School Daze

At our house, we are excitedly gearing up for the start of school.

Actually, I made that part up.  We're totally not excited at all.  In reality, we are limping along, still stuck in lazy summer mode.  We are greeting these weeks of back-to-school preparation with plenty of kicking and screaming.  No one is ready to get up early, deal with homework, and pack lunches.  And by "no one," I mean me.  

It feels as if we'd finally skidded across the finish-line to summer vacation and now, here we are, preparing to start all of that school busy-ness all over again.  I feel weary just thinking about it.

I remember when the kids were small.  To put it nicely, they drove me nuts.  Three weeks into summer vacation, I was ready to ship them off to the circus.  Their constant desire for entertainment was exhausting.  I remember thinking, can't they just go outside and play for two and a half months like we did when we were kids?

I'm always amazed at how quickly small children become bored.  Even with a room full of toys, pets, TV, books, bikes, and games, they still lament that there's nothing to do.  Now that they're older, my kids know better than to use the b-word around me.  If they forget, I'm quick to remind them that I haven't been bored since 1982.  I am SO not exaggerating either. 

Jobs, bills, laundry, cooking, cleaning, chauffeuring, food shopping, and yard work - if kids knew what was waiting for them once they grow up, they'd never utter the b-word during summer vacation again. 

That's why, after an entire summer of hearing their complaints that there wasn't anything to do, I couldn't wait for school to begin.  I back-to-school shopped like it was my job.  I nagged about summer reading logs.  I kept track of the days left until school on my calendar.  And when that magical day arrived?  I was more than happy to put them on the school bus and have the house to myself again.

These days?  Meh.  The end of summer feels completely different now that my kids are older.  Most noticeably, they're able to entertain themselves and don't require much from me.  No one needs me to make their lunch, change the TV channel, get out the sprinkler, or read them a story.  Two of them no longer need me to drive them anywhere. 

When we do spend time together, it's easy and relaxed.  We talk and joke and laugh.  We build camp fires and talk about internet memes.  We share movies and music and dreams.  In other words, we enjoy just being with one another. 

No way am I ready for this to end.

I know that we'll get ourselves together and be ready for school when the time comes.  For now, though, there's still some summer left.  These kids won't be kids forever, you know.

Heart Bruises

(image from www.empowermentnetwork.com)

In the years that I've been a mother, I've gotten plenty of practice at helping hurt kids feel better.  I've kissed dozens of boo-boos, applied countless bandages, and dried plenty of tears.  After a short while, the child stops crying and realizes he’s going to be just fine.  The injury, once so scary and painful, is soon forgotten and life returns to normal.

Hurts of the romantic kind are not so easy to heal.  As my boys grow older, I find that such hurts become increasingly inevitable.  No one can wander unscathed within the prickly but enticing land of love.  We can’t help getting stuck by a thorn or two, and when we do, it’s always painful and unexpected.

When it comes to heartache, I’m never quite sure what to do or say to my kids.  I mean, I know to be there for them if they want to talk, and to help them understand that one day, they really will feel OK again.  I know to remind them that they are still worthy people even if someone else says  they aren’t. 

I know to make sure that they eat a little something even if the sadness makes food seem uninteresting.  But beyond that, what?  None of this feels like enough when your child is hurting.  Even though I know that I can’t take the pain away and make it all better, all of my mama instincts drive me to at least try.

Then there’s the matter of the ex-girlfriend.  Whether she breaks up with him, or the other way around, I’m not quite sure of what to do next.  If their relationship has been a long one, and we’ve welcomed this girl into our family, I tend to feel as if I’ve been broken up with, too.  Am I expected to just abruptly halt any contact with her?  Turn off my feelings of affection?  If so, shouldn’t I say something to her before I do?  There’s no action that feels comfortable.  This is the kind of stuff that someone should include in those “What to Expect” parenting books.  

To make things even more difficult, sometimes I don’t agree with my kids’ choices.  Recently, my middle son dated a lovely girl we had both known since he was in kindergarten.  They went through elementary school together, and I knew her and her family well.  When he cavalierly announced to me that he’d broken up with her, I felt terrible.  I wanted to call her up, tell her all men are pond scum, and share a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream with her.  

What’s more, I felt bad that because of my son, two other parents had to pick up the pieces of their child’s broken heart.  I know what it feels like to be there, completely powerless, knowing that the only way it’s going to feel better is with time.  

As I navigate yet another break-up with one of my sons, I’m reminded of my own heartaches so many years ago.  While they were certainly painful, years of life experience allow me to reflect upon them differently.  I’m now able to view the people who’ve come and gone in my life with love and appreciation.  No one can spend time in our hearts without leaving a part of themselves behind.  Most times, those remnants are gentle lessons that propel us forward in ways that we can’t even imagine. 

My son is a long way from the love and appreciation part, and that’s OK.  For now, I’ll be here if he needs me, helping him to scoop up the broken pieces.

Just like one of us

Whether you're excited about it or not, you have to admit that news about Kate Middleton and Prince William's baby is everywhere. In spite of all the buzz about the royal birth, people I talk to tell me that they fail to see the relevance of “just another celebrity baby."

I think these folks are mistaken. This baby is much more than “just another celebrity.” Aside from the fact that he has the potential to grow up and rule a large portion of the world, his birth is significant for another reason: the lovely Duchess of Cambridge will be able to learn what us regular moms have known all along.

Babies are unbelievably messy.

 

No doubt the royal family has a nanny to help with the baby care, but there are still going to be times when Kate will be engaged in caring for her child all by herself. In at least one of those moments, you know she will be hit with a stream of pee from her infant son, most likely when she’s either half asleep or dressed up and ready to go out. This happens so often that I’m convinced babies plan it that way, as if it’s a mandatory instruction written on their Y chromosomes. And royal or not, pee is pee. It won’t take Kate long to realize that she’s got to keep those baby bits under wraps unless she wants to receive a surprise shower.

 

Even though you and I will never see the photos, you just know that at some point, her wee little prince is going to smear her face with strained bananas or pureed peas and projectile vomit all over her hair. She’s going to wake up one day, fix her hair and her face and think she looks pretty fine. Five minutes later, that little bugger is going to ruin it all with one sticky baby hand or a tiny but mighty gas bubble.

 

We probably won’t see the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep either, but my fellow moms and I will know that they’re there. Even if she has the nanny take the night shift, eventually the baby is going to be sick or teething or anxious and she will selflessly give up her own sleep to comfort him. What she won’t realize at first is that the lack of sleep thing will continue until the kids move out. Gone forever are the nights of deep, restful, gonna-take-a-stick-of-dynamite-to-wake-me-up sleep. When you’re responsible for another human being, you tend to sleep a lot lighter.

 

Then there’s the whole attention thing. Before Baby, Kate was the one upon whom everyone’s attention was focused. Even Prince William has been completely upstaged by his wife. Now, even beautiful and stylish Kate will be shoved out of the way by relatives and strangers alike, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the new babe.

 

While I feel a certain glee in knowing that Kate is going to experience the less-than-pleasant side of baby-rearing, I’m happy that she’ll also be able to experience its joys. For example, I know that she’s going to fall fiercely in love with that little boy. His pain will become hers, and his joy will be multiplied when viewed through her eyes. She will be, at all times, utterly exhausted and yet completely revitalized by this tiny little person now sharing her life. She will have moments of feeling as if she’s the worst mother ever and then much rarer moments of feeling as if she’s finally figured it all out. And just like mothers everywhere, she will worry that all of those moments are passing much too quickly. She will wonder if she’s done enough.

 

In just a short while, she will intimately know what it feels like to be someone’s mother, and she will be forever changed by that role.

 

Just like the rest of us.

 

An Abundance of Birthdays

 

 

This week has been what we’ve come to refer to in our house as “birthday week.” My two oldest sons have birthdays within four days of one another right after the Fourth of July.

 

I do not recommend this birth plan for any wanna-be moms who may be reading. Having birthdays this close together is definitely not for the faint-hearted or the financially challenged.

 

I should know as I am in both of those groups. Still, each year, during the first week of July, I am forced to make all manner of birthday magic happen.

 

It's not always easy.

 

Even though the boys’ birthdays are so close together, we’ve always tried to celebrate them separately and in their own way. For example, the birthday child is allowed to choose the type of cake he wants (ice cream cake or regular,) as well as what we’ll have for dinner that night. The older two usually pick restaurant meals for their birthday dinners, but my youngest always asks me to cook him something special at home. I’m not sure if these choices mean that Evan really likes my cooking while the other two do not or if the older ones simply like eating out more than Evan does. Since there aren’t many kudos given out for this parenting gig, I’m going to imagine that everyone loves my cooking; Evan just loves it more.

 

When the kids were small, birthdays were active, noisy affairs. We’d have parties with grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. Now, all these years later, so many family members are no longer with us; the older ones having passed on, and the younger ones busy with families of their own. As a result, our celebrations these days are much smaller and quieter. The hurried assembly of a roomful of toys has given way to presents such as music gift cards or video games that take up far less space and require no parental involvement.

 

Busted budgets and dinner choices aside, as each year progresses, I’m even more aware of how many of my kids’ birthdays are already in the past. Before long, I won’t be the central person planning the festivities. Soon they’ll have girlfriends, then wives, then families to do it for them. If I’m lucky, my role will become that of an invited guest. I will tuck some money into cards and join them for cake. I'll wear sensible shoes and chin hair, and I'll tell lots of stories about when they were little.

 

If they’re lucky, I’ll behave and keep the embarrassing ones to myself.

The Cat and Dog Train Me to do Their Bidding

I have finally figured out my purpose in life.  Although this realization took some time, today showed me with remarkable clarity the true reason for my existence.

Because of my ability to grasp doorknobs, I have apparently been entrusted with an all-important task: I am sentenced to cater to the ever-changing whims of my dog and cat and the 9,347 times that they must go outside each day. 

They do not bug the kids.  Oh no.  They save their most persistent neediness for me.

Take this morning, for example.  Within the first half hour of waking up, this is how my day went:  I let the dog out.  While she was outside, I fed her, the cat, and the goldfish.  I then let the dog back in to eat.  I heard the cat meowing outside the back door, so I let him in too.  The cat ate his breakfast and wanted to immediately go back outside so I let him out.  The dog, evidently feeling slighted by all of this letting-outside-business, decided that she needed to go back out, too, and the sooner, the better.  I have no idea why such urgency.  Did she forget something out there?  Just in case she was brewing a stomach virus, I hurried to let her out again.

When I returned to the kitchen to make my coffee, I could hear the cat outside the back door, crying - actually, more like wailing - to come inside.  He'd been outside for a whopping three minutes.  Judging by the way he was carrying on, you'd think he'd been out there suffering, with no food or drink, for HOURS.  No sooner had I let the cat inside, the dog was scratching on the front door to come in. 

Do I even need to tell you what happened next?  Right.  The cat wanted out.

This was all before I'd had my first sip of coffee. 

Medical experts say that having pets is good for your blood pressure.  I think what they meant to say is that having pets is good for developing high blood pressure.  In my experience, it's also good for angry outbursts, profanity, and illogical attempts at reasoning with animals.

Tomorrow I'm going to stay in bed until the kids get up.  It would be a shame to keep all of this early morning pet bonding time to myself.

 

 

 

 

Guilt: It's what's for breakfast

Guilt has been following me around this week like a faithful puppy.  In every area of my life, my guilt-puppy is there, eager to remind me that I've fallen short yet again.

A few examples:

I didn't go to the grocery store last night because I had an event at school, so this morning, there wasn't any cereal for breakfast.  While at school, I was reminded that I should do more than I'm doing currently, so my guilt-puppy talked me into volunteering for a committee that I do not have time for.  At work, in spite of successfully completing 987 projects, the one project I did not finish is enough to confirm that I am a horrible person who cannot be trusted with responsibility.

I also didn't get the laundry done, so Evan didn't have the red shirt that he needed for Field Day at school.  I forgot an important appointment, I arrived late to a meeting, and I failed to make my middle son's school physical appointment.  While we're at it, I don't call my mother often enough or keep consistently in touch with my friends.

I won't even mention the sugar that I shouldn't be eating.

Indeed, I'm not just visiting the neighborhood of guilt; I've constructed a permanent residence.

By the time I arrived home last night, I felt pretty beaten up.  All of those abusive mind-tapes from childhood kept playing in my head, reminding me of how worthless I truly am.  I should probably just quit my jobs, put the kids up for adoption, and move under a bridge somewhere so that I'm not a constant blight on organization and decency.

Did I mention that I can be quite the catastrophist? 

Someone stop me before I start mentioning the baby pictures I never labeled and how I can no longer remember which one of my kids is which.

Today, some grace appeared to interrupt my self-reproach.  Matt decided to go out for breakfast since we didn't have any cereal, I made the physical appointment that I'd been putting off, and I called my mom.  And don't tell anyone, but you can totally revive a red shirt from the dirty clothes hamper with some Febreze and a quick tumble in the clothes dryer.

Am I perfect?  No. 

Will we survive anyway?  Absolutely. 

On Graduation: Cry Me a River? OK!

(my oldest son's graduation in 2004, when our school was new and there were fewer kids to cry over)

I just got home from the eighth grade graduation ceremony at my son's school.  It was full of the same graduation rituals that have come to define our school's culture for all of its thirteen years:  a slide show of the passing year, a skit by the 7th graders for the 8th graders, and always-inspiring words from our school's founder and principal.

I cried through all of it.

In fact, I've done that very thing at every graduation I've attended.  It doesn't matter who's graduating; my kid or yours.  I will cry just the same.

I remember one year, I arrived with a huge box of tissues.  I tapped the shoulder of a woman in front of me, whose son was graduating, and offered her some of my tissues.

                "I won't need them," she said.  "This is the third time I'm going through this.  I'll be fine."

Fine?  How could she be fine when her son is leaving the innocent environment of elementary school for the uncertain world of high school?  Clearly, she was in some sort of denial.

                "That's OK," I told her.  "I will cry enough for both of us."

It's not that an elementary school graduation is a sad affair.  Far from it!  It is lively and happy and, very often, humorous.  You don't have to look hard to see the excitement on the faces of the graduates as they consider the future ahead of them.  

I guess what trips my emotional switch is that I've known most of these kids since they were in kindergarten.  Our school is a small charter school where everyone knows everyone.   I've watched these kids grow up.  I've supervised them at recess.  I've worked on projects with them.  I've chaperoned their field trips.  I know their families.  And like one big family, we share these common milestones.

It occurred to me as I was driving home that a school is like a garden (well, not like MY garden, full of thistles and weeds, but a garden belonging to someone who actually knows what she's doing.)  Our children start out in kindergarten like seedlings, which are tended and nurtured through the years until finally, they're transplanted elsewhere when they're ready to blossom.  These kids I wept for today are some mighty fine blossoms.

Next year is going to be even more emotional for me than usual.  My middle son will be graduating from high school, and my youngest son  will be graduating from eighth grade.  Two graduations in one year!  How will I cope?  I'll probably be completely incoherent the entire month of June.

If anyone needs me this summer, I'll be the weepy mom with the red nose stockpiling tissues and waterproof mascara.  Graduation is only twelve months away and I want to be prepared.