The English Geek

Blogging About Thermoses. Somebody Save Me.

I have many topics I would like to blog about. My recent half marathon. My current absolutely overwhelming exhaustion. Kaleb's ditty about Cheetos. ("Cheetos are yummy cheetos are cruchy cheetos are cheesy I eat them for lunchy.") The fact that I have joined the contemporary world with a cell-phone plan that includes texting. (Apparently my virtue has remained untarnished.)

Or how sad I felt when the cashier at Target tonight told me that during the day he's a junior-high history teacher. How awful that he has to go to work againafter having all the life-force sucked out of him by 13-year-olds. What is WRONG with our system?

And speaking of what is wrong...no, I'd better save my medical insurance rant for another day.

At any rate, none of that is important right now. What is important: Finding a thermos that doesn't leak.

The charter school my boys go to does have school lunch. It's just more expensive than public-school lunch. And most of the kids bring their lunch anyway. So I have become a lunch-making mother.

Oh. My. Gosh. When did I become this mom? I never made home lunches for anyone until this year. I just...didn't. I wrote a check for school lunch and called it good. I ignored the "but school lunch isn't very healthy!" wails my psyche made. Because, let me tell you one of my deep, dark, mothering secrets: I hate lunch. I HATE LUNCH! I hate that it comes when I might have just finally managed to get my kitchen cleaned up. Mostly though I hate figuring out what to make. If I were just serving myself? Meh. I'm easy: a bowl of my favorite canned soup (Campbell's Chicken Fajita, the kind that doesn't have to be reconstituted), a dish of pasta, maybe just some chips and salsa. Some leftovers. Whatever. I don't get complicated. Because I am totally uncreative when it comes to the midday meal. But other people in my family apparently expect, you know, food for lunch. (Some of them even have very specific preferences for their surgery-recovery tuna-fish sandwiches, but I'd better not start that discussion again. I will never fail again at pickle procurement!)

So what do you make to pack lunches? I think my boys are sick of turkey sandwiches. (Factor in two who hate ham and one who hates roast beef and one who's allergic to peanut butter and hello: my sandwich meat options are severely limited.)

But more important: what do you put the milk in? Because I have tried THREE different thermoses (thermosi?) in three months, and they all leak. They've sprung leaks quickly enough that I still had the receipts and could return them, but still. I just returned the third set to Target tonight and I'd forgotten. I paid $17.85 for EACH of those thermoses. Nearly forty bucks for two leaky containers? Save me!

So, really: save me. Tell me where to find a thermos that doesn't leak, and keeps milk reliably cold, and is a normal lunch-box size.

Because three months of turkey sandwiches is one thing, but now we're staring down the barrel of the rest of the school year without milk (also without the occasional surprise of chocolate milk) and my milk-drinking boys can't deal. They are all about to rebel and to give up their image of me as the perfect mother, and we can't have that.

So much depends upon a non-leaky thermos it is ridiculous.

Save me!!!!!!!

Back to School

Who knows why it was this morning it hit me, and not the first day I took Kaleb to his new preschool. But, this morning getting him ready I realized:

This is my last year of having a preschooler.

The last year of preschool-type projects like color books and weaving cards and alphabet projects.

The last year of sending a package of cookies along with the preschool check.

The last year of seeing our favorite preschool teacher, Miss Cathie, who has taught all of my kids when they were four except for Nathan (who had to go to a different preschool because I was teaching that year), and who is the perfect preschool teacher: grandmotherly and wise and just so good with kids.

The last year of pointing out shapes, and letters, and numbers, because pretty soon he'll know them all anyway.

The last year of having a small, constant companion two days out of the week.

Sure, next year, when he's in kindergarten, he'll still be home with me for part of the day. But this year still feels like an ending. Maybe because there's no one else coming up behind him who'll also go to preschool. It's that motif that weaves through my relationship with Kaleb: everything he does is the last time I get to experience that thing, too.

So here I am, doing what I always do with Kaleb: taking a deep breath and reminding myself that instead of grieving for the way things end, I need to try my hardest to savor everything. I've set a goal for myself to make every day of this school year count, to find something sweet and good every day to remember.

A Feeling I Don't Have a Word For

came over me today. Kaleb and I had rushed around all morning, getting stuff ready for the end-of-school party Nathan had asked me to do for his class. (I was their room mom.) At the party, we hung out on the little grassy hills at the edge of the school's soccer fields, flying paper airplanes and eating donuts. I could see Jake off in the distance, doing some activity with his fifth-grade class; I waved but he wasn't close enough to see me. Then, after that party, Kaleb and I went to Haley's honors award ceremony. One of those moments, her walking across the stage to receive her certificate (exemplary student of the year), seeing: she continues to change. She both is and is not the same girl as last year. Watching her laugh with her friends, knowing that she will continue changing, continue having more and more experiences that I am not a part of. Continue becoming herself.

After the ceremony (which did not go smoothly; the power went out, if you can imagine that: 50 or so 8th grade students and their parents milling around in a dark auditorium), Kaleb and I walked home. It was while we were on the short cut (which is a little trail cutting down the middle of the block so you don't have to walk all the way around to get onto our street, lined with thick grapevines, weeds, and wildflowers on one side, neat suburban yards on the other), after we'd stopped to admire other people's flowers, made a grasshopper jump, searched for a snake, and chased birds, that the feeling came over me. Within the span of two hours, I'd seen all of my children involved in their own worlds, the worlds the enter when they leave home each day. The feeling was built on the sudden contrast of remembering when I had three little ones, just like Kaleb, whose every moment, nearly, was lived in my presence, played against the sight of them involved in so much that has nothing to do with me. Entwined with the beauty of the day, of being alive at right that exact moment with the breeze, and the green, the shade and sun, the brown and yellow swirly colors of my neighbor's iris leaning against the chain-link fence. Kaleb's hand in mine, and listening to his chatter: "know why I love rolly pollies? It's 'cause they tickle, and they don't smell weird, and they roll into balls and they don't have stingees like bees do. And I won't eat one if I find it like Madi used to do. What I am planning is some chicken and stars soup for lunch, that's my plan, OK? Where do you think the snakes are? Why is it so hot? Will you not make the soup really hot, and make sure I have crackers?" Squeezing his hand, thinking of the shadowgirl, too, the other daughter I always wanted to have, who continues to be a sort of presence in my life even though I never got to have her. Holding his hand and knowing how few days I have left of this: a small child with perennially-sticky hands and an always-running nose whose nearly-every moment is lived with me, and how blessed I am to have had so many days already, and the thought of not having them anymore breaking my heart and yet also wanting to see how they progress, how they continue to change, how they'll each grow taller than me, becoming who they are along the way. I am amazed and their existence and I am blessed to be able to witness what they will do with their lives. How does any of it happen? We make people with our bodies and as impossible as it sounds, as much as it hurts, we let go a little, sending pieces of ourselves out into the world, and we ourselves are pieces of someone else, out in the world.

If someone smarter than me knows the word for that feeling, please let me know. I don't think there is one, but I wanted to remember, wanted to store up the joyful-ache of that moment for the times when it is all ache. And maybe with just one word to describe it, I could never forget.

on Daughters

Yesterday morning I woke up from a dream about being pregnant. The "I'm-pregnant" variety is my most common dream, and my favorite, even though in the dreams there is still a part of me that reacts just as I would if I were pregnant in real life: a mix of I can't be pregnant, I get to be pregnant again!, we can't afford another baby, I can't wait to feel it kick!, there's no space left in our house, will it be a girl!, it's not just financial but emotional, Yes, I get to plan and shop and make and buy and fold little tiny clothes again!, no, I'm too old and worn out. It's just, in the dreams, the negative stuff is quieter and the happy stuff more joyous, and even with the ache of reality behind the dreams, I hate waking up from them because the real ache of waking reality hurts more.

Then, at work, I helped a woman who had a newborn baby, her first child. Our elevators haven't been working, so I've been doing more running around for books for patrons, or carrying empty strollers down the stairs. For her, I just had to run upstairs to grab a book off the shelf, but in my still-remembering-the-dream feeling, what I really wanted to do was hold her baby while she went and got the book. Somewhere within the morning I remembered that since it was April 22, it was sort of an anniversary; fourteen years ago I brought Haley home from the hospital (back when insurance companies practiced the medieval torture rite of sending you home 24 hours after the baby was born) and began the real work of being a mom.

Part of me is glad I never have to be a first-time mom again. Remember how terrifying it was? The nurses hand you this tiny little bundle of flesh and send you on your way as if the knowledge of how to take care of the child will just be there, in your brain or your system or something mythical and magical and motherly. And maybe for some women, it does. For me, it was a bit harder. I remember feeling like they'd forgotten to pack the instruction manual with her, like it should have come wrapped in plastic with the afterbirth. And the first night home with Haley? It was awful. She was starving and my milk hadn't come in yet, and I was utterly sold on the idea presented by the nursing Nazis that if anything even vaguely resembling a bottle came within fifty yards of her mouth, she'd never nurse again. Finally, after I had a complete and utter meltdown at the changing table, weeping about how I should have never become a mother and I was destined to ruin her, Kendell took her, fed her a bottle, and put her at-last-asleep and very content self into her crib, and I got to sleep for a few hours.

After that first night, though, things got better. I figured out the nursing thing (something I was surprisingly good at. Overly abundantly, even, despite my, well, my lack of endowment!), I realized I had to figure it out my way, and I began to calm down a bit. First-time motherhood was still terrifying, but it started to become less about doing it the right way and more about how I felt taking care of my daughter. I can't even describe the head-over-heels-in-love feeling I had for Haley during those first few weeks, nor how it grew and blossomed into the closeness we had for the two years, nine months, and nine days when it was just me and her.

Someone asked me once, after Kaleb was born, if, could I chose to do it all over again, I'd like to end with my girl instead of start with her. (I am still trying to forgive that person for asking that because it was such a loaded question at a time I was already struggling with giving up on my desire for one more daughter.) But even if I could, I wouldn't switch it. I'm so grateful I got to have the relationship I did with her before the boys came along. Not because I don't love my boys---I do, in individual ways but not with any diminished amount--- but because it was this thing I got to have that I didn't know I would need. I thought, during the days when I only had Haley, that my life would turn out much differently than it has. I rested on assumptions about the future that turned out to be far from reality. That time of being a mother to a little girl was something I thought I'd do at least one more time. Despite the frequent pregnancy-dreams and despite how hard I hoped and prayed and yearned for another little girl, though, it wasn't ever going to happen. I feel blessed now, looking back, at the wisdom that gave me that time alone with just my little girl. It was exactly how it needed to be.

Fourteen years later, there are still things I desperately miss about little-girl Haley, but I also love, so much, the young woman she is becoming. Again it is hard to say with words how it feels. She is so different from me, so much stronger and more confident and able to deal with life. I often watch her and think how could such a creature have come from me? Motherhood is amazing. It is so good it hurts, but the hurt itself is even good. And while much of me still yearns for another little girl, a large part is just grateful that I got to have her at all.

After the patron with the newborn left, I did some shelf-reading in the poetry section. I came across a book of poems by Anne Stevenson, a poet I researched and wrote about extensively during my senior courses at BYU, but whom i've not read for awhile. It was a serendipitous find, because I flipped to this poem, which says part of what I can't say about having a daughter, and helps me feel reconnected to that hopeful and believing and non-jaded person I was fourteen years ago, showing up at home with my newborn daughter. It is good to remember she used to exist.

Poem for a Daughter
~Anne Stevenson

'I think I'm going to have it,'
I said, joking between pains.
The midwife rolled competent
sleeves over corpulent milky arms.
'Dear, you nave have it,
we deliver it.'
A judgment years proved true.
Certainly I've never had you

as you still have me, Caroline.
Why does a mother need a daughter?
Heart's needle, hostage to fortune,
freedom's end. Yet nothing's more perfect
than that bleating, razor-shaped cry
that delivers a mother to her baby.
The bloodcord snaps that held
their sphere together. The child,
tiny and alone, creates the mother.

A woman's life is her own
until it is taken away
by a particular cry.
Then she is not alone
but part of the premises
of everything there is:
a time, a tribe, a war.
When we belong to the world
we become what we are.

on Eyes

Everyone on Kendell's side of our family has blue eyes, even the in-laws. And then there's me, the lone provider of the brown eyes gene. We did get one blue-eyed boy, Nathan, but the other kids have brown. Sometimes Kendell jokes with me that I've polluted their pure gene pool, but as much as I love both Kendell's and Nathan's blue eyes (which still, honestly, surprise me when I look at them), I also love my kids' brown eyes. Each of them have their own hue; Haley's are dark brown, like mine; Jake's are nearly hazel and look almost green in the right light, and Kaleb's are a clear brown, the exact shade of my dad's.

Since Kaleb's first day on earth, he's had expressive eyes. As a newborn, his eyes were always bright and sparkly, except for when he was grumpy, and then they'd try to tell me what was wrong. I never could decipher what his eyes were saying exactly, though, while he wailed and looked at me, so I couldn't wait until he started talking. But, you know, even once words came, he continued to speak with his eyes. When he tells a story, his eyebrows move up and down, and he opens his eyes as wide as he can to punctuate the exciting parts. He still tells me he's unhappy with the expressions his eyes have. And he just has this way of looking at me that makes me melt.

So on Thursday, when I came rushing upstairs to the rallying cry of "Kaleb's hurt bad," and I saw his eye covered in blood, I very nearly panicked, a thing I hardly do anymore at the appearance of blood. As I got closer, though, I could see that it wasn't his eyeball, but his eyelid that was gashed open and gushing blood. A random and very accidentalswing of a piece of re-bar by a neighbor boy and voila: we were off to see the after-hours doctor for stitches. (You know, I have to say: If we must always be rushing in for stitches, couldn't the accidents happen while our very-much-trusted doctor is in? Why is it always after hours?)

Kaleb is not known for his cooperating spirit or his ability to sit still, so I was a little bit nervous about the stitching procedure. But thanks to the modern medical miracle that is that numbing gel they use now? He was so good. Once they finally got around to stitching him up (the gel takes about a half hour to work), he laid down on the paper-covered table and held still. I couldn't believe it. He didn't once squirm or cry or even so much as wiggle. In fact, he didn't even keep his eyes shut, but watched the thread as closely as he could.

Then he sat up and asked if he could go to Wendy's for a chicken sandwich.

Once we were home and the adrenalin drained from my system, I started thinking about what could have happened. What if that re-bar had hit him just a half-inch lower? I don't think there's a whole lot the can do for an eyeball injury. I tossed and turned all night, imagining how horrible it would be to look at Kaleb and not have him look back. And I prayed. I prayed hard, expressing my gratitude. And not just for the contrast between what did happen (three stitches in the eyebrow) and what could have happened (blindness). But for every single day I've looked at him and he's looked back. For every single time any of my kids looked back at me. How have I taken that for granted all these years of being a mother? Just looking at them and having them look back is a miracle.

Today, Kaleb's proud to display his war wounds. He's got a vivid shiner and a constant band aid. Tomorrow morning we'll go get the stitches out, and then start the usual minimize-the-scar process of steri-strips and neosporin. His gash will heal into a scar and a funny story. But I think I won't forget. I think every time he looks at me, I'll remember: it's a blessing.

Due Dates

April 24.

January 16.

Sometime toward the end of November.

June 13.

These were my kids’ due dates. Nathan’s was unknown, seeing as how I was faithfully taking the pill when he was conceived and no one has any clue about the true method of his creation. For eight-ish months (or six, in Nathan’s case, seeing as how I was three months pregnant with him before I figured out I was pregnant with him), those dates were my focus, the point in time I looked forward to. Would the baby come before or after that date? Would I be ready by then? As hard as it became to wait for that date to arrive, it was also a good thing. A date to anticipate gives your life a sort of structure, a reference point to build meaning upon.

Of course, once the baby is born, the due date sort of loses its meaning, to be replaced by the birthday (unless the baby’s born on the due date, which seems an extraordinary feat to me). Except, in the case of Jake’s due date. It’s the only one that, when it rolls around, I always stop and think: hmmmmm, today was Jake’s due date. Maybe it’s because his birth was such an astounding shock to me—he was 18 days early, and I was completely unprepared. I’d just finished a grueling 18-credit semester at school, and then managed Christmas, and then, all of a sudden, I had this other baby. In all honesty, I was more than a little bugged at the fates or the universe or whatever conspired to throw me into labor on December 30, instead of two days later, because 1997 was the last year that insurance companies only had to pay for a one-day hospital stay. I was 38 hours shy of getting to stay an extra day. I left the hospital on December 31 bawling, feeling completely unprepared to be the mother of two children and completely unwilling to be finished with my pregnancy. On that first January 16, I looked at Jake and already I thought slow down, don’t grow so fast, and thought longingly about freezing time somehow. At least then, when he was 18 days old, I had begun to lose my anxiety and I could recognize the unique sweetness that clung to him. My wanting to put him back, to just stay pregnant with him forever, was a wanting based partly on my fear that life would strip him of his essential sweetness. That he’d lose, along the road of days, that indescribable something that made him so delicious. That he’d lose it, and by extension, I’d lose it.

The second January 16 of Jacob’s life was my sister Becky’s wedding. Haley and I went alone, since Jake was still recuperating from a bout of stomach flu that had put him in the hospital for three days. I was anxious at the wedding and the reception (although it was lovely!), wanting to get back to him, to make sure he was really OK. Once I did get home, he was sleeping, but I picked him up out of his crib and held him anyway. I still rocked him in the dark and wished he’d not grow up so fast.

Today was the twelfth January 16 of Jacob’s life. (It’s also Becky’s tenth anniversary, and her blog today made me a little bit sniffly because her love for her husband just shines through her words.) For various reasons, he was an hour late to school this morning. When I dropped him off, I sat in the car and watched him walk into school. He did it in his traditional Jakey fashion, an energetic zig zag between trees, the bike rack, and mounds of snow. He nearly slipped once, and his face was turned almost toward me, so I could see his emotion, the slight shock, the careful-yet-quick body check that caught him, and in that quick second I could also see, just for an instant, his baby self—at unguarded glimpse of his unique self. It was nearly a physical change; for a second he looked just like he did ten years ago, only stretched. Despite my fears, life hasn’t taken it away from him. But it’s not on the surface anymore, it doesn’t beam out at you at every moment. It’s still there, apparent to those who pay attention. But, you know, what’s also still here for me is that deep wish that I could hold on to him, somehow, just as he is right now. Much to Kaleb’s consternation, I started crying right there in the school parking lot. It’s not just freezing time I want, it’s going back through it. It’s wishing I could hold him one more time, like I did countless times during his baby years when I could bask in that Jakey-ness all the time. More than on any other day—even his birthday—I feel this sadness on January 16.

November is Nathan's Month

So far, I haven’t been very successful with my daily gratitudes. I know, it’s shocking. At any rate, I realized today that it’s only a week till Thanksgiving, so I’m going to try harder. And I can’t let today pass without saying how grateful I am to be Nathan’s mom.

Nathan was my surprise baby. My totally-out-of-the-blue, did-not-plan-this-one, holy-cow-are-you-serious baby. I was, in fact, nearly three months pregnant with him before I figured out I was pregnant. Jake was barely one, and I wasn’t at all sure I was ready to become the mother of three kids. Or to let go of Jake’s babyness the way you have to when another baby comes along.

But honestly: the entire experience of Nathan was perfect. Simply perfect. His was my easiest pregnancy, easiest delivery, quickest recovery. And he came at exactly, exactly the right time in my life. It freaks me out a little bit, to be honest, to think about how things would be if he hadn’t come when he did, because the time when I had wanted to get pregnant for a third time would have been impossible. Nathan was the answer to a prayer I didn’t know I needed to pray. And it still seems magical to me; he’s the only kid I didn’t do anything to get. (Well, besides the obvious.) There was no stopping pills or trips to the doctor to make him. He just appeared. He even looks a little bit different than my three very-planned kids, with his pale hair and blue eyes. I still have no clue how I got him.

So I still feel lucky to be his mom. I remember when he was born, feeling like he would be both fierce and gentle all at the same time. That has proven true; he is fierce. He’s always loved anything that had even a vague resemblance to a sword (the first thing he did when he was able to pull himself up to stand was try to get into the knife drawer) and continues to be a big fan of weapons of all sorts. He has moods where you can nearly see his fierceness rise off of him, like steam. But he’s also got that gentle side to him. He’s open and affectionate in a way that is uniquely Nathan. Plus, he always knows when I am stressed or upset and need a hug. I continue to hope that life doesn’t force him to bottle up that gentleness, that he can keep it and share it with his wife and children one day.

Yesterday he turned nine. Nine. I know it is a cliche, but I still can’t believe how fast the time is going. A few days ago, I got out some hand-me-downs for Kaleb, and discovered that he’s big enough to wear the clothes Nathan loved when he was four. Orange has always been Nathan’s favorite color, and he’s always been very particular about his clothes, so he’s had a lot of favorite orange shirts. There are a few shirts that are so evocative of him, so full of his Nathanness, that I couldn’t bear to hand them down to Kaleb. I just put them back in the box, so that in twenty years or so, when I discover them again, I can still pull them from the box and remember him like this:

just turned four and so wiggly I almost never got a well-focused picture of him.

Birthdays always bring this sad/happy thing I have into my heart. Sad to see one phase end but happy to see another one begin. I loved his baby boy years, and his little-boy years, and I know I will love the new phase he’s entering, too, the full-fledged boy years. I still feel lucky, whenever I stop to remember how he got here, to be his mom.

for Paul, Who Asked Why I Was in a Bad Mood.

This was going to be an entry about ah-ha moments. Like the one I had this morning when I was running; I realized that I was causing the persistent IT-band ache I’ve been having on my left knee, because for whatever reason I hold my left leg a little bit stiffly in my gait. I focused on stretching the leg out in the back half of my step, and the ache started to work its way out. Plus, I was able to run faster.

There was also the ah-ha moment I had this afternoon. Kendell is forever mentioning that I should keep the house cleaner because someone might stop by. I’ve never really bought into this reason for cleaning house as it is very, very rare that someone just "stops by" to see me. My friends are all busy with their own kids and complicated schedules; my sisters are either busy with school or too far away to show up without making a plan. My visiting teachers always make an appointment, and while there are random visits from neighbors (proffering zucchini or hand-me-downs, say, or borrowing sugar), they always happen at the front door, and at least my front room is clean about 97% of the time.

At any rate, my ah-ha was this: I might not have people just stop by to visit me, but Kendell does. Since his surgery, people from work, old friends, and neighbors show up at random times, just to see how he is doing. This reminds me of how different our personalities are when it comes to making friends. Kendell can find a new friend anywhere. One of our oldest friends is the guy he bought his Jetta from back in 1991. (He came to our wedding and everything.) It’s harder for me. This difference in personalities creates a difference in perspectives, and that was my ah-ha. Now I get why my lack of concern for a company-clean house bugs him! Because in his world there actually is company. Ah-ha!

This was what I was thinking about while I cleaned my kitchen this afternoon. Then the doorbell rang, and guess what? It was someone, just stopping by. More specifically, it was Jake’s cub scout master. (Well, it’s a woman; does that make her a cub scout mistress?) She has been working with Jake to help him get caught up on his Bear part of cub scouts (which he should have finished in January). She stopped by to tell me, though, that despite his recent flurry of activities, he couldn’t be awarded his Bear. The committee decided it was way too late.

It’s a little bit tempting to make excuses for this failure of mine. His Bear leaders were...well, just not very successful at leading the troop. (Read: nothing got accomplished all year.) Scouting feels a little bit foreign to me. I grew up with three sisters, remember? I haven’t quite caught the scouting vision. But really, it is no one’s fault but my own. This was something that Jake really wanted to do, something he could have done (we had everything finished, just not signed off), if I hadn’t simply dropped the ball. I just didn’t take the time to help him work on it.

I was certain that Jake would be upset about this, and I was right; he was heartbroken for about twenty minutes. Then he asked me "does this mean that I can’t get my Webelos, either? Or the Arrow of Light?" And when I assured him that it didn’t, and he could still accomplish those, he felt better. More determined, in fact, to do what needed to be done. I did, too.

But that is why I was in a bad mood, why I continue to feel grumpy. Because I know I can do better than this; I know I should be better. I’m left feeling so annoyed with myself. Am I really this mom, the ball-dropping mom? The one woman I know who can’t manage scouts? I wonder if there’s a belt loop or badge for "worst scouting mom." I have definitely earned that one.

I guess this post ended up being about ah-ha moments after all. As I think about this experience tonight, after I have calmed down a bit, I am sensing a subtle shift if myself. I can glance around and see the evidence of all the other things I have failed at doing. But, instead of being filled with that deadening sense of "so much failure, why bother to try?" that is my first response, I find a little bit of determination. Life, lately, has been teaching much about change, how it happens, how it doesn’t happen; how miring yourself in indecision is the worst possible response. To change requires more action, less thought. And that is my day’s last ah-ha: my failure at helping Jake get his Bear is also a new place to start from.

Back to School

Yesterday, my kids went back to school. Usually, I get a little bit thoughtful or choked up on back-to-school day, but this year I just didn’t have time. Aside from getting the three Bigs ready, I also needed to help Kendell with a few things, plus his home healthcare nurse was supposed to come at 8:00, necessitating a flurry of cleaning. Not to mention I’d not managed to get in to pay for school lunch, so I had to get that done. Oh, and I had to work that morning, too. (I tried to fit a run into all of that and it just wouldn’t work.) So we were simply a getting-ready-for-the-day machine at my house, with no time for being pensive over another year beginning.

But still, once things calmed down, I had to chuckle a little bit at how different each of my kids are, and how each of their approaches to the first day of school reveal so much of their personalities. Haley, of course, has been planning for this day for months. We’ve been shopping for clothes and jewelry and shoes (if you, too, are desperately searching out high-top Converse, they have them at Dillard’s for a great price!); she’s arranged and rearranged her outfit options a bazillion times, and once she had it all organized, then she sketched everything so she wouldn’t forget. (Haley loves drawing.) Then we discussed hair options. I taught her how to apply eyeliner. And she was so keyed up the night before, I don’t think she slept until past midnight.

Nathan had troubles sleeping, too. He’d kept waking up every two hours or so, then coming into my room to ask if it was time to get up or not. He had his first-day outfit ready to go, too. For a boy, Nathan is very concerned about what he wears. He likes to look nice and won’t wear anything he doesn’t think is stylish. He totally digs wearing a belt with his jeans. Plus, it’s all about the socks; he likes new, still-cushy, ankle socks. He puts a clean pair on the night before, to make things easier in the morning. Back-to-school eve was especially good because he got to sleep in new socks! He had his shirt and shorts (and belt!) folded neatly next to his bed.

Then there’s Jake. When I asked him what he would be wearing for his first day of school, he was like, "whatever." As long as the jeans are comfy and his socks don’t have "ruffles" (those ridges you sometimes get when your socks bunch up), he’s happy. Plus, he had new running shoes, so the first day of fifth grade for Jake? Went swimmingly. At least, clothes-wise. Mr. Laid-Back was also my kid who officially Did Not Want To Go To School. Hopefully his teacher—his first male teacher ever—will win him over quickly!

(Both boys wanted their picture taken in a tree. OK! Works for me!)

Which leaves, of course, poor Kaleb. I am not sure why, but I have just simply NOT been able to deal with finding him a daycare/preschool set up. I’ve had phone numbers to call. I’ve even picked up the phone. But each time, I have set it back down, unable to call. So, not only did he not get to go to school with the big kids, he’s sort of in limbo right now. (If anyone knows of a fabulous babysitter in Orem, let me know!)

I’m certain my Great Motherhood badge will arrive in the mail any time now.

on Mother's Day

We had a crazy-busy weekend. But between everything---the frantic, last-minute-as-always preparations for the Pinewood Derby, the Derby itself, preparing for a day-before-Mother's-Day picnic with my mom (I finally managed to make a half-way decent potato salad), and the typical weekend stuff---I had this blog post rolling around in my head. It was going to be about how much I despise Mother's Day. Because, for one thing, it seems like all the family tensions spring up---it is, after all, a holiday. Then there are the interminable "perfect mother" talks at church, the ones that leave me feeling like I couldn't be any farther away from attaining that label. And, plus, there's the feeling guilty that what I'd really like on Mother's Day is a nice long nap---see the irony? It's Mother's Day, and I want to be unconscious, without my children.

So that was what my blog entry was going to be about. Way too whiny, anyway, but I'm glad I didn't write it for other reasons. First off, my friend Jamie and I had a great conversation that reminded me that perfection isn't really the point when it comes to being a mom. She reminded me that I'm doing OK. Second, the talks in church weren't really about the stereotypical Perfect Mother. And, finally---and by far the coolest---my kids outdid themselves in pampering me yesterday. Led by the intrepid excitement of Haley, they: made me breakfast (pancakes, bacon, eggs) and brought it to me in bed after letting me sleep in until past 9:00; snuck home from church with their dad to make lunch (turkey sandwiches, grapes, left-over potato salad, and even my favorite beverage); set up a at-home spa (flower petals in a hot bath, then a brown-sugar facial and a salt-and-oil pedicure). I felt pampered and appreciated.

Really, the only thing that could have made the day better was if Survivor had ended differently (I was rooting for Amanda the entire time). Later, in the dark and quiet of the sleeping house I found myself thinking about my initial dread of the day, contrasted with how it really went. It feels like a touchstone sort of day, one I'll look back on as the the one when everything changed (maybe in the midst of an entire season of change), when my kids were old enough to not need the filter of their dad or their small, sweet, made-at-school gifts to tell me how they felt. Their acts of service made me feel like maybe I am doing OK, and I can get rid of the weight of guilt I carry for not being perfect. Like I can continue trying to do better but that I, myself, am also enough.