't work so hard?  Will her teachers pummel me with spitballs for saying that?  Will her future employers write me a pink slip for teaching her the virtue of slacking off?  Will her future spouse forget my birthday every year because I've raised an entitled child?

I don't think so.

I don't think we live in a day and age where hard work necessarily always wins the good fight.  I think smart work does.  There is a distinction.  And I believe it's unrealistic to expect hard work to result in success every single time.  It won't.  And I don't really want my children falling into that antiquated trap.  Hard work will end in exhaustion every single time.  Which will lead to unfulfilled dreams, slighted passions, and built-up resentment as a result of punching in 12 hour days, plus a cruel hour commute in traffic away from the city.

I'm going to teach my children that hard work is a virtue, yes.  But it is not the most virtuous virtue.  Hard work to be married to intelligent shortcuts and updated thinking is what I believe brings happiness.  What good will your calloused hands do you they are reaching for the bottle of Motrin for your stress-induced migraine or worse, the bottle of gin to numb your pain?

With things moving so quickly online and kids needing to know how to interface well with websites, it seems the natural trend will continue to move toward technology.  I'm not advocating daily marathons of Mindcraft and Lego Batman but I'm also not entirely against it.  Those computer skills, after all, are the real-life skillset our children will need to have in their adult world.  No?  You don't think so?  Ask any new graduate from any college.  Even performance-based schools.  Entire musical scores are recorded, engineered, tweaked, and graded on computer programs that require more hours staring into a screen than practicing bar chords.

Hard work plus a dose of worldly perspective is what I'm after.

Of course I want my children to pursue their interests and their passions.  I want my children to know that you can't skip a practice from a bruised foot and expect to make it regionals.   But you know what else?  I want them to love it.  I want them to look forward to it each and every day, be fueled by it.  I hope when they wake up, they will be itchy underneath their skin for the thing that brings them inner joy, not outward recognition.  I hope Grayson will reach for the piano keys when he can't figure out how to ask someone he's been pining for to prom.  I hope Abby will turn to her art table when she's sorting something out about her crazy moody mother.

I think there is too much to lose from pushing our children to be better, faster, smarter, stronger all the damn time.  If they show Olympic promise?  Ok, go ahead and push.  But for the 97% rest of us, it's a push and a pull.

The push alone gets hard-wired into our children at an early age and before long, their natural curiosity dissolves into ashes on their Gifted & Talented diplomas.  We don't need more "perfect" adults in this world.  We need more imperfect adults who know true personal fulfillment.

We need more imperfect people who glean enlightenment in the doing and not the victory.

Ask any mountain climber why she climbs.  Not many will say the summit.

A taxed, frantic, relentless young mind becomes a neurotic, chaotic, unhealthy adult mind later on.  It's about learning balance early on.  Yes, please do practice your soccer drills.  But also please completely f*ck around in the backyard for an hour afterward without any catalyst or blue ribbon in sight.  That is where your happiness hides.  And sometimes it hides well.  I always want for you to find it.

Life just becomes hard work for hard workers, I'm afraid.  

But life is mysterious, rewarding, and delicious for smart workers.  People who have their finger on the pulse of what makes their generation tick.  People who understand what the hell Bill O'Reilly is saying and why we should dig harder than the sensationalized news channels.  People who aren't so booked every second of the day that they can't take a walk with their grandmother around the parking lot of Applebee's on a regular Thursday.  People who know the importance of following through but also understand regular vacations will keep their fuses soft and their mental health sharp.

People who know how to push themselves and also know how to pull back.

And parents who will let them.

Urgent Care

I've been pining for a "quieter time" when I'm in charge of my thoughts again.  Where the pushy conveyor belt of life slows itself long enough for your fingers to loosen, temples to cease fire, and toes to pop up before the lip of your shoes get eaten by the hungry metal seam.

Chomp, chomp.  Just once I'd like to see where it goes.  

Did I do this?  Did I make it all so critical?  Because for a long time everything has been on fire.  Everything matters so much all the time-  engineering lives that depend on me.  Raising a family is strange that way.  You are split in half:  wholly relevant and constantly disappearing.

Chomp, chomp.  

For years, it feels like I've been working in Urgent Care.  As in uh oh, your forehead is warm.  Crap, you need lunch!  PLEASE don't roll in the dog hair!   EEK, why are you wearing booty shorts?

For years, triaging.  All forethought, planning, and scheduling ahead, trying to predict who would be walking through the door in the morning.  Cranky girl?  Lethargic boy?  PMS Mom?   OCD Marine?  But sometimes we are all well and the kids are steamrolling on the couch, breaking legs off dolls just to "cast" them back on, and making "phshew, pshew noises with LEGO people that never run out of things over which to wage a seven minute war.

But I cannot take myself from this Urgent Care mentality- the incessant nag of more.  GAH, can you still read?   No board games, we need Vitamin D!   Man, I never took you to one museum, did I?  And so on.

For self-induced reasons, my insides are in flames that lick their way up and down my thoughts to create worries that feed on fire.


*************************************************************


Grayson starts 2nd grade today  Abby begins all day kindergarten next week.  For the first time in 8 years, I will not be working in Urgent Care.  That decade-long fire is about to go out.

And I'm going to sleep hard like a smiling dog in the afternoon sun.

Growth Spurt

As usual, it is a race against the clock to get myself out the door for Abby's preschool end-of-year program.  While Andy waits in the car for his snippy wife, I am locking doors, grabbing lip balm, and circling back for sunglasses.  I head for the tissues just in case.  Too little, too late.  Ready tears push down my face and the only thing Andy is waiting on now is for me to pull my sh*t together.  

Wasn't I just holding Abby's little hand as she jumped into puddles at Grayson's preschool?  I was.  I can see her little impish grin.  She was wearing her tiny brown sandals that squeaked.  Didn't I just have to figure out how to get green paint out of her bellybutton or decipher her cries when Grayson wasn't around to read her mind?  Weren't we just hugging our friends and families goodbye in driveways of Virginia?  

Time flies isn't really accurate.  It's more like Time crawls, stalls, then lunges forward in one pitiful pile of tears at 8:45 one sunny Monday morning.  

"Mommy, are you OK?" asks a worried graduating preschooler. 

"Yes, Baby.  I think it's allergies, all this pollen."

"I think I have pollen, too, Mommy."  Oh my dear hearted sympathy-crying baby girl.  You're my last shot at getting this right or wrong or just getting it at all.  After you, I stroll into a new plateau of scary unknowns and itchy years of aching for these days.  I don't want to ache for them and had convinced myself I would most certainly not but the twinge is already here - a pang of please come back and let me rock you to sleep, sweetheart.  The new life won't be awful, I know I'm looking a gift horse in the mouth, but it's going to be different and right now, I just want it to all be the same.  Why can't we ever rest in sameness?

The tissue-searching meltdown helped me get through Abby's program without one gulp of tears.  She sang out proudly in tight jeggings and a rainbow zebra-striped tank top.  She stood out and stole the show for me among her peers of summery dresses and neatly parted hairdos.  My girl isn't like the others and my heart can hardly hold itself still when I watch her beautiful difference up there - signing with those little hands for all she's worth:  "Yes, Jesus Loves Me." If pride feels like a panic attack then I was as proud as I've ever been.  Vertigo threatened to take me down but I talked myself into a standing ovation instead. 

Ah, Feelers and all their inconvenient Feelings.   

I'm sure my real breakdown won't happen until the fall.  The summertime still affords me many crazed and frustrated hours of aimless hours to fill.  I cannot wait.  It will be one of our last summers where they'll call me Mommy, where we'll have adventures in our backyard, or they'll be ok with not hanging out with their friends all day long.  It'll be one of our last summers that this familiar trio will be connected at the hip for weeks on end.  It will be sweaty but it will be cozy and good.

Soon after, I'll have to plunk them both down on the school bus and be useless to anyone for 8 hours a day. Is this the quiet I've been pining for when it's 4pm and I can no longer read a recipe to its completion in the din of living?  Is this the sense of being benched and no long integral in the upcoming years?  Am I bummed to retire my role as the nucleus of all of their sweet needy little molecules?   Yes.  Yes.  And so much yes.  

And the breach in my system is taking me by such surprise I can hardly think past it.  

Oh sentimental me, didn't I know this is the whole point?  It's not making snowflakes out of coffee filters and stacking Max & Ruby Save The Day back onto their bookshelves.  It's not Tic Tac Toe on napkins in restaurants, building fairy houses out of cardboard tubes, or catching frogs in their good school shoes. 

Didn't I know the better job I do, the less they will need me standing next to them for help?  

Yes.  I knew all of that.  But somehow I thought I'd have more time. 

The rub is that we always think we'll have more time.  

Look At Me Now

In keeping up with the rest of the freezing Joneses, we scored three consecutive surprise snow days this week.  Or as my local friend taught me, "Sneaux Days."  Everything looks better in French.

Surprise Sneaux Days because A) It's Lousiana.  B) It never actually snowed. C) My husband got off work for two of them, also.

While the temperatures dove into the teens and most of what fell was ice, we hunkered down like happy mammals.  I baked, kids ate, Andy cooked, I ate.  Abby and Grayson swung from each other; all marmosets in a 71 degree jungle.  At night we got together with our buddies to play Dominoes, drink Sangria, and sing "Let It Go" dramatically during a bootleg version of Frozen.

Basically, the best week ever.

Except I realized my poor girl thinks I never look at her.

Abby is five now and she has no idea I spend all hours of all days in many years looking at her, at her brother, and then back at her to make sure she's still in fact not needing emergency services.

"Mommy, look at me!  Look here, Mommy.  Mommy, are you looking?" She asks while I couldn't be looking at her more lookingly.

"Abby.  Do you see where my face is pointing?  My eyes?  That I've been starting at only you since you were born.  Why do you think I'm not looking at you."

"Because I don't want you to look away."

Boom.  Damn you Generation ChronicOn.  We snuggle, huggle, wrestle, break out into percussive Katy Perry songs during dinner, and encourage sarcasm.  We fight, apologize, talk it out, shut it down, and discuss why our privates remain privately ours at all times.  We practice 911, vote for elections, and discuss whether or not heaven allows snakes and killer whales (no and yes).  We are the parents that never stop parenting. We are Generation ChronicOn.

It's mostly from watching The Cosby Show and Full House, I'm sure, but our generation of parents spends a boatload of time parenting their Keurigs off.

Not that ours didn't, mind you.  There was boatloads of parenting then, too.  Just in a Generation OldSkool way.  Times were different.  We were allowed to bike across a busy highway to our friend's house for (rum &) Coke in the 6th grade.  Our parents got home after us because they worked super long hours and there was no such thing as after school care.  Except After School Specials.  They were pretty decent babysitters for the latch-key generation.  And the first place we learned what happens when Brad kisses Mary with their mouths open.

All their Non-Hovering-Letting-Us-Walk-Three-Miles-To-7-11 was right on.  And we turned out batsh*t neurotic regardless amazing.

But every generation does it differently than the last.  If we didn't then kids nowadays would listen to Bob Dylan instead of Daft Punk and the 80s would've never made a resurgence in music and Target fashion.

Honestly, I think our generatoin of ChronicOn is a good one.   It's just M to the F exhausting.  Who can keep up with all the looking, painting, Play-Doh'ing, letter-sound establishing, Pinterest crafting (just kidding), soccering, GMO investigating, organic produce collecting, gymnastic schlepping, important small soul psyche building?

Not ChronicOn me.  I can't keep up.

And my kids know it.  Well, Grayson does now.  Abby will too, pretty soon.  Too soon.

Somewhere along the way she'll want to triple lutz, straddle split, somersault more for herself, her friends, a more revered adult... and less for her mom.  Pretty soon she won't want to sit in my lap while she watches Garfield, calling it "lasanza" instead of lasagna.  Pretty soon my kids won't rely on each other for repartee and bruising.  Pretty soon their friends will dictate their interests and Mommy will permanently become Mom Where's Your Purse.  Pretty soon my life won't be piggy backs, flag football practice, tiny glove sorting, and washing plates with sweet smiling frogs on them.  Too soon.

So when she asks me to, "Look here, Mommy, Mommy are you looking,"  You better know I and my B12 vitamins will be looking - memorizing - right at her to see what she so temporarily wants to show me.

I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Oh my babies.  I'm always looking.  Even when you're running in the opposite direction.  

Impermanence

I ask myself why I acted differently this time.  With patience instead of irritation.  It is still before the sun is up.  There were all kinds of annoying sleep interruptions during the night.  My feet are icicles because some one little stole my covers.

But I know why I'm feeling soft.  It's because I can see it.   The impermanence of our situation.  Sameness isn't anyone's luxury.

 

Abby, who slides in next to me as a 4yo with her cashmere skin, tousled hair, and morning breath will be married and exhausted with her own children tomorrow.  It all goes that fast because routines become weeks, everyday turns into years, and before you feel different nothing is the same anymore. 

For me, time is real but also partly a human construct - only we romanticize it and mourn for more before it's gone.  Unless all the fuss outdoors is nature's Shiva for summer, I'm inclined to think we are the only ones to feel remorseful about time passing.  Humans find it difficult being aware and present all at once.  We are just so busy.  Have you ever seen a multi-tasking pond or a preoccupied bird?  Consciousness functions better when it forgets.

It's 5a.m.  I'm on the couch because something woke up Grayson in his sleep.  He pushed me aside and is now snuggled next to Andy in our bed so I head to the couch for an hour or so of sleep.  But before I feel Sparrow's warmth curling at my heels, I hear the hushing of little feet on the carpet coming my way.  Abby stands before me.  Naked.

I love how right in this now she comes to me for warmth and safety and that I am here to provide. Her sleepy child magnet pulls her close to my protective parent magnet and we click like the last two pieces of a puzzle.  Finished and complete.  There's no ambling chaos here.

Few moments present themselves this confidently.  There's ample choice in everything else with a million possible outcomes.  Molecules spinning, reproducing, looking for a way to win at being human.  But right now she is cold and small and I am warm and large.  Symbiosis.

The simple task of warming her up soothes me and I don't worry about teaching her how to read, explaining the birds and the bees when she's 34 ready, or how the hell I will let her lay her head down in a college dorm one day.  All those things will happen.  Or they won't.  The math is exponential in between.  Right now I get to linger in the moment before me which is greater than the ones yet to happen.  She will be so many things, says Time.  She is just beginning, I think.  She needs me now, reminds Impermanence. 

 

So we snuggle down until Abby decides she is ready for morning.  It's her decision though.  I'm in no hurry at all. 

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.

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.

No TV

"Faith comes alive when the Word read from the page becomes the Word heard in your heart."- Rex Rouis

The Third Eye

"Mommy, can you play detective with me now?" Grayson asks seconds after I finish mowing the backyard. Which was moments after mowing our front yard and neighbor's too. (Neighbor clipped our grass often when Andy was deployed.)

"Yes, but let me grab a drink and a sit for a minute.

Audible boy sigh...

"Honey? Do you know what it's like to put yourself in someone else's shoes?"

"What do you mean, like trying to put their shoes on?"

"No. Like imagine what it's like to be them. Imagine what it's like to do what they do."

"No. I can't do that. I can't imagine that hard."

"I think you can. You should try it...look outside, do you see that man pushing the heavy mower up the..."

"Mommy? I will wait for you outside, OK?"

Audible mommy sigh...

"Ok."

The truth is, it is hard to imagine what others do and feel. It's not something kids should have to do yet. They should be allowed to frolic, feel happy, and have play mates in the form of their parents. Shame on me for pushing grown up social constructs on innocent egos.

I shouldn't be here trying to convince my 6 year old why I need a quick rest before having a good time with him. I should just shut up, guzzle some H20 and get on with our important detective work.

But something in me doesn't let it go.

Ever since I can remember, I always imagined what it was like to be someone else. What Karen Campbell's hairbrush might look like when she showed up to school with one long sandy braid tightly tucked into place. With even longer red ribbons, marking their territory with a curly wave.

I wanted to know what my teacher ate for lunch in that sad little brown paper bag all alone in her classroom.

I never stopped imagining why Oscar's nose always ran or why he smelled like caramel apples and cigarette smoke.

It felt like I knew too much all the time.

This way of being, The Third Eye my mom called it, kept me being from bored pretty much ever. And it served to help me know whom I could really trust.

All this wondering about how other people live, what they do, how their smiles immediately disappeared or lingered a bit on their face after greeting their "friends" in the hallway. This is how I began to understand the separation between outside and in. How the two are chronically dissonant. Only young young children keep them the same. They haven't learned how to be untrue yet.

We moved around a lot when I was little so I learned quickly how to discern the outside but "hear" the in. The real inside voices, I understood, was something most everyone protected. You had to watch carefully but not even for very long and I did. Because I wanted to. I wanted to cut through the bullshit.

This way of being never stopped for me. I was like the Theresa Caputo of social awareness. This skill, or curse as it sometimes feels, has aged along with me and has revealed people as arm's length or quick bonds within seconds.

The Third Eye sees nuances, reads hand placement, and catches eyebrow lifts like a detective figuring out a crime scene: everything will show itself if you sort through the data categorically.

This paying close attention to the real inside voices has even kept me safe in a few questionable romantic relationships. Once I fell for a guy with shark black eyes. He was a poet with wide shoulders. I ignored all the signs: his inappropriate smile, his shifty hands, and the way he walked next to me without any warmth at all. One minute alone with him and his inside voice came booming loud and clear that it was time to leave. I didn't even look back once. The chill up my spine told me to everything I needed to know.

Now, as a mother this Third Eye is eeking into my children's lives but I'm not sure it has place there yet.

I want my kids to feel child-like for a while longer, before they can't anymore. To dream of cotton candy and playing Tag on the playground instead of reckless wind storms and scary home invasions.

Children have a right to be protected from the real inside voices of people around them when those voices aren't pure or genuine.

It's my hope that the people surrounding them now (trusted family, real friends, young children) are still mostly good, happy, and in harmony with their outside bodies. That there isn't much false advertising going on quite yet.

But there will be. It's just what happens. I doubt it will be long before my children cultivate their own Third Eye and soon they'll be cutting through the bullshit too.

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.

Where My Moms At?

I took myself out to lunch today.

Most of my mom friends (Playground Crew) have new schedules now that our kids are in different schools so we don't pal around as much as we did last school year.  I'm kind of a loner type so thought that would be fine by me.

No worries.  Grab a tea, read a book, introspect and write.  I am on it.  Just like college.

Lunch was decidedly great.

This is fun!

I tried a Pho restaurant I've had my eye on since we moved here. 

 Bean sprouts.  I still don't get what to do with them.

Tea was sweet, single sized, and freaking lonely as all hell.

Just one cup?  Not even room for two.

Truth is, I think this school transition has all of us moms bumping into doorways and forgetting our keys.

We are taking longer to transition into this kindergarten thing than our kids.

The moms I once clung to when we dropped off our scared three-year olds are gone.  The moms with whom I huddled in preschool hallways to chat about new projects, traveling husbands, and potty training are missing.  We are now in some other big school hallway with brand new moms saving cell numbers under "New Contacts."

We knew it was going to happen.  A few of us lamented about how strange it was going to be, suddenly being forced to break up with each other and move on before any of us were really ready.

"It's going to suck not seeing you every day."
"Maybe we can still grab lunch when I'm in town for work?"
"Yes, we will still be touch.  It's not like we're moving out of state or anything."

Except it is.  It is exactly like we all moved to different zip codes with different bus routes and separate Back-to-School nights.  The women we shared two to three years with discussing (often too many) details of our children's pink eye have flown the coop.

We are pushed out of our warm nests, forced onward to figure out new routines, lunch menus, and school policies.

I miss my preschool moms.

My kids have moved on.  They are making new friends and even seem happy about starting over.

I thought I was pretty good at moving on myself, giving credit to our multiple moves and outgoing-TMI-in-the-first-5-minutes-I-meet-you nature, but this time I am feeling a somewhat sideswiped.

We will all move on to make new nests, possibly even bigger warmer nests but right now I'm missing my old one with predictable laughter, sarcastic eye rolls, and sincere shoulder squeezes that I would give anything to feel tomorrow morning at school drop off.

Putting a Cork in It

I don't cry that much but when I do I can't seem to put a cork in it.

Tonight, after bathing the kids, I pressed my face hard into a blue terry bath towel still tugging on its hook - trying to slow down a trail of tears spilling down my chin.

Grayson starts kindergarten tomorrow. 

He is ready, eager, and bubbling over behind those big brown eyes with excitement for the new school.  I know he will do great, I'm not worried about his first day of school going poorly.  I just didn't expect to feel so sad tonight.

When I ask myself why I'm crying I cannot come up with the truth.

The truth is somewhere between love, time, letting go, and pride. 

I am so proud of my son who has more compassion in one expression than I can conjure up in an entire lifetime.  He has given us perspective with his "Buddhisms" and ability to connect with things beyond this space.

"Who is older, Mommy - You are Daddy?"

"I am, Honey.  I beat him by 10 days."

"So you will go before Daddy because you will grow older first.  What happens to whales and sea animals when they get old?  Do they stay in the water?  They are already in the water and water means life."

"Well, Honey.  Sometimes whales end up back on the beach if they get hurt, sometimes I guess they don't."

"Yeah.  I forgot, everything goes back some day.  We all go back."

Go back.  I don't really know what he means but holy smokes does he have me curious.  Go back.  

So you see these tears don't make sense.  I cry because he is still so little even though he looks eight (my grandfather's long legs).

 

I cry because he has a new backpack and a new T-shirt he picked out because it looked "boy cool."

I cry because he is the only one around here who laughs at my jokes.  And we have kickass impromptu ninja fights in the middle of a hike.

(Don't worry, I threw that shirt away after viewing these pics. wth?  I bet you're more worried about the pants.  Nope, keeping those bad boys.  Lots of kick room.)

I cry because he is so good with his sister.  What in the WORLD am I going to do with her from 9-4?!  We don't even like each other.  Oh we love each other tons, we just have trouble always appreciating each others perspective on you know, life.

 

I cry because he picked out leaves for me tonight during our leaf painting extravaganza. 

 

Then endured the driveway paintfest just because he knew Daddy needed a study break.

 (And let me take pictures of him even though he'd rather eat alfalfa sprouts.)

 

I cry because he loves cheese but not the color red anymore.  His new favorite is green. 

 

I cry because his hair stands up on the very top of his head no matter how wet the washcloth.

 

 

I cry because 4 o'clock is a long time away from 9 o'clock and so close to dinner time.  What ever happened to half-day kindergarten?

 

I cry because he did this when I asked him to show me his very first tooth that he pulled himself when I was pretending to be a midwife.

 (Look in the background to the left.  Even Sadie seems concerned.)

My tears don't stop because I'm scared of what's next: all the things I can't see, predict, control, protect, warn, comfort, soothe, and love away when I am here and he is somewhere else.

This is my first rodeo. 


I miss him so much already and he's not even gone.



But he's going.

And I have to put a cork in it and let him enjoy the ride.