Holding On

 

I used to sneak into your room

while you slept

your chubby little arms up over your head

in relaxed tiny fists

the dimples on your cheeks

matched the ones on your hands

 

no matter how big you grew

no matter how distant your infancy started to feel

I would foolishly measure your little-ness

by those hand dimples

 

innocent, soft, milky white hands

with sweet short fingers, neatly trimmed nails

tiny peekaboo dimples over each knuckle

assuring me of what still remained:

your baby-ness and mushy-ness and delicious-ness

 

as long as I could still see those tiny hand dimples

I could believe you were still a baby

My baby

they filled in a while ago

along with your face and shoulders and arms

you are truly living up to your nickname now

The Gentle Giant

your shoulders almost as broad as your daddy’s

your muscles almost as strong

 

when I hug you

I have to get on my tippy toes

your arms surround me and make me question

who

at this point

is protecting who

 

those tiny, boyish, dimply hands are now

nearly the largest in the house

they open jars and lift heavy things

and can now hold me back with ease

when I try to tickle or wrestle with you

like we used to

 

the sweetness and softness are still there

when you humor me and still let me

hold your hand in the car while I drive

but now my hand is enveloped

swallowed by yours

they are grown-man-hands

but still feel like my baby’s hands

 

I snuck into your room last night

your now chiseled face was nearly hidden

by your Jurassic Park comforter

your body so big that

one foot nearly touched the wall at the end of the bed

it made my heart sing and ache to see that

your hand was curled around

an orange stuffed dinosaur

but as I leaned in to steal a silent kiss

I most definitely did not see

any

hand dimples

I miss those little Valentine's Day cards

My knees barely fit under the table. It was my boys' coveted Little Einstein's arts-and-crafts-and-everything-they-wanted-to-do-table. There were accidental scribbles on it, and pieces of dried up play-dough. The cubbies underneath had mommy-assigned and boys-ignored designations: one was for the crayons, another for construction paper, and another for puzzles. (Needless to say, those cubbies were always a mess and it always drove me crazy.) I spent countless hours at that table. First with Ben, then with Kai, and sometimes with both. We drew. We colored. We made pizzas out of clay. When Ben had to decorate a t-shirt with 100 things of his choice to celebrate the 100th day of school and he absolutely insisted on making 100 paw prints (his school's symbol) in the alternating school colors in glitter, I sat at that table with him: I dribbled the 5 little globs of Elmer's glue with painstaking precision and he sprinkled the blue and gold glitter over each one. It took us days. But it came out perfect.

Today, the first Valentine's Day in which I have two middle school boys, is also the first Valentine's Day that I did not have to buy cards and candy for class distribution. Maybe if I had realized that last year would be the last year, I would not have complained so much about spending money on candy and cards for his classmates. (But isn't that the thing with parenting? You never know when those tedious tasks you rush through and sometimes dread...bedtime stories, bathtub battles, carrying them asleep to their rooms...will be done for the last time.)

I feel like it was simultaneously yesterday and a million years ago that I sat at that little table, for a few consecutive years, helping them form the letters of their classmates' names and making them fit on those teeny Valentine's Day cards. There were the years in which one or both would insist on finding just the right cards: they had to be Mickey, or Transformers, or sports, and we would have to go to multiple stores to find them. Doing those cards with them was one of those tasks that took forever, and I wondered over and over again why I wasn't doing what so many of the other moms would do: simply label the To/From myself. But it was one of those things that mattered to me. As a teacher and a mom, I felt that these were those important moments when your 2 year old kinda learns how to write and your 5 year old kinda learns some patience. It was tedious and tried my patience probably even more than it tried theirs. I don't really recall with absolute certainty the last time I did it with them. I think I was on the couch instead, and they were kneeling at the coffee table. It was more of a making sure they were following through and their handwriting was neat enough to fit within the card than actually doing it with them. I was probably a little impatient then, too.

This morning I excitedly placed their Valentine's Day gift bags and cards on the breakfast counter. Bags filled with nonsense that took me almost an hour to find at Target yesterday. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to find something cheap and Valentine-y to give a 14 year old who is now shaving?!?) As I roamed the store aisles, I debated skipping the whole thing. Why spend $40 or $50 on cards and junk and candy they really don't need? But the truth is, they're still my babies and I actually miss sitting at that little table and being annoyed and wondering how much longer it would take to go through that darned preschool class names list so I could go deal with dinner or watch TV or take a frickin shower. Those days felt endless. I felt like I was trapped in a perpetual fog of little kid responsibilities and mommy minutiae. And yet here we are now: I am spending my Valentine's Day remembering that little table and those little hands with the dimpled knuckles clutching the fat pencils and clumsily forming the letters of their names.

What I realize now, all these years later, is that all those hours I spent torturing myself by making all those Valentine's Day cards with them weren't just about their handwriting and spelling skills. It was about Me and Them Time. Days like today, when their time is spent in a whirlwind of adolescent distractions, and I am but a blip in their day, I can think back to the days at that table and sit with those memories. I can miss them. I can relish them. And I can know that even if they don't think that those days were particularly important, they were for me. Much more so, in fact, now that they are long gone. Don't get me wrong: I want no part of parenting little kids anymore. I love the young men they are becoming and the relationship and life we all have now, but those days filled with messy art tables and Transformer heart cards are forever etched in my heart. And those two big kids right there...they will forever be my little Valentines.

A blurry picture I managed to find of THE Table

You can love being with your kids--AND without them

I was at a kid's birthday party once, discussing vacation plans and travel tips with another mom, when I asked her if the trip she was planning was a family one, or just a getaway for her and her husband. She--I kid you not--literally gasped, put a hand to her chest, and said "Oh nooooo, we never travel without the children. I don't have those kinds of urges." While I was busy trying not to respond inappropriately nor giggle at the use of the word urges, she then threw in the following statement, unprompted, just for good measure: "I asked my husband once. He said he does not have those urges either." *

*Fine print: no portion of the aforementioned conversation was exaggerated, tweaked, altered, made up, or misquoted for the sake of comedic effect.

I do have those urges.

I had them when they were teeny-tiny babies and smelled delicious and their presence in my life felt as tender and unexpected as the soft spots on their heads. I had them when they were bigger but still so little and called me "Mama" in their raspy little voices. I have them now when they are pre-teen and full-blown-in-my-face-teen and simultaneously awe and enrage me.

I love my boys. I love snuggling on the couch with them on family movie nights. I love listening to them tell me stories about how they handled a socially charged situation in school. I love climbing into our RV and spending a bunch of days with just the four of us making s'mores, riding bikes, and searching for adventure. I love that they both still expect (and enjoy) their bedtime songs and nightly rituals. I love being Mommy.

But I love being Liz, too. I love paddle boarding by myself at sunrise and discussing books over wine with my book club girls and reading the 704th book from the Outlander series in peace.

And I love being Hubby's Wife, too. I love strolling on the boardwalk in the afternoon hand-in-hand to decompress from our day and talking with him quietly over beers at our favorite local bar and spending an entire day at the beach drinking way too many Jack and Cokes.

I have urges. Lots of 'em.

I have been fortunate enough to be able to go on many getaways with Hubby, sans kids, thanks to amazing grandparents. Most of the trips have been little getaways, designed to help us reconnect and recharge so we could do Us better, but also so we could do Parenting better. These days, we go on way more family trips than Just Us trips, because we know we only have so many years left with the boys before they: a) are no longer able to take time away from their school/sports/schedules, b) grow up and move away, or c) no longer want to travel with us. Plus, now that they are not babies anymore, there are a lot of places we want to show them and lots of things we want to discover. So for now, if we can sneak in a long weekend once or twice a year without the kids, that's enough.

We are getting ready to take the boys on their first cruise in the next couple of months, and planning for that got me thinking about the last time Hubby and I were on a cruise. It was the first time we went away together after Kai was born. We were parenting an almost-4-year-old and a very high-maintenance 6-month-old so let's just say we were urging.  Reading that post made me relive both the desperation we felt to get away and the sweetness of feeling like we were leaving someone behind who would miss us with nearly equal parts desperation. Let's just say Ben's reaction, at age 4, was quite different to what his reaction would be now, at 14, if we were to announce we were going away for a few days. It definitely made me a little melancholic, but I guess the bright side is that as they get older and less dependent on us, the more opportunities we will have to satisfy those other urges.

So here's the Throwback post from that cruise getaway originally posted here on July 7, 2009:

Pina Colada, anyone?

"Four days?!? You and Daddy are gonna be gone for four days?"

"Yes, Ben, that is why (pause here for dramatic emphasis) you get to rent FOUR Blockbuster movies for grandma's house!! Isn't that gonna be cool?!?"

"But Maaaamaaaa, I don't waaaant you and Daddy to be gone for four days. I want to be with you guys aaaaall the time."

We have been telling Ben about our upcoming "Mommy and Daddy Vacation" for a few days now. I think it just hit him today that maybe, just maybe, he might have a problem with it. It seems that 4 rental movies do not cancel out 4 days of no Mama and Dada. Darn.

Hubby and I are big believers in spending quality grown-up couple time together. We do not think a fancy dinner can be romantic with 2 children sitting at the table with us (in spite of what some parents we know tell us...repeatedly). We do not think a family vacation--although wonderful in its own right--is as relaxing or as recharging for the marriage as a true getaway all alone. I realize that not everyone has this option. We do. We have my mom, Babysitter Extraordinaire. We are lucky. Really lucky.

So we will be leaving in exactly 40 hours (um, ehem, approximately), and we will tap into our Old Selves. The ones we were before we were Mama and Daddy. The ones we were when we met. And dated. And held hands. And kissed. And giggled. And flirted. And, uh, other stuff. It's hard to be Those People in our daily lives. It's hard to...and we try, Lord knows, we try. We reach out across the expanse of our family room, strewn with rattles, Hot Wheels cars, balls, books, and Nerf darts, and we try to reconnect as often as possible. With winks. With kisses. With smiles. With hugs. And after we put the boys down to sleep, we try to, with some regularity, open a bottle of wine, put on some music, talk (yes, really talk) and love each other. On the best nights, it feels like old times. On the worst nights, we're too tired to even bother with any of it. On most nights, we manage to steal an hour to ourselves before we collapse with exhaustion. This is Our Lives right now. It's what we want. But it's hard.

If you're lucky enough to be parenting with someone you'd still marry all over again, then it can definitely be more rewarding, but in some ways it can make day-to-day life even more frustrating. Because when you actually like the person you're parenting with, when you actually miss him even though he's still right there, living with you, sleeping in your bed, making breakfast with you everyday, helping you turn little boys into men, well, then it can be doubly hard because it's the parenting that's keeping you apart. So to have four...count 'em...four whole days and nights to OURSELVES on a cruise ship...away from the Real World, away from Our Current Lives, away from...yes, The Kids...it will be heaven. But as I finalize my packing, as I count down the last few hours, as I get my passport ready, I realize that I am leaving behind 2 little boys...one who will notice our absence, really notice it, for the first time, and in spite of the promises of Blockbuster movies, special outings with the grandparents, no bedtimes, and extra candy, well...the truth of the matter is, fortunately or unfortunately, he still likes being with us best.

So when I heard the panic creeping into his voice today, I felt a bit of the same panic creeping into me. Not so much because I will miss him, but because I want him to behave for Grandma and Grandpa...I want him to have fun...I want him to be happy...and, I have to admit, I want to leave guilt-free. And if he is clinging to my leg upon my departure, it will take me more than a couple of umbrella drinks to unwind and really let go. And letting go is the whole purpose of this trip.

I think I'm gonna need a lot of singles for the bartenders.

How buying my son his first phone broke my heart a little bit

Three garbage bags of toys are sitting on my front doorstep waiting to be picked up for donations. I did not even look in them. (Hubby handled this round of clearing out toy bins and outgrown school uniforms. I know. I'm lucky.) I have been a bit sentimental lately about the boys growing up. I didn't need to know if the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Van he had wanted "soooo bad" was in there. Or any of the Hot Wheels cars. Or mini action figures. No need.

I was once told to enjoy the constant mess of strewn toys everywhere. Soon enough...sooner than I could imagine...my living room floor and coffee table would be clear again, I was warned, and they would only be interested in their phones, their tablets, their headphones, their laptops. I would miss stepping barefoot on those Legos, I was promised.

And now here I am...getting my soon-to-be-11-year-old his first phone.

Honestly?

He deserves it.

He's a straight A student. He's going into 5th grade. He's honest. He's responsible. He is, as many people (from strangers to family) have told us, a little old soul.

And we are hard on him.

I like to think that's why he's as awesome and reliable as he is...but... who am I kidding? I question myself as a parent constantly. Don't we all want to credit ourselves when they are turning out good and throw our hands up in the air when they are...well...not so much?

We are hoping, I think, that this will send him a very loud message: we trust you.

I realize most kids these days have phones (and a million other devices and game consoles and whatever else exists out there that my husband and I continue to fight against). In fact, one of his classmates got the iPhone #493 when he was in second grade. But to us, in our home, this is a big deal. We spend hundreds on bikes, skateboards, trips, books, surfboards...but anything that has a screen? I believe we are a complete and total embarrassment to our children. And if we are not yet, we will be in a couple more years...

So, our Ben...I think he gets it.
I hope he gets it.

I remember when he was 2, it was all about the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Good Lord, how many times did we have to get our exhausted, sleep-deprived asses off the couch because he insisted we had to dance (and often, sing) the Hot Dog dance? He desperately wanted "a Mickey that dances Hot Dog" (and here, he would usually demonstrate the kicking motion he wanted his Mickey to do). We thought: Sure, how hard could it be to find a dancing Mickey? (Did I mention we were first time parents?). Only several hours and $84 dollars later, we found our first son's precious dancing must-have Mickey. He used it, like, 4 times.

Then there was the Go, Diego, Go! stage. Everything had to be Diego for this 3rd birthday: the outfit, the cake, the card, every single present. There were little animal figures and Diego's cousin Dora and Backpack and plastic little trees evvvvverrrrywhere. ("Swiper, no swiping!")

When we lived in our old "big house," we had a cavernous room devoid of furniture but lined with bins literally overflowing with toys. There was a Little Einstein's table ("Pat...! Pat...! Pat...! Blast offffff!") that was chronically covered with poorly closed containers of Play-Dough and dried out markers and scribbled, wrinkled drawings that we absolutely could not throw away, apparently, under any circumstances. The giant mess in that giant room drove me crazy.

Surely, the Universe is laughing at me now: the girl who started a blog because she was so overwhelmed and sometimes miserable raising these babies. Now, that girl is writing about getting that same little boy his first phone as if he were going away to college. WTF? You mean all those people were right?!? When she would complain about surely never being able to go to the bathroom alone again? When she would complain about feeling like the rest of her life would surely be spent sprawled on the floor pretending to be interested in the Mickey Mouse train that was laying down railroad track and singing "Chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-choooo-chooooooo!""? It really is all over before you know it? She really should have enjoyed it more? She really should have stressed less? Damn. Good one, Universe.

Today surely marks a big day for Ben. But probably even more so for me. As a mom, this is definitely one of those days when you can hear the flipping of the pages as one cliched chapter is closed and another is opened. I will have to remind myself to enjoy every question he asks about Instagram and ringtones and apps. I will have to remind myself that this time period, too, will pass and I will miss it and look back and think "Aw, he was so little...only 11 years old..."  I will probably chuckle and laugh at myself: "Ha! And I thought that was a big deal back then...?!?"

In the meantime, I think I'm going to dig around his little brother's toy bins and see if I can find some cool action figures and Hot Wheels cars to tempt Ben with...even if he just wants to take some pictures of them with his new phone.

One of the smaller messes- circa 2009

Lonely: Just Write Tuesdays

Sometimes, if I'm really lucky, if everything has aligned just so, if I'm really moved or inspired or, especially, feeling something really intensely, I write in an almost-trance. It's weird. And liberating. And miraculous. And incredibly fulfilling. I can compare it to when you're driving somewhere and you arrive at your destination and realize with jarring suddenness that you have absolutely no recollection of having gotten there. When these writing out-of-body-experiences happen, sometimes I reread my work and can barely remember writing it. It feels effortless and automatic and instinctual. At the risk of sounding super corny and all transcendental: it's like the words came out through me, and I was just the vessel. (Gag.)

So when I found out about Heather King's online course "Just Write: The Art of Free Writing,", I thought I would be okay. I had already participated a few times in her Just Write Tuesdays, and read a lot of her work. I thought this would be sorta like a stream-of-consciousness thing or a just-don't-censor-or-edit-yourself thing. It wasn't.

It was hard.

And really, really good for me.

Heather says free writing should come more from a memory or the actual description of an experience you're having right then and there. You start out with no real "point," or message. The theme, she says, will (usually and hopefully) reveal itself to you. So for today's Just Write Tuesday, I thought I'd post my homework assignment from the course. Here is my first official I-think-I-did-it-right-this-time-Just-Write. Thanks, Heather.

Join in...Just Write!

I sit in the upholstered denim blue rocking chair, my feet on the ottoman.  Back and forth. Steady. Smooth.

It’s still and quiet, like I am the only one at home in the neighborhood. The wooden blinds are open, and I look out the window periodically, the day outside sunny and bright, the trees still. I can see part of the small playground and my neighbors’ house across the street, their driveway empty.

Ben is sound asleep in my lap. His bottle, nearly empty on the changing table next to me, a few drops of the grayish-white formula left at the bottom. His lips, a perfectly pink pout, are slightly open, his breathing steady, even, effortless. His arms are flailed up and out, his ruddy pink fingers balled into loose fists, also perfectly still, except for the occasional sound-asleep twitch.

He weighs nothing on my lap. I can keep him there, safe, content, by simply crossing one leg over the other, ankle to knee, forming a pseudo-cradle.  With my left hand I steady his head, absent-mindedly caressing his black, baby-thin, nearly Elvis-like hair, shiny and messy from last night’s sleep. With my right hand I hold open “Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.” I read for at least 40 minutes, uninterrupted, feeling guilty that I’m letting him nap so long in my warm, rocking lap. Aren’t babies supposed to get used to being put down in their cribs? Am I spoiling him?

I look at the clock. 11:08 a.m. I mentally check in on everyone else. My husband is probably handling some kind of situation or holding a meeting at his school. My friends would all be having lunch now—together around the big kidney-shaped tables we always clear of students’ folders and books and join together so all 8 or 9 or 12 of us can fit around them. I figure Beth is telling one of her stories or Carole is picking food out of her teeth or Joel is saying how upset he is that the girl got voted off “American Idol” last night or maybe John has just cursed and everyone else is shrieking, laughing, shocked and giddy that he let the F word slip.

It amazes me that they are all only a few miles away. The guilt comes back now: I should be blissful, home with my first baby. Finally, a baby.

Ben, 2005

I spent many, many hours rocking in this chair...

You mean it gets worse?!? - Throwback Thursday

Hard to believe THIS face belonged to a tough baby, huh?
Aidan Kai at 1 year old

I was extremely vocal about my struggles with The Baby Years. Hubby and I wanted children desperately, but had a rough time when they actually showed up. For us, the baby smell, coos and giggles, and holding a teeny tiny little human in our arms were not enough to balance out the sleepless nights and 24/7 on-call parenting. We loved our babies from day one, but always looked forward to them not being babies. Now, of course, we are sucking every little ounce of baby-likeness Aidan Kai might throw our way, because we know those days are officially over. As everyone predicted, we do miss the baby smell, coos and giggles, and holding a teeny tiny little human in our arms, but we still do not miss baby--or toddler--hood. Going back to this blog's first year and rereading the following post makes me laugh. I remember this day, this moment, clearly. I remember the feelings I had when it all happened. I remember the exact errand I was running while this all went down. And I remember that high-maintenance little boy I was schlepping around with me. 

You Mean It Gets Worse?

Posted originally HERE on November 10, 2009

It was one of those moments...I had the 25-pounder on my hip, a full blown wrestling match necessary to keep him from sliding down my side again and onto the floor, where he desperately wanted to reach the elevator alarm button.

Errands with a 15-month-old are not easy. No, let me correct that: errands with this 15-month-old are not easy. My first kid? I could go to the mall on Black Friday for 10 hours and he'd sit happily in the stroller the whole time.

Today was the second day in a row when I'd had to spend hours on my own with Aidan Kai while trying to accomplish something. Simple tasks such as buying a loaf of bread or dropping off a pair of glasses for repair become full blown tests of physical endurance and mental strength with this kid.

Yes, he's cute. Reeeeeeal cute. And funny. Reeeeeeal funny. But that baby who wailed the entire first four and a half months of his life? Still there.

So as I was standing there in the elevator, wondering how in the world women who don't work out can physically handle their toddlers when I thought surely I'd end the afternoon with either a broken back or a broken baby, a woman steps into the elevator with her teenage son. She looked serene. Her hair was brushed. She smiled at me. She made cooing sounds at Aidan Kai. That's when she points to her son and says wistfully: "Awwww, it's hard to believe he used to be that little." Another woman who had been standing behind me immediately piped in: "Yeah, they really do grow up so fast."

My response?

"Yeah, I hope so!"

It was my attempt at a bit of humor and a bit of honesty.

These two women with grown children did not think it was so funny. Or true, apparently.

"Oh, no, no, noooooo. Enjoy it. Trust us." They both nodded emphatically, nearly in unison.

At this point, the elevator door opens and as we all step out, the woman with the teenage son slows down enough to let him walk ahead. She turns back to me and conspiratorially whispers (complete with the hand over the mouth for dramatic emphasis): "You know how they say this is the best time?" She pauses and motions to Aidan. "It really is true." With that, she shuffles along to catch up with her son.

And I am left standing there, blinking. Discouraged.

You mean this is IT? This is where it peaks? Then I'm screwed, because most days, I'm not digging this part so much.

Look, I get it. I know I will look back and ooooh and ahhhh and nostalgically remember the days when my boys were babies. I already do that sometimes with Ben. I get that these days really will fly by in the grand scheme of things. I understand that they are only little for a very short time. I do know that. You realize it all the more when you've had one already grow up into a small boy, all scruffy and rough-and-tumble and occasionally stinky. So I do take time to inhale all that baby/Cheerios/milk/drool smell Aidan Kai manages to harbor in his neck and, amazingly, the very tippy top of his head. I do still make sure to take tons of pictures, so I never miss out on any lasting memories with the second child. I do try to keep in mind that this will be The Last Time In My Whole Life that I will see my child learn how to walk and say a new word and discover Mickey Mouse.

But I also think: it's gotta get easier. It's got to. Because, quite frankly, I can't do this much longer.

I often find myself fantasizing--we're talking full out theatrical production complete with narration going on in my head here--about when the boys will be old enough to be self-sufficient. No, I don't mean get jobs and move out. I don't want to fast forward that much. But an independent bath and butt wipe would be lovely. To be able to go to the beach, come home, and call out "Okay, everybody to the shower and then we're getting a pizza and a movie!" To be able to run an errand without lugging a wriggling, borderline-tantrumy sack of potatoes back and forth. To be able to unload a dishwasher without having to use one foot as a mid-air gate to keep the baby from climbing into it.

So, really, how bad do things get after this? Did that woman in the elevator know something I don't? Is this like when parents don't tell people who are thinking about having kids how tough it really is because a) they don't want to frighten them and b) misery loves company?

I've spoken to many women who tell me that they absolutely loooooved the baby stage. Sometimes I wonder if they really did, in fact, love it while they were in it, or, if maybe after the years have passed, they love the memories of it. Maybe once it's all over and you have grown kids running around, with their own set of issues and challenges, you just remember that fat wriggly cooing baby and wish for that simplicity. You block out the sleepless nights, the ear-splitting tantrums in the grocery store, the mashed peas thrown across the room. I read somewhere once that scientists have discovered that the brain tends to forget unpleasant memories. It's like a defense mechanism. I suppose if you couple that scientific logic with the everyday aches and pains of babyhood, it makes sense that we'd remember only the good.

The next time Aidan Kai is screeching, stiff-legged, refusing to sit down in the shopping cart, I will try and remember that woman with the teenager. I will try. And maybe, just maybe, one day I will walk into an elevator and see a struggling mom with her struggling baby and smile knowingly, maybe even long for the smell of Cheerios and drool. But I don't think I will tell her to "enjoy it." Because really, that's kind of unnecessary.

When your kid flips you the bird

 

Isn't it ironic?

That's what Alanis said, right? Yeah, life's like that sometimes.

It was just last night, for example, that I reread an old blog post entitled "Sometimes I Don't Like My Kid." It's my most popular post, stats-wise. I was chuckling (out loud) about how much easier Ben has gotten since that post...about how I could barely remember that feeling of really disliking my own kid and thinking that perhaps his behavior was out of my control...that feeling of wondering to myself: Who the F is this kid and why is he pulling this kind of shit?!? (Chuckle, chuckle.) It was sooooo long ago. (Snicker.) I was such a new, inexperienced mother. (Tee-hee-hee.)  My kid has since gotten himself under control (most days). I barely remember that feeling!

Yes, that was me, last night, chuckling away. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Ha.

And I suppose it was just that sort of cocky guffawing that got the Universe a little amused with me and decided: Oh yeah?

And so today, upon picking up my younger son at school, the son who is (supposedly) the more angelic one of the two (as if!), the one who tends to hide behind my legs in new settings, the one who is always described by others as "sweet," "marshmallow-like," "quiet," and "such a good boy," I was told he punched not one, but two, of his friends. Punched! One lucky friend got it in the stomach. The other, right on the cheek.

Apparently, it pays to be known as the sweet, marshmallow-like, quiet, good boy, because neither the teacher nor the bus driver did much more than admonish.

Mommy, on the other hand, made up for both of those suckers who have been fooled by his cherub face, dimpled cheeks, and Sponge Bob eyeglasses.

Once The Talk had been had and The Consequences had been determined, we went about our afternoon of homework, homework, and more homework, with a little bit of dinner sprinkled in.

It happened somewhere in between the dinosaur chicken nuggets and the homework completion: my baby flipped me the bird.

Knowingly.

Like, for real.

Before you jump to the conclusion that Hubby and I are typical Miami drivers and flip the bird on a regular basis as part of our commute, I can honestly say that not only have I never shot a bird in front of my kids, the bird is not even my expletive of choice. For one thing, it's not an expletive at all: it's silent. And if you know me, you know I'm anything but. I'm more of a loud F-bomb kinda girl. (And before you get all excited and eager waiting for the blog post to come in which one of  my kids loudly drops an F-bomb, I'll have you know that being a teacher instills in you an almost superhuman-like ability to not curse in front of children.)

So where, then, did my five-year-old learn how to appropriately and accurately use Mr. Tall Man?

Of course...his (not much) older brother.

And where, then, did my eight-year-old learn it?

Duh. School, of course!'

So there I was again: wondering who the F is this punching, bird-flipping, bully of a kid and why is he pulling this kind of shit?!?

Of course, when I filled in my husband on the afternoon's events, he chuckled quite audibly, and immediately asked: "So there's a blog post in there somewhere, right?"

I was already typing as he asked.

*Note to self: If you happen to reread this blog post in a few years, do NOT chuckle, especially if the boys are behaving themselves.

When your littlest goes to kindergarten

when your littlest goes to kindergarten

you can't pretend

anymore

that you are the mother

of a baby

 

there are no more preschool shows

or napping blankets to pack on Monday mornings

 

the diapers and the bottles

you barely remember

 

pacifiers

used to be such a concern:

Will he ever outgrow it?

and now

you don't remember the color

his used to be

 

now it is real kid school

 

he has to go

 

it is no longer a choice

made by parents

who need to work

who want their baby

to socialize

learn

play

get ready

for kindergarten

 

now it is for real

 

the littlest one

wears a uniform

packs a backpack

needs folders

pencils

and has real homework

 

you drop him off

and he is expected

to walk into that big school

find his classroom

sit in his line

wait for his teacher

 

he comes back to you

in a little yellow bus

 

he loves the bus

 

you love that he loves it

but

you can't even entertain the fear

that little yellow bus

stirs

 

you drop him off

and you are expected

to go to work

go about your day

and know that he is all right

 

he is learning

in the most capable hands

he is playing

with new friends

he is growing

 

and you

can not believe

that his backpack

is

almost

bigger

than

he

 

when your littlest goes to kindergarten

you are no longer

the mother

of a baby

An update on yesterday's post (or: Watch me rationalize my craziness)

Totally worth it.


 

A post in which I officially declare my craziness as a mom

 

Today is my son's 5th birthday. Except he thinks it's tomorrow. And we are all pretending it is, too.

I believe this is further evidence that motherhood has made me crazy.

Let me explain.

We have fallen into a particular birthday tradition with our boys. Nothing fancy or especially unique, but its sweetness, I think, is in its simplicity. When the birthday boy wakes up, he finds his gifts, card, birthday hat (those cute little headband-looking things they make in kindergarten and preschool that proclaim "Today I am 5!"), and a bunch of balloons in the dining room. After Hubby and I take a million pictures of him opening his presents, hoping at least one captures the sheer joy of the perfectly selected gift (okay, that's just me obsessing and taking pictures; Hubby just enjoys the moment), the birthday boy is presented with a pancake with Hershey's syrup for curly hair and an M&M happy face. For this birthday, Hubby and I (and big brother, Ben) are especially excited about the birthday morning, since Aidan Kai is receiving a major gift: his first, not-a-hand-me-down, real-deal mountain bike in his very favorite color: blue.

That's all cute and sweet and all that, you are surely thinking, but what the hell does that have to do with pretending his birthday is one day later? You might assume it's because the bike is not here on time. That would make total and complete sense. And would make me way more sane and normal than I actually, apparently, am.

The reason we have all chosen to pretend today is not, in fact, August 8th, is because our little one wanted to celebrate his birthday with his pseudo-godmother (and one of my favorite people in the whole world) and her grandchildren. She lives a few hours away, and surprised him with a night stay at a water park resort, and the only day we could do it was the night before his birthday. (Hang in there, I'm getting to the point.) So that meant that we woke up on the real morning of his birthday in the resort, and then a good portion of the day was spent driving home. (You see where I'm going with this, right?) So if he knew that today was his birthday, I would have had to take his bike up there (ridiculously out of the question) or give him his big surprise when we got home, after driving for hours and all of us being cranky and tired and ready to just do laundry (me), eat (all of us), watch TV (them), and go to sleep (again, all of us). No sweet little birthday breakfast. No excited, messy-haired, sleepy-eyed 5-year-old tearing open presents. No pancake birthday face.

So, I was faced with a conundrum (within my own head, I understand). And although I know we could have skipped some of the minor traditions listed above, Í know that really, I could not.

And so, thankfully, I am surrounded by people who not only know my craziness, they love me anyways (or maybe a little bit because of it?), and are more than happy to go along with it. So everyone involved (and I do mean everyone) is pretending that today is August 7th (luckily his birthday is in the summer, because I could never get away with this during the school year), because--to further complicate things--he knows his birthday is August 8th. So if you happen to bump into my kid today, and he asks, it's the frickin' 7th, dammit.

Tomorrow, after the Big Breakfast Gift Giving Bonanza, we will have family and our bestest friends meet us at the beach for a little celebration. And everyone will probably giggle as they wish him Happy Birthday. There will probably be a moment where someone will forget and slip and say something about his birthday having been yesterday, and I will nudge them sharply in the ribs with my elbow, and obsess over whether my 5-year-old suspected anything.

I know, I am fucking nuts.

All day long today, I have looked over at him lovingly, privately wishing him a "Happy birthday" in my head, wondering how the hell my little baby turned 5 and is ready for kindergarten.

And felt guilty.

Because of course, if I could just do all this scheming and just go with it, it would not be as crazy as I actually am, because I also have obsessed (a teeny bit, but still) that maybe it's just wrong that he doesn't know that today he is five!

When we woke up this morning in the hotel room, I was dying to jump on his bed, shouting, "Happy Birthday Big Boy! Today is your birthday!" But I settled for what I've been calling him since we left to our friend's house two days ago on his birthday trip: "My birthday boy." Don't worry; I don't think he noticed that I said it about a million times this morning: Good morning, Birthday Boy! How did you sleep, Birthday Boy? Did you have fun on your trip, Birthday Boy? Are you excited about tomorrow, Birthday Boy? Did you brush your teeth, Birthday Boy?

Before I had my kids, I swore I'd never be One Of Those Moms. And in many ways, I'm not. I leave them "behind" (often) with family members so Hubby and I can have date nights and travel and pretend we don't have children. I never put a "Baby on Board" magnet on my car, or one of those stick family collections on my rear window. I refuse to drive a mini van. I don't gush about my children to random people (much). I still shave my legs every other day and do my manicures weekly so my husband will consider me a hottie. I don't scrapbook. I will never record my child's voice as my greeting on my voicemail in an attempt to be super cute and adorable. And I will never, ever, ever tell a pregnant woman that she is so super duper lucky because she is a walking miracle and is about to enter the happiest most magical time in her whole life and that she will never wonder what the hell she got herself into.

But lately, I've started to catch glimpses of myself that prove that really, I am One Of Those Moms. And I am realizing that we are all, in fact, to some degree or another, One Of Those Moms. Because we do corny things and put an inordinate amount of importance on minor things and fret and worry and gush and cry at preschool ceremonies and make M&M happy face pancakes...all in the name of Motherhood.

So, today I want to wish a very Happy Birthday to my littlest one...my baby...my soft, squishy, sweet boy...my Aidan Kai.
(But for today, let's just keep it between us, shall we?)

Why do we need validation from other people about our own parenting skills?

Contrary to what most teachers will declare publicly, we do have favorite students. Before I had my own kids, I had already been teaching for 9 years, and I always fantasized that one day, my kid would be the Secret Favorite Student. I had students whose families I wanted to be "just like." These parents would attend my class activities, come to my Parents' Nights, and I would think: That's how I'm going to be when I'm a parent. I will be one of the ones the teachers silently praise and think: "That's how you raise a great kid."

And then, my oldest went to pre-k, and he started to go through some interesting phases. There was the "Making The Teacher Repeat Herself A Million Times Phase." There was the "I Will Question Everything The Teacher Says Because I Think I Know More Than She Does" phase. And the "I'd Much Rather Roll Around On The Carpet When The Teacher Tells Me To Sit Quietly For Circle Time" phase.  And, my personal favorite: the "Let's Gang Up On That Kid In The Playground And Punch Him For No Reason" phase.

I would drop him off in the morning and one of the very proper morning-duty teachers would stiffly greet him, "Good morning, Ben." I wasn't sure if I imagined the pinched facial expression that accompanied the greeting, but I was pretty sure I could detect dread and judgment in her voice. I remember the morning she complained that the day before, he'd refused to clean up his area, and she'd had to explain to him "very clearly" that he was, in fact, going to pick up because she said so. (Let me note here that I agree with her 100%...it's just that I always got the feeling that she didn't think we were trying to enforce that at home.)

That very same teacher gave a Parents Workshop one evening on behavior and discipline. I attended, of course, not only because it seemed that, just maybe, I did not know everything there was to know after all, but also because I was afraid she (and the rest of the staff) would certainly search the sign-up list for our names and snub their noses if ours weren't there: "See? That's why their kid behaves that way..."  Maybe my husband was right when he insisted to me later that there was no way she was talking specifically about our kid the entire hour (hmmm...maybe THIS is where my son gets his It's-All-About-Me Attitude?), but there were two times when she specifically pointed out some of Ben's "personality traits." One of those times, she even nodded at me, and said the words: "Like in your case, with Ben." So yeah, I wasn't completely, totally, irrationally paranoid.

Fast forward 3 years and one more kid...
Yesterday, Hubby and I attended our littlest one's end-of-year party. We were standing there, taking pictures of him eating a cupcake shaped like a graduation hat, and thinking about how quickly the years went by...Both of our boys had grown up and gotten ready for kindergarten at this sweet, little school, and now it was time to go. After 4 years, we would no longer be taking a little boy to "Purple Door" every day for morning drop off. Where had the years gone? Where had our baby boys gone? And what would we do without the teachers from this little place, who had cared for our boys and taught them their ABC's?

This same teacher must have overheard us, because she walked over and said, "So, this is it, huh? The ending?" Hubby and I responded with melancholic yes's.

"You know," she said, "I've always been very impressed with the two of you."

WHAT? Surely, I had misunderstood?

"I was always so impressed," she continued, "by your parenting...the time you two always dedicate to your boys...the way you've raised them. In fact, I told my daughter that when she has kids, THIS is how I want her to be..."

I was so stunned and so moved, I could barely utter a thank you.

All that time, I had been so worried about what someone else was thinking of my parenting. I was sure that she thought we weren't doing a "good enough" job. And all along she was, in fact, watching and judging, but I was completely wrong in my assumption. Maybe my concern of what she thought had a whole lot more to do with what I was thinking of our parenting (and our kid) back then, than it did about her. But still, why did I care back then?

And why do I still care? Why did it feel so good to hear her say that yesterday? Why should anyone else's opinion serve as proof that we're good parents?


After I left, I cried the whole way to work. I'm not even sure why. I felt so raw, already, this week...so aware of the passing of time...so aware that Life is happening. All the time. And we just shuffle around, trying to do our best. Trying to do everything that needs to be done every day, to be the Best Wife/Friend/Daughter/Teacher/Mother/Self, and to take it all in and savor it as we do so. To really feel life.

Watching my kid sleep: New favorite pastime

I am acutely aware of the passing of time.

The days of answering the cartoon characters on TV are nearly over. The dimples on the back of the hand are nearly filled in. There will soon be no more babies in this house. Just two big boys.

I remember when the TV shows around here were limited to extra sweet themes: Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Dora, Diego... Ben would sit there, transfixed, his big button-like eyes barely blinking, dutifully replying to Dora's bilingual questions, agreeing with Diego's animal-rescue plans, mimicking Mickey's dance moves. Now, we have to force him to change the channel on shows with character names like "Buttowski,"  involving lots of yelling, and lots of  "loser" and an occasional "jerk." But Aidan will still, every once in a while, answer the Little Einsteins when one of them asks "What's your favorite animal?" or "Will you help us on a mission?" or (my personal favorite) "Do you want to go on an animal safari with us?"

The innocence of it is almost painful.

I was never one of those moms who just looooved the baby stage. I did love stuffing my nose in their necks and inhaling that perfect baby smell. I did live for the moments when they would do something new: smile, say Mama, wave bye-bye for the first time. But the rest of the time, I was exhausted, frustrated, and stressed. By the time my oldest turned into a toddler, I realized I was the kind of mom who enjoyed the older stages much more. So I spent a lot of those early days wishing I could fast forward, wondering when they would grow up a little more, counting the days until they would be more self-sufficient.

And now, here we are, nearly there. My little one is in his last year of daycare/pre-k. Next year, he goes to "real school." That's it. To me, once they are in kindergarten, they have crossed over: no longer a baby. A kid. My last baby will be all grown up.

I have never been particularly sentimental about these sorts of things. I never felt this way about my first born. I've realized that we sorta missed out on this toddler-to-3-year-old-yummy stage with Ben. Ben turned 3 a month after Aidan arrived. And Aidan was a horrible baby. (Yes, I can say that. Trust me. He was.) I am not even exaggerating when I say that the kid cried--no, wailed--for the first four and a half months of his life. I'm serious. All the time. I remember driving around with the two boys in the backseat, Aidan squealing his completely hysterical red-faced shriek for no apparent reason, and Ben sitting with his hands over his ears, his face contorted in a look of pure hate as he stared at this little wailing ball of hysteria that was his new brother. That was the day I realized that it wasn't just Mommy and Daddy who were suffering with the latest addition to the family. And once the crying subsided, there were always new "issues." Aidan had a vomiting stage that lasted months (if you think I'm exaggerating, click on this blog's Labels link...it actually has one called "Vomit.") He had a "I-refuse-to-sleep" stage. He just demanded a lot of our attention a lot of the time. Ben, on the other hand, was a very easy kid. We just didn't know it until Aidan came around.

So now, as I find myself walking into Aidan's room at night and watching him sleep, his arms up over his head in little relaxed fists, just like when he was a baby (on the rare occasion that he was actually sleeping peacefully, that is), I try to remember doing that with Ben. And I realized, recently, that I can barely recall Ben being this age at all. It dawned on me: of course, we were so busy with Aidan's first two years that we sorta passed by Ben's 3 and 4-year-old stages in a blur. We were just surviving then. There wasn't much time for sentimentality.

But now, here we are: Aidan is completely manageable and easy (except when he absolutely isn't), and Ben is like a whole little mini-adult. There are even days when we can send them both to shower and get dressed on their own, and (holy cow!) they do it! Some days they even manage to do it without any drama, screaming, fighting, or flooding of the bathroom.

So we have a little more time these days...to make dinner, read a book, watch "Dancing with the Stars," sneak into their rooms at night to watch them sleep...and contemplate the passing of time and the filling in of those little hand dimples.

What I Really Want for Mother's Day: My Life, in Lists

1. A chef (doesn't even have to be a really good one; just one that will take care of "What are we eating tonight?")
2. An assistant to take care of all of the To-Do's that drive me absolutely insane in my day-to-day life
3. A pair of peep toe Christian Louboutins
4. To lose 5 pounds magically overnight
5. A magic cream that will erase the suddenly-drooping eyelids and neck (WTF happened after I turned 38?!?)
6. A pair of perfectly fitting and comfortable blue jeans
7. A perfect, 90 degrees and sunny, blue skies, clear water beach day
8. A longer summer
9. My boys to bicker less
10. To find the perfect shade of fluorescent (but not too fluorescent) pink nail polish
11. Someone else to scrub the bathrooms (I would add "mop the floors" too but Hubby did that today after little one puked all over)
12. At least a week with no fevers, no "my tummy hurts", no "my head hurts," and no puke
13. Sleep...blissful, dead-to-the-world, no-alarm, no-calling-for-Mommy-or-Daddy-in-the-middle-of-the-night, wake-up-when-I-feel-like-it sleep
14. A personal trainer
15. My knees to behave so I can run again
16. A new computer (and someone to completely set it up, move all my files, and reset my iTunes library)
17. More time (and energy) to write
18. A 3rd annual Mother's Day on the beach with decent weather, children who don't bicker or whine or cry or complain of salt water in their eyes, and no dysfunctional or awkward family interactions
19. My boys to make me feel really, really, really special
20. A tiny and charming condo, apartment, or shack on the beach...any beach, but preferably Hawaii
21. My hair to grow back to its original mane of long beachy blond waves (if that's too much to ask, then can this short little mop just behave?)
22. A bikini wax that doesn't hurt
23. A stand up paddle board
24. The return of the neighborhood video rental store
25. More patience (especially with the kids)
26. A case of straight-from-France wine
27. My husband's perspective on life
28. Babysitting