Tomorrow, my oldest starts Kindergarten.
A week ago, I was counting down the days to the start of school. We have struggled this summer: butting heads, having discipline setback after setback, and to be honest, I was craving a little distance from my stubborn five year old.
Now. It's here. And I am a mix of pride, terror, sadness, joy and trepidation. He's going to take a big step up into that bright yellow school bus tomorrow morning and I won't know a thing about what is happening to him until he steps back off 8 hours later.
His teacher seems fantastic. The school is stellar. The neighborhood's older kids will certainly look out for him on the bus. He will be fine.
While I will be a puddle of mess tonight, tomorrow morning and as I stand waiting for him to disembark at 3:15.
Wasn't it just a few days ago that I was sitting in this same spot, pounding down the ice cream, swollen ankles propped on the sofa waiting as day after day after day after my due date passed? Wasn't it just yesterday afternoon that I swayed my little one in my arms to our special song? Wasn't it just last night that he was still a toddler when I snuck in his room to check on him? Wasn't it just this morning that he started preschool?
Because those moments are simply a heartbeat away, tomorrow will be tough. Because those moments are simply a heartbeat away, tomorrow will be easy. I know there are many new experiences to come, funny stories to hear, comfort to be offered.
At some point, I'll have to deal with my own changes. Kindergarten means a new role for me, too. I'm not sure what it will entail or how different it will be from the roles I have now. So much of my decision to stay home hinged on the vague, "until the kids are in school." Tomorrow marks the beginning of that time. Granted, I've already started opening that door with part time work and I have several years before the little dude is ready for Kindergarten, it's simply strange to think that the past six years have slipped so effortlessly into space.
Tomorrow I will embrace the feelings that I have. I will accept the tears, fill my day with mimosas and conversation at a neighbor's back to school party, and relish the excitement on my big guy's face when he bounds down the steps of that bus in the afternoon.
As much as I want to hang on, this is my moment to let go.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Kids - The Ultimate Reality Check
During dinner the hubby was scrolling through his playlist on his iPhone and picking the "High Heeled Mama" songs. The songs I go back to time and again. The songs I'd deem perfect. There was Bill Wither's "Ain't No Sunshine" and Marc Broussard's "Home" and Prince's "Adore" and Ray Charles' "Georgia" and Rent's "525,600 Minutes" among others.
Before the hubby went to get the boys ready for bath time, he chose an Alison Krauss song. A friend of mine, who has passed, found her voice as perfect as I do. In the quiet, I raised my glass to the sky, taking a moment to remember him and lose myself in the perfection of Alison's voice.
Then, from around the corner, came my five year old. Naked as the day he was born. Streaking through the living room shouting "Naked 5 year old! Naked 5 year old!"
And I couldn't help but smile. Not just at the absurdity of the moment, but in the truth that this lost friend would find it completely hilarious.
I can almost hear him laughing now.
Before the hubby went to get the boys ready for bath time, he chose an Alison Krauss song. A friend of mine, who has passed, found her voice as perfect as I do. In the quiet, I raised my glass to the sky, taking a moment to remember him and lose myself in the perfection of Alison's voice.
Then, from around the corner, came my five year old. Naked as the day he was born. Streaking through the living room shouting "Naked 5 year old! Naked 5 year old!"
And I couldn't help but smile. Not just at the absurdity of the moment, but in the truth that this lost friend would find it completely hilarious.
I can almost hear him laughing now.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Less Balance, More See-Saw
I'll admit it, I haven't read the piece in the Atlantic. I've seen some tweets. Read a few commentaries about the piece. Seen some folks post it on Facebook. But I haven't read it. I'm not sure that I will. Do I need one more person expounding on whether what I'm doing is right/wrong/indifferent/feminist/anti-feminist/social commentary/entitled?
Nope.
During the past year of this part-time, flexible working arrangement, I've come to believe that balance is a dirty word. It's a misleading concept to mothers who are busting their butts at work, child rearing, love and life.
Can you ever find true balance? I don't know. Maybe you can. And good for you. Truly. But for me, I don't know that I want balance. I struggle each day to find presence. When I'm working, I truly enjoy it and tackle the challenge at hand. When I'm with the kids, I love being mom. The difficulty is getting the work voice out of my head when I'm with the kids, and vice versa.
So, debating whether we can have it all seems kind of pointless. We already do "have it all," don't we? Many of us have jobs and kids and relationships and... It's what we do with it "all" that determines whether we are happy. The fact of the matter is that what I do with it and what you might do with it could be two totally different things and yet each might make us happy.
For me, there isn't balance and I don't strive for it. I'm constantly on a see-saw. Sometimes I'm working, sometimes I'm with the kids. You can't see without the saw. Luckily, for me, the ride is what makes it so rewarding. There is nothing less fun than a balanced see-saw, is there? Just staring at your counterpart, wishing someone could tip the scales to send you up into the sky or back down to earth.
If balance works for you, great. But I don't need someone else to tell me what the right balance is. I like my see-saw life for now. In those moments when I pass through the balance point on the way up and down, I shall acknowledge them with a nod knowing they may be fleeting, but understanding that I will see them again.
And that the journey getting to them is more exciting than just sitting still.
Nope.
During the past year of this part-time, flexible working arrangement, I've come to believe that balance is a dirty word. It's a misleading concept to mothers who are busting their butts at work, child rearing, love and life.
Can you ever find true balance? I don't know. Maybe you can. And good for you. Truly. But for me, I don't know that I want balance. I struggle each day to find presence. When I'm working, I truly enjoy it and tackle the challenge at hand. When I'm with the kids, I love being mom. The difficulty is getting the work voice out of my head when I'm with the kids, and vice versa.
So, debating whether we can have it all seems kind of pointless. We already do "have it all," don't we? Many of us have jobs and kids and relationships and... It's what we do with it "all" that determines whether we are happy. The fact of the matter is that what I do with it and what you might do with it could be two totally different things and yet each might make us happy.
For me, there isn't balance and I don't strive for it. I'm constantly on a see-saw. Sometimes I'm working, sometimes I'm with the kids. You can't see without the saw. Luckily, for me, the ride is what makes it so rewarding. There is nothing less fun than a balanced see-saw, is there? Just staring at your counterpart, wishing someone could tip the scales to send you up into the sky or back down to earth.
If balance works for you, great. But I don't need someone else to tell me what the right balance is. I like my see-saw life for now. In those moments when I pass through the balance point on the way up and down, I shall acknowledge them with a nod knowing they may be fleeting, but understanding that I will see them again.
And that the journey getting to them is more exciting than just sitting still.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Rites of Passage
There was a time in my pre-kids life that I blatantly scoffed at the idea of preschool graduations. How silly these little ceremonies. Congrats, kid, you can say your ABCs and identify colors. You've really achieved something.
Perhaps that was just my own insecurity that I never had attended preschool and therefore possessed no pictures of myself in a tiny cap and gown. Perhaps I thought it was just another way we, as Americans, were unnecessarily praising the next generation. Or maybe, just maybe, I was full of crap.
What? A person admitting that kids changes their perspective? Yup. Shocking, I know.
I am sure there are still quite a few out there who still scoff and drip sarcasm at the idea of a preschool commencement, but I'm not one of them. I am a preschool graduation convert.
The 5 year old graduated from preschool today. The preschool he has spent the last three years finger painting and singing and learning about books and navigating new friendships in. As the day approached, I was finding myself quite emotional about it. Not his leaving preschool, necessarily. After all, the 2 year old will be there next year singing the same songs, his art adorning the same halls and letting butterflies loose in the same playground. But rather, I was emotional at all this step represented. Not all he had learned or accomplished or done. But all that he will learn, accomplish and do.
Today marks the beginning of his real academic journey. I have nurtured and cared and hugged and played Chutes and Ladders and taken him on this infant to toddler to preschooler journey and now it's time for me to let him go. It's time to test the skills the hubby and I (and his preschool teachers) have taught him. It's time for him to make decisions about who he sits with at lunch and how he will conduct himself in a classroom. I have done everything I can do to prepare him and now it's time to let him go.
On August 6, he will step onto a new path.
Of course, he's not leaving home and my influence and guidance will help him navigate the life lessons he still has to learn, because at age 5 he certainly hasn't seen the real challenges life has to offer. But today, I can celebrate how he can read and think and question and joke. Concepts that, considering 5 years ago he couldn't walk or talk and only had two teeth, are pretty monumental.
And that is worth celebrating.
Perhaps that was just my own insecurity that I never had attended preschool and therefore possessed no pictures of myself in a tiny cap and gown. Perhaps I thought it was just another way we, as Americans, were unnecessarily praising the next generation. Or maybe, just maybe, I was full of crap.
What? A person admitting that kids changes their perspective? Yup. Shocking, I know.
I am sure there are still quite a few out there who still scoff and drip sarcasm at the idea of a preschool commencement, but I'm not one of them. I am a preschool graduation convert.
The 5 year old graduated from preschool today. The preschool he has spent the last three years finger painting and singing and learning about books and navigating new friendships in. As the day approached, I was finding myself quite emotional about it. Not his leaving preschool, necessarily. After all, the 2 year old will be there next year singing the same songs, his art adorning the same halls and letting butterflies loose in the same playground. But rather, I was emotional at all this step represented. Not all he had learned or accomplished or done. But all that he will learn, accomplish and do.
Today marks the beginning of his real academic journey. I have nurtured and cared and hugged and played Chutes and Ladders and taken him on this infant to toddler to preschooler journey and now it's time for me to let him go. It's time to test the skills the hubby and I (and his preschool teachers) have taught him. It's time for him to make decisions about who he sits with at lunch and how he will conduct himself in a classroom. I have done everything I can do to prepare him and now it's time to let him go.
On August 6, he will step onto a new path.
Of course, he's not leaving home and my influence and guidance will help him navigate the life lessons he still has to learn, because at age 5 he certainly hasn't seen the real challenges life has to offer. But today, I can celebrate how he can read and think and question and joke. Concepts that, considering 5 years ago he couldn't walk or talk and only had two teeth, are pretty monumental.
And that is worth celebrating.
Monday, April 16, 2012
The Ties that Bind
When I was pregnant, I day dreamed of all the things I was going to teach my child. These were hazy day dreams filled with non specifics, but moments of wistful promise punctuated by kicking feet against my ribs that made me giddy with anticipation of all that I could be as a mother.
I soon realized that, in the beginning, there is very little mother-to-child teaching going on and much more child-to-mother rearing. I was the one, in those early days, taking part in sleep training soon waking after four hours in anticipation of nightly feedings. My little one taught me his cries for hunger, stimulation, overstimulation, a new diaper, snuggles. I soon learned to accomplish most physical tasks, like making dinner or sorting laundry or typing an email, with one hand. On top of it all, my little one taught me to love in a way that I never anticipated. He showed me pure joy. And eventually, he taught me to trust myself, my mother self.
That first year, I watched as he discovered and perfected rolling over, sitting up, crawling, walking, talking. There was very little I actually taught him. How can you teach a baby to roll over? They simply take their time practicing it until one day there they are, on their bellies so excited that they commanded their bodies to do something. Then of course, they realize they are in fact on their bellies and can't quite command themselves to turn back over and so the learning process begins anew.
Even as a preschooler, my little guy would dictate the pace of learning by one day being obsessed with letters or trucks or planets. I watched as his sponge brain soaked up all the information it could handle turning him into the inquisitive, hilarious, bright little boy that he is. But I never felt comfortable taking credit for any of it. I simply answered some questions along the way, provided a few factoids, maybe a helpful analogy.
Until recently. My five year old has learned to tie his shoes. I, his mother, little ole me, taught him that. I showed him how to make the "x" and curve the bow and push it through. I patiently encouraged him to practice and talked him through his frustration at not mastering the skill the first time he tried. And now he can tie his shoes. All by himself. Sure, they're too loose and they come undone easily, but he bends down to retie them now himself instead of shoving a foot under my nose to fix.
I did that. I taught him something. Something tangible. Something that he'll take with him forever.
I hope that I'm also teaching him the less tangibles - compassion, love, empathy.
But for now, I taught him to tie his shoes. And I feel pretty good about that.
I soon realized that, in the beginning, there is very little mother-to-child teaching going on and much more child-to-mother rearing. I was the one, in those early days, taking part in sleep training soon waking after four hours in anticipation of nightly feedings. My little one taught me his cries for hunger, stimulation, overstimulation, a new diaper, snuggles. I soon learned to accomplish most physical tasks, like making dinner or sorting laundry or typing an email, with one hand. On top of it all, my little one taught me to love in a way that I never anticipated. He showed me pure joy. And eventually, he taught me to trust myself, my mother self.
That first year, I watched as he discovered and perfected rolling over, sitting up, crawling, walking, talking. There was very little I actually taught him. How can you teach a baby to roll over? They simply take their time practicing it until one day there they are, on their bellies so excited that they commanded their bodies to do something. Then of course, they realize they are in fact on their bellies and can't quite command themselves to turn back over and so the learning process begins anew.
Even as a preschooler, my little guy would dictate the pace of learning by one day being obsessed with letters or trucks or planets. I watched as his sponge brain soaked up all the information it could handle turning him into the inquisitive, hilarious, bright little boy that he is. But I never felt comfortable taking credit for any of it. I simply answered some questions along the way, provided a few factoids, maybe a helpful analogy.
Until recently. My five year old has learned to tie his shoes. I, his mother, little ole me, taught him that. I showed him how to make the "x" and curve the bow and push it through. I patiently encouraged him to practice and talked him through his frustration at not mastering the skill the first time he tried. And now he can tie his shoes. All by himself. Sure, they're too loose and they come undone easily, but he bends down to retie them now himself instead of shoving a foot under my nose to fix.
I did that. I taught him something. Something tangible. Something that he'll take with him forever.
I hope that I'm also teaching him the less tangibles - compassion, love, empathy.
But for now, I taught him to tie his shoes. And I feel pretty good about that.
Monday, March 26, 2012
The Strength of a Mother
When I was first pregnant, I worried I wouldn't be able to handle the icky factor of parenting. The diapers. The snot. The vomit. The blood.
I found I was quickly desensitized. The serious injuries tend to keep me focused - assess the damage, stop the bleeding, make the trip to the children's ER for stitches. I am always surprised at how calm I am in those situations. The moments after, not so much, but when action needs to be taken, I have been able to take it.
Even the gross stuff is dealt with quickly. After a recent temper tantrum gone too long resulted in me wearing my two-year old's just consumed dinner, the hubby and I had the clothes in the wash, sheets changed, kid in the tub, clean jammies on, Resolve on the carpet, extra squirt of Purell on the hands and Lysol sprayed on all surfaces all within a matter of 15 minutes so I could get back to calming the little guy with a story.
I have faith that a mother is as strong as she needs to be. My sister recently had to spend a scary trip to the emergency room and night in the hospital with her 10 month old with RSV. Although I know she was scared and terrified of the what ifs, she was strong for her little one. She fought alongside her and cared for her until that baby was quickly cruising between the sofa and the coffee table again, that long night now just another battle scar of motherhood.
And then I marvel at another mother I know. A mom who found out her two year old son had brain cancer and comforted him through surgery and chemo and an uncertain future all while being pregnant with her daughter. I rejoiced when he was declared cancer free. I high-fived him at our college's homecoming and smiled as our two boys struck up the instant friendship that five year olds do. I crossed my fingers each time she'd bring him back for a follow-up MRI, exhaling at each clear result. And then, this time. It wasn't clear.
Today, she is living through the nightmare again. A surgeon has gone into her son's brain for a second time to remove another mass, similar to the first. I can't imagine what must be running through her head about next steps, treatments, logistics of care, missing school, explaining things to a child who now understands so much more at 5 and a half. And yet I can imagine what is going through her mind. According to her updates today, she's holding his hand. She's made sure he's in his Star Wars pajamas. She's stroking, hugging and praying. She's doing what a mother does.
She's being strong.
And in those moments when she is given an opportunity to rest and be weak and cry and rage and worry, I hope she feels the strength of all the rest of us mother's here to help carry her load. Because the sum of all the super heroes and weightlifters and soldiers in the world can't hold a candle to the strength of a mother.
I found I was quickly desensitized. The serious injuries tend to keep me focused - assess the damage, stop the bleeding, make the trip to the children's ER for stitches. I am always surprised at how calm I am in those situations. The moments after, not so much, but when action needs to be taken, I have been able to take it.
Even the gross stuff is dealt with quickly. After a recent temper tantrum gone too long resulted in me wearing my two-year old's just consumed dinner, the hubby and I had the clothes in the wash, sheets changed, kid in the tub, clean jammies on, Resolve on the carpet, extra squirt of Purell on the hands and Lysol sprayed on all surfaces all within a matter of 15 minutes so I could get back to calming the little guy with a story.
I have faith that a mother is as strong as she needs to be. My sister recently had to spend a scary trip to the emergency room and night in the hospital with her 10 month old with RSV. Although I know she was scared and terrified of the what ifs, she was strong for her little one. She fought alongside her and cared for her until that baby was quickly cruising between the sofa and the coffee table again, that long night now just another battle scar of motherhood.
And then I marvel at another mother I know. A mom who found out her two year old son had brain cancer and comforted him through surgery and chemo and an uncertain future all while being pregnant with her daughter. I rejoiced when he was declared cancer free. I high-fived him at our college's homecoming and smiled as our two boys struck up the instant friendship that five year olds do. I crossed my fingers each time she'd bring him back for a follow-up MRI, exhaling at each clear result. And then, this time. It wasn't clear.
Today, she is living through the nightmare again. A surgeon has gone into her son's brain for a second time to remove another mass, similar to the first. I can't imagine what must be running through her head about next steps, treatments, logistics of care, missing school, explaining things to a child who now understands so much more at 5 and a half. And yet I can imagine what is going through her mind. According to her updates today, she's holding his hand. She's made sure he's in his Star Wars pajamas. She's stroking, hugging and praying. She's doing what a mother does.
She's being strong.
And in those moments when she is given an opportunity to rest and be weak and cry and rage and worry, I hope she feels the strength of all the rest of us mother's here to help carry her load. Because the sum of all the super heroes and weightlifters and soldiers in the world can't hold a candle to the strength of a mother.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Here
Where to even start.
It's been more than a month since I've been in this space. Since I've stared down the blinking cursor. Since I've felt the tingle of something to say in my finger tips. Even now, I'm not sure what I want to share, tell, say. There are a number of things bouncing in my brain, a cacophony of to-do lists, observations, worries.
Typically, to silence the noise, I take a deep breath and pluck something to pour onto the page and watch as the burden lifts with each sentence or clarity makes its way out of the paragraphs or I simply enjoy the left to right motion of my thoughts finding their way outside of myself.
For some reason, taking a deep breath hasn't been working. The thoughts are stuck. The page hasn't been beckoning. And I miss it.
I'm not sure if it's work. The fact that I'm creating, arranging commas and otherwise filling blank pages and just don't have anything left. I don't know if it's the stage my kids seem to be in that leaves me exhausted after asking, asking, asking... I'm not sure if it's winter, writer's block, a hangnail.
Excuses. All of it. Today, with the sun shining through the window, the laundry begging to be folded, Bravo tempting me on the sofa, the hubby out with the boys, I am here. I might not know what to say, where it's going, how to solve the problems, but I am present. I am at the page.
And that is a small victory.
It's been more than a month since I've been in this space. Since I've stared down the blinking cursor. Since I've felt the tingle of something to say in my finger tips. Even now, I'm not sure what I want to share, tell, say. There are a number of things bouncing in my brain, a cacophony of to-do lists, observations, worries.
Typically, to silence the noise, I take a deep breath and pluck something to pour onto the page and watch as the burden lifts with each sentence or clarity makes its way out of the paragraphs or I simply enjoy the left to right motion of my thoughts finding their way outside of myself.
For some reason, taking a deep breath hasn't been working. The thoughts are stuck. The page hasn't been beckoning. And I miss it.
I'm not sure if it's work. The fact that I'm creating, arranging commas and otherwise filling blank pages and just don't have anything left. I don't know if it's the stage my kids seem to be in that leaves me exhausted after asking, asking, asking... I'm not sure if it's winter, writer's block, a hangnail.
Excuses. All of it. Today, with the sun shining through the window, the laundry begging to be folded, Bravo tempting me on the sofa, the hubby out with the boys, I am here. I might not know what to say, where it's going, how to solve the problems, but I am present. I am at the page.
And that is a small victory.
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