My babies are in high school...together

Today my babies went to high school together. The same babies for whom I started this blog. The same babies I thought would never grow up and let me sleep in late on a weekend or take a shower in peace. I started this blog to survive the early years of motherhood...a time I found awe-inspiring, disorienting, overwhelming, and exhausting. Now, here I am: standing in my driveway, waving, taking pictures, watching them walk together to Ben's car, put their backpacks in the trunk almost in unison, get in the car, and drive off. 

For the last 12 years, we always had one or both of our boys with us at our school where we teach. We drove the 40-minute commute in different combinations: somedays all four of us; other days split into pairs (those mornings when we knew the boys sitting in the back seat together for that long was going to be a really bad idea); and yet other days split into a ratio of 1 to 3 ("You take them today because I have them in the afternoon and I really need some quiet time this morning.").

For the last 12 years, they were always around...hanging out in our classrooms in the mornings or afternoons, being excused from class to see us because they needed something for a headache, or a form they'd forgotten to get signed, a snack, or just because they were running an errand for their teacher and stopped by on the way to say "hi." And my husband's and my favorite moments: those spontaneous, unexpected sightings in the hallways which would usually result in a high five, a passing joke, or (especially these last couple of years with our "gentle giant") a body-jarring hug.

Today, Aidan Kai (aka The Baby) started high school.

We overhead them talking about it last night:

"Don't worry, Kai. We'll get there early and I'll walk you around to all of your classes so you'll know where to go. And maybe I can even meet you in between some of the classes." 

"Ok, thanks, Ben. And oh, can we use our phones in class, or is it like elementary and middle school?"

"No," Ben held back a chuckle. "You can use your phone."

"Then can I text you during the day?"

"Yeah. Sure." 

We were ready, as parents, for this new chapter. We were ready to be, for the first time, just Mom and Dad, and not Mr. and Mrs. A...to be able to let go after having them with us from kindergarten to 8th grade...to know they will be in situations--academically and socially--that we not only will know very little about, but will also not be able to step in and intercede. We have no "pull" now.

Knowing Aidan Kai, who has always been a little shyer, a little less daring socially, will have his big brother there to guide him gives us peace of mind. And to know Ben actually wants Kai there...that gives us a satisfaction we cannot express. We spent their whole lives trying to get them to bond, to rely on each other, to be kinder to each other than to anyone. Years spent camping and traveling and playing and talking...we think they are paying off now. 

Towards the end of last school year, Ben told me: "You know, I'm excited about Kai coming to school with me next year. I think it's going to be fun to have him there, to be at the same school again."

Our boys...

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Today when I got home from work, before I wrote this post, I went back to my first-ever blog post about the boys. It made my heart ache a little for those babies, but it also made my heart swell with pride and joy and excitement watching who they are growing up to be as individuals, but also, as brothers. 

*Here's my original post from March 8, 2009.

Introducing: The Boys

Here they are...the source of much of my joy and frustrations: The Boys.

Ben's 3 1/2. He's a rock star, for sure. And not only in his parents' very biased minds. Everyone who knows him thinks he's a rock star. So does he. Fortunately, on most days, we totally lucked out with this one. He really is everything you'd want your kid to be: funny, smart, athletic, and (almost always) sweet. But we are well aware that we need to keep a tight leash on this one. He's scary bright. He also inherited some of his parents' "best" qualities: stubborn and opinionated. His favorite sayings? "Watch me," "Try to catch me!" and "I know that."

Then along came Aidan Kai. The name "Aidan" means "fire." The name "Kai" means "ocean" in Hawaiian. So there you go...a walking contradiction. He's only been around for 7 months, but he's already given us our share of contradictory feelings as well: "Isn't he the cutest thing EVER?" and "Why the heck did we want another one, again?" He spent the first 4 1/2 months of his life wailing, shrieking, crying, and making everyone around him state the obvious: "But Ben was never like this!" And although he now spends most of his time flashing his dimples, he's still known as our "High Maintenance Boy." I feel strangely protective of Aidan Kai. Perhaps it's all the sibling comparisons from everyone, perhaps it's the dimples, perhaps it's the High Maintenance label that has been permanently affixed to him, but I can just relate to him. I can't wait to see what kind of kid he's gonna be.

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

Graduating during the pandemic: this is not the way it was supposed to end

On the first day of kindergarten, Ben walked up to his teacher, unprompted, stuck out his hand, looked up, and announced, "Hi, I'm Ben. It's nice to meet you."

When he was about 3 or 4, he asked me, "Mommy, if I'm holding your hand when you die and go to heaven, will I be able to go with you?"

He's always been this intense, special, old soul: wise beyond his years, sensitive, headstrong, outspoken. So bright, it's scary. The kind of kid who would question everyone around him all the time---his teachers, his friends, his parents--not out of disrespect, but simply because he was probably seeing some loophole in their rules or suggestions that did not make sense to him, and he, quite frankly, just wanted to know why... We have spent years trying to teach him how to keep that self-confidence and sharpness, but not step on the toes of those in authority (too much). There have probably been an equal number of days in our parenting lives in which we have had to say "Damn it, you're right," and "Damn it, 'cause I say so." So often, he is the one calling us out, making us look at a situation in a different way, bringing us together as a family in the midst of an argument or a disagreement or a moment of discipline. Sometimes when he is driving me craziest, I have to laugh and shake my head and remind myself: "Mannnnn, this kid could rule the world..." 

He and I are so alike, it's startling. There are countless times when we notice the same exact detail about something, make the same comment, understand each other's thinking in a way no one else can. How often does Hubby say "You two are exactly the same person." And so, we have a bond that's unique and comforting. But when we clash...you can almost see the energy surging around us. I imagine we must look like two fighters literally dropping the gloves and coming at each other, or those bighorn rams you see butting each other on the heads on the nature channels...but we come at each other with our words, usually powerful, often sarcastic, and always indignant. It scares me, sometimes, how alike we are, how connected I feel to him, but the true beauty of it is when we come out of it on the other side: the battles usually end up bringing us closer. 

And now he's about to finish up his elementary and middle school years. He is "graduating" from 8th grade and crossing over to being a High Schooler. (How in the hell did I become the mom of a high schooler?!?) He has spent the last 9 years at the same school (the same school where Hubby and I teach). From that kindergarten first day when he pretended to be all grown up meeting his teacher to this final year, he has excelled. (Did I mention that when he earned his first B on a report card in 3rd grade, he literally threw himself on the floor of our kitchen crying? When we tried consoling him, he sobbed: "Well, maybe it's good enough for you, but it's not for me!" Luckily, he's loosened up a bit through the years...) He's made every honor roll and been inducted into every honor society. He's won competitions in his STEM classes. He's missed (maybe) one or two homework assignments the entire time. This year, he took the award for Top Algebra Student (I can't even add tip to a restaurant check, so this is the one area in which we are absolutely nothing alike). But the ending of these years is not only special because of his academic achievements. He's made friends. Good, tight, special friends. He's played football. He was on the jump rope team. He built robots and made award-winning paper-mache masks. It's been a really, really good 9 years. 

And now he's closing this chapter of his life and is the only one leaving the area's school to go to his neighborhood high school. He's excited. ("I want to do ALL the activities!" he whispered to me at the high school's open house.) He's ready. We all are. This school will open a whole new world for him---one that includes not only academics, but sports and socializing and learning who he is in isolation of all those kids he's literally grown up around. 

But--it wasn't supposed to end like this.

Like so many other parents, students, and teachers, we are heartbroken by how this pandemic has affected our school lives.

He spent the first three semesters of this school year busting his butt to complete not one, but two, online high school classes so he could "play" in phys ed the last semester with his best friends. The day the last semester was supposed to start, we were already in quarantine. So here's this kid---my kid---who made the responsible choice for himself: "I won't take phys ed on my last year with my buddies, even though I really want to, because I should get high school stuff out of the way, but I'll make sure I get it all done early so I can have those last 9 weeks to hang out and enjoy myself..." and...nope. He was supposed to go on a graduation cruise with his best friend. There was a 3-day field trip he was especially excited about to the state colleges. Two trips to Orlando parks for the honor society kids and the graduating class. A graduating ceremony. He had already picked out his tuxedo (John Wick style, thank you very much) for his 8th grade prom.  

That's how it was supposed to happen. 

But as we know, nothing is as it's supposed to be these days. Nothing.

And so we have done like so many other families: we have made the best of a terrible situation with small socially distant gatherings with only his best friend and his grandparents...with car parades with posters and balloons and honking horns...with promises---oh, how we've made promises--of future trips and sleep-overs and beach days with his friends...all his friends...any of his friends....as many things as he wants to plan when this is "all over" (whatever that means). 

Of course, he has handled it all beautifully. Remember, he was born an old soul. Wise and sensitive and sharp. He understands he can't complain about a canceled field trip when there are people dying around the world. But somehow, that makes me hurt even more. Because--and I know I'm super biased here-- I feel like: Man, if there ever was a kid who deserved to go out with a bang, it's this one. My boy. 

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Congratulations, Ben.  Words cannot express how proud we are...not just of your school achievements, but even more so of the young man and amazing soul you are. We love you. 

Remembering another "First Day of School"

Today my oldest started his last year of elementary school, and my littlest is not so little anymore.
I am the mom of a fifth grader and a third grader.
We have gone from light up superhero sneakers to high-top Vans.
In honor of today, I go back to another First Day...a pivotal one (probably more for me than them), when my oldest started kindergarten and my littlest was still quite little.

The First Day

*Originally published here on August 23, 2011

I was not prepared.

I bought all of the supplies.

Attended the meet-and-greet.

Packed their backpacks.

Reviewed shoe-tying.

Charged the camera battery.

Woke up extra early.

But I was not prepared.

On that first day

when I had done it all

checked it all off the lists

made sure we were all ready

I was not prepared.

I was not prepared for the pain

of the realization

that I was leaving my littlest one

alone

for the first time

ever

in a school

without his brother.

I was not prepared for the onslaught

of memories brought upon

by a moment captured on film:

a big brother helping a little brother

find his cubby

tuck his lunchbox

begin his day

exactly as he, himself, had done once

on his first day at the same little school.

With it came the sudden awareness

of the passing of time

the acknowledgement, for the first time,

that it is true

what they say:

they grow up too fast.

I was not prepared for the look of panic

fleeting and barely noticeable

but definitely there

in that second

just as we left.

I was not prepared for the sobs that choked me

shocked me

the whole way from one school to the next

where it started all over:

more shock, more tears

all my own.

I was not prepared for the swell of pride

unexplainable, almost.

After all, I had never been one of Those Mothers

and really, it was "just kindergarten"

and certainly, yes, a day of note, but of pride?

Pride.

Absolute.

Overwhelming.

Smothering.

I was not prepared for this feeling

that I was a mother

more than ever before

in that insignificant moment:

a nametag found and pinned

a bookbag draped over a chair

a boy

my boy

sitting

finding his seat

in kindergarten.

"Look. This is where you put your lunchbox."
This was the exact cubby Ben had used when he attended his preschool.
Coincidentally, his little brother was assigned the same exact one years later.
The fact that I captured this moment on film still makes me tear up.

The precise moment when the nametag was "found and pinned."

Today

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

A letter to my (last) preschool graduate

 

 

Dear Aidan Kai,



You graduated from your little preschool. That's it. No more babies. You were my last one. My mushy, sweet, shy one. Now, you are ready for kindergarten, they tell me. But really, I don't think I am. I can't fathom the idea of you not being there, at your little school, surrounded by those teachers who have watched you grow up.

You started in "Purple Door" when you were only 2. Leaving you there, that first morning, was made so much easier by the fact that your big brother was with you. He was starting his last year there, and you had your first hour together after early morning drop off. I didn't feel like I was leaving you alone. And  your teacher was an angel. She loved you so much. Almost as much as you loved her. I remember that whole first year, there were days when you didn't want to do something: get your hair cut, get dressed, wake up early. And all I would have to say was "Ms. Miranda said she wants to see your eyes, so it's time to cut your hair!" or "Ms. Miranda loves this shirt!" and you were game. Anything for your Ms. Miranda.

And the first time I peeked into your open classroom during lunch time, and saw you sitting in a tiny little chair...sitting! You! You, who would run around the table at dinner and needed to be strapped in extra tight in the high chair! You, who once famously hung from a table at a sushi restaurant and squealed: "Look! I'm a monkey! I'm a monkey!" How did she get you to do that?!? "He's playing you..." she would say. "He's a perfect angel here."

You only went twice a week that first year, and you loved it so much that you asked to go to school on your off days. You wanted to know why Ben got to go every day. (And since we weren't about to get into daycare finances with you, we just said that one day you'd be in "Church Door" too and you'd have to go everyday, too.) Each day, you'd come home with a little Note that told us how much you'd eaten out of your lunch box. You were so finicky. And lucky: Ms. Miranda always shared her snacks with you. That's how we found out you liked ranch flavored rice cakes and marshmallows. The first big activity that fall was the school-wide annual "circus," and you were supposed to be part of the human cannonball act (which meant you were supposed to crawl through a tube), but instead, you stayed in Ms. Miranda's lap the whole time. That woman carried you around on one of her hips a lot.

The next year, you went to "Orange Door," the potty-trained classroom. You were (sorta) potty trained. I fretted about that. A lot. And on top of that, your brother had gone on to Kindergarten. Now it was "just you" we were dropping off. I remember feeling like I was leaving you all alone. The first three weeks or so became all about the potty. The director of the school called me to ask if I was "aware" that Orange Door was a no-diaper classroom. After explaining that you were, in fact, (sorta) potty trained, she offered to help. After another week or so of you having accidents and the director (and the office manager, whom you also loved, apparently), changing you when your teacher wasn't available, and cuddling with you when you cried about your accidents, we finally said good-bye to your diapers for good.

We were always being told how wonderful you were, and that even though you were the youngest and only attended 3 days a week, you could keep up just fine. Your teacher told us that you were the best listener in the class and always followed the rules and that you were sweet and gentle and never, ever, ever a problem. And then there was the day she called me at work to tell me that you had mooned the new substitute teacher, Ms. Patti, whom you adored. You didn't even understand why they took you by the hand and led you inside from the playground. You didn't even understand why, after showing your cute little butt to your grandparents and your parents on a regular basis and then squealing in glee as we would chase you around the house to pinch it, bite it, or kiss it, Ms. Patti did not see this gesture as the compliment it was meant to be.

But potty training and mooning weren't the most memorable parts of that year: that was the year you met Lindsey. Your teeny petite little redheaded friend, who adored you as much as you adored her. At the Mother's Day breakfast that year, I was surprised to see her wearing glasses. When I asked her grandmother if they were real or just "for fun," her grandmother smiled and replied: "Oh no, they're for Aidan."

And then came "Church Door:" 5 full days a week. Now I worried about you being there too long. I worried that maybe 9-hour days were way too much for a four-year-old. But once again, as a testament to this little school and its teachers, you loved it. There were days we'd have to drag you out of there.

You started homework. You learned how to write your whole name. You decided you much preferred wearing two (very) different socks. You learned all your letters and how to count to 100 and what Orion's Belt looks like. You finished the year sounding out a handful of sight words, and most importantly, wanting, desperately, to read on your own like your big brother.

And you spent every day with your Lindsey (and sometimes, Bella). It almost became a joke: we'd ask you how your day was and what you did, and you'd always answer: "Good, I played with Lindsey," or "Bad, because Lindsey went to Disney World, I think." That Christmas, you made me take you to Target so you could buy Lindsey and Bella gifts, and you picked them out with absolute certainty ("No, Mama, Bella doesn't wear headbands!" and "No, Mama, Lindsey likes The Little Mermaid."). One morning, when you were unusually clingy and worried about being dropped off, and you started to cry, I watched as Lindsey came over to you immediately, wrapped her skinny little arms around you, and soothed: "It's okay, Aidan. Don't cry."

When we met with your teacher for your mid-year conference, we were ready to ask all sorts of questions: Is he behind? Is he too babyish? Should we keep him an extra year before kindergarten? But it seems that being the youngest boy and appearing particularly babyish and defenseless to your parents means nothing, because we were surprised and proud to hear that you were not only doing okay, you were "exceeding expectations" and "above average" in all the assessments.

Watching you, on graduation night, standing proudly at the very front of the stage as the flag bearer, your dimples in all their glory, your Sponge Bob glasses perched on your little nose, I nearly burst. There is something about you that brings out the mom I'd swore I'd never be: overly sentimental, overly protective, overly in love. And when you walked in with your red cap and gown, a little 2013 tassel hanging right against your still-slightly-chubby cheek, I felt like it was my heart, right out there, walking around. My baby. The last one. The one who still occasionally hides behind my leg when he's unsure. The one who will walk by and casually caress my arm and say "I love you, Mommy" while I'm cleaning up the kitchen. The one who, when I asked him to "please stop growing up," promised: "Don't worry, Mommy. I'm always going to be your baby."

Congratulations, Aidan Kai. We know it's "just preschool," but we couldn't be prouder. We love you.

Mama and Daddy

The First Day

I was not prepared.

I bought all of the supplies.

Attended the meet-and-greet.

Packed their backpacks.

Reviewed shoe-tying.

Charged the camera battery.

Woke up extra early.

But I was not prepared.

On that first day

when I had done it all

checked it all off the lists

made sure we were all ready

I was not prepared.

I was not prepared for the pain

of the realization

that I was leaving my littlest one

alone

for the first time

ever

in a school

without his brother.

I was not prepared for the onslaught

of memories brought upon

by a moment captured on film:

a big brother helping a little brother

find his cubby

tuck his lunchbox

begin his day

exactly as he, himself, had done once

on his first day at the same little school.

With it came the sudden awareness

of the passing of time

the acknowledgement, for the first time,

that it is true

what they say:

they grow up too fast.

I was not prepared for the look of panic

fleeting and barely noticeable

but definitely there

in that second

just as we left.

I was not prepared for the sobs that choked me

shocked me

the whole way from one school to the next

where it started all over:

more shock, more tears

all my own.

I was not prepared for the swell of pride

unexplainable, almost.

After all, I had never been one of Those Mothers

and really, it was "just kindergarten"

and certainly, yes, a day of note, but of pride?

Pride.

Absolute.

Overwhelming.

Smothering.

I was not prepared for this feeling

that I was a mother

more than ever before

in that insignificant moment:

a nametag found and pinned

a bookbag draped over a chair

a boy

my boy

sitting

finding his seat

in kindergarten.

To my preschool graduate

Dear Ben,

Tonight you graduated from your little school. The first school you ever attended. The first place I ever "left you" to be with others, to be on your own, to start your own little life. You were 3 then, just turned, when you learned what a "cubby" was and which one would be yours. I remember being so worried, on that first day, and then you walked right over and, without hesitation, pushed your little soccer-themed lunch box into that little square, right where the teacher had shown you just a couple of days before when you had met her.

After the first couple of days you had a little setback. The teachers said it was normal. They said most kids reacted like that after the novelty of the first day wore off. But when I left you, each morning, for a handful of mornings, and you cried...no, you sobbed...and clung to me, your little fingers clenched into my shoulders, I cried too--probably more than you did.

Your first year, you took to napping on the little cot faster than I ever believed you would. The teacher said she loved watching you, because you slept like a baby: your arms and hands tucked neatly beneath your body, your knees scrunched up into your belly, your little tush in the air. When she told me, I had to laugh...that was how you always slept as a baby. And even now, on rare mornings when you are really sound asleep, I enter your room to find you still sleeping like that, in your infant position. You were "a leader," your first teacher said. She said all the kids liked you. You were bright and funny and loud.

And then your next year, you got a little too bright and too funny and too loud. It was a tough year for us, because we started to see glimpses: maybe you were not going to be the perfect student Mommy and Daddy had envisioned. Maybe, instead, you were going to be like Mommy and Daddy: questioning, opinionated, easily excited, and loving the attention. That was the year you forged your first tight friendship with another boy, your buddy who became infamous around these parts, your nearly-literal partner in crime. You will probably graduate from college, and we will still remember the name "CJ." Just in case, we took video of him tonight, at the graduation ceremony, and oddly enough, I looked at CJ with tenderness: this was the my son's first best friend.

This year, you went on to the "Big Kid Class." You had homework. You had strict teachers. You had yellow cards. Oh, yes, your VPK year nearly turned into "The Year of the Yellow Card." I am embarrassed to admit that the mood of our home became nearly completely dependent upon the color card you received in school each day. Somewhere along the line, after many conversations between your daddy and myself, great advice from your teacher, and many lost nights of sleep (mine, primarily...you know your dad never stresses), we sorta figured you out and learned how to encourage you while still disciplining you. And either it all worked, or you just matured a little, because green cards became the norm and yellow ones rarely appeared anymore. You went on to learn all of your letters and numbers and how to spell your whole name. You learned 24 of the 26 phonetic sounds. You came home talking about constellations. You taught us songs. You proudly displayed your 10 new sight words on your bedroom door.

Tonight, we watched you and all your classmates walk in wearing little red caps and gowns. Your 2011 tassel dangled in your face as you turned around to look back at us and wave one more time before going up on stage. When they called your name and you walked up to your teachers to receive your diploma (a blank rolled up piece of paper that most of you chose to use as telescopes for the remainder of the ceremony), they announced "When Ben grows up, he wants to be a pilot, but he doesn't want to work in the summers." A big, proud grin stretched across your face. You are, it appears, going to be like your mom and dad: you want to have your cake and eat it too.

I cried tonight. I couldn't believe that you were the same little boy we had welcomed into this world only five and a half years ago. I couldn't believe that I hadn't noticed how you had caught up to the rest of the kids, and you were no longer the shortest. I couldn't believe you were going to be a kindergartner. I couldn't believe it was You: the little baby we had wanted so badly, for whom we had waited so long.

Congratulations, Ben. We know it's "just preschool," but we couldn't be prouder. We love you.

Mama and Daddy

Mrs. Mama

Today I drove the same exact route I've been driving every weekday for the last 8 years. I parked in the same exact parking lot. I walked into the same exact building. I entered the same exact cafeteria. But today, I wasn't a Teacher. Today, I was there as Mama.

My oldest will be starting kindergarten next year at "Mama and Daddy's school," and I needed to attend an informational meeting. It felt odd to arrive as a mom. It felt decidedly and shockingly different.

Even before we'd had kids, Hubby and I had made the absolute decision that our children would definitely not, under any circumstances, be attending the same school in which one (much less both) of us worked. We wanted our kids to have "their own lives." We wanted them to be their own people...not "Mr. and Mrs. So & So's kids." We wanted them to be independent. We wanted to keep our professional and personal lives distinctly separate. We wanted their teachers to be "just" their teachers, not their pseudo-aunts or "Mommy's friends." We wanted our kid to be "just another kid"...not one of The Teacher Kids.

Then, suddenly, as so often happens in this journey called Parenthood, we realized that maybe it was quite possible that perhaps we were not so sure about all of this after all.

"You want to be a drive-by parent?!?" my amazing-single-mother friend/hairdresser extraordinaire gasped. "Let me get this straight: you're telling me that you could put your kid in your school, you could handpick his teacher from year to year, you could monitor everything everyday, you could be right there in case of an emergency, and you are choosing to send him to his neighborhood school instead, in a school district where you know absolutely no one, where you would have to drop him off to morning daycare and pick him up from after school supervision, where you would be just another parent who, in order to be heard, would have to make an appointment just to get clarification on a homework assignment, and you're gonna choose that? You're just gonna roll the dice? What you're telling me is that you basically have won the lottery and you don't want the money. No thanks, I don't actually want to give my kid any sort of advantage or opportunity. No thanks, I don't want to be involved in the first most important years of his education."

Well.

That wasn't exactly what Hubby and I meant all those years, but when you put it that way...

Fast forward to tonight, when I drove for the first time ever to my job to be Ben's Mama.

One of my worries had always been that I wouldn't feel like a mom taking her kid to school; that, instead, I'd feel like a teacher taking her kid to work. But I didn't. When I looked up at those teachers, I didn't see co-workers. I saw Ben's Teachers. When I walked in, we weren't greeted with cordial stranger hello's. We were greeted with hugs and love and genuine warmth. I felt welcomed. I felt that I would be turning my kid over to people who knew me, who knew us, and who would eventually know him...the good and the bad.

Both Ben and Aidan behaved beautifully throughout the one-hour meeting. They colored and drew and whispered. When Ben asked if he could run around the cafeteria with a buddy after the meeting ended, and I said no and reminded him that "this is going to be your big kid school soon; you have to do the right thing." He nodded emphatically, almost immediately, and smiled: "I know." When I told Hubby how proud I was of their behavior, Ben told Daddy about "the lady who even turned around during the meeting" (another teacher disguised as a mommy for the night) to say that "Wow, they must be really good kids." He, too, seemed to notice something was a little different here...this was no longer the VPK playground where he jumped off chairs and played with grasshoppers: this would be the Real Thing. "Aidan," he explained dramatically to his little brother, "this is Mommy and Daddy's school, but this is where I'm going to be for kindergarten next year."

I don't know if, at some point, we will second-guess our decision. I don't know if, at some point, we will wonder if perhaps rolling the dice would have been a better gamble. But tonight, I know for sure that I was Mama, and not Mrs. So-and So. And I know that my little boy is going to go to Real School really soon.

With parenting comes heartbreak

Parenting is filled with joy.

Nothing swells my heart more than when my oldest boy, on his way to his room, makes a quick unsolicited pit stop to kiss me on the arm and declare “I love you, Mama.” And when my littlest tilts his head to look up at me, grins his dimply smile, and states that Mama loves him “all da way to da stars,” my heart certainly grows a few sizes.

But along with the highs, there are the lows.

And I’m realizing there are more lows than I anticipated.

***

When I was a little girl, I daydreamed about my wedding day: the dress I would wear, the song I would dance, the shade of the flowers in my bouquet (little did I know then that I’d end up having not one, but two dresses, songs, bouquets….! Oh, if only I’d known, I would’ve daydreamed double!). Then, as I got older, I started daydreaming about being a Mommy: the pink bows and skirts, the Barbie dream house, the dolls (little did I know then that the only pink items in the house would be in my own closet, the dream house would continue to be a dream, and the dolls would be army men and action figures).

The point being: I’ve always had preconceived notions of what IT would be like. The IT referring to just about anything of any importance. And the older I get, the more I realize that it is these pre-set expectations, these self-imposed constraints, which cause me great grief on a day-to-day basis, because, as most of us know, IT rarely turns out exactly as you expected it to.

Having been a teacher of small children for a full decade prior to having kids of my own, I had some very definite visions of what IT would be like: school. As my baby slowly became a boy, I started daydreaming again: my son would be the well-rounded kid, the one who the teachers loved, the one who always turned everything in on time, the one who behaved, the one who said “please” and “thank you,” the one whose parents obviously were doing their job.

Yesterday, when picking up my two boys from school, I was told that Ben had had “a really bad day” (this was accompanied with some wide-eyed brow-raising and some whew-like whistling from the teacher) and had earned himself a red card. This red card was not accompanied, luckily, with stories about bullying on the playground…we have come a long way from that. His “yellow and red days” are more about not sitting still, goofing off, insisting that he come down the slide backwards and on his tummy. Immediately after this explanation, the teacher then went on to ask “Oh, and did you hear about Aidan?” (which I had…my usually-angelic-in-school two-year-old decided to whack his classmate on the head with a toy hard enough that a report needed to be signed). I went home yesterday, two adorable and sweaty little boys in tow, feeling dejected and discouraged.

This morning, while dropping them off, I hid my face from the mother of the kid Aidan had whacked, and wondered if she was thinking: “Oh, there’s the mother of THAT kid.”

I assured Ben’s teacher that yes, he had, in fact, gone to the bathroom (TWICE) at home before coming, but for some reason he was currently fixated on going again when he arrived at school, and apologized sheepishly for her having to take him for a third day in a row while I went to work.

I got into my car and silently prayed for a “green day.”

And then I started to cry.

In my daydreams of being a parent, I never imagined feeling embarrassment or shame when dropping them off at school. I never thought I’d worry about what the teachers must think of my kids—or worse—of us.

And therein lies my issue: I worry too damn much about what other people think.

I’m frustrated and stressed because I want it to be like a problem statement: “If this, then this.” I kinda thought that’s what parenting was: IF you teach your kids right from wrong, IF you are consistent and firm, IF you balance the rewards and the consequences, IF you are a good role model, THEN they will…

Will what?

What is it that I would be filling in the blank with here?

…THEN they will not go down the slide backwards on their tummies???????

What the hell am I gonna do when they go to college?

I have been a teacher for 14 years.
I have been a mother for 5.
This week, my 2 selves collided in a way I couldn't possibly understand until now.
I think I'm a good teacher. For the most part, my students have always liked being in my class. I've always tried to be kind. I've always struggled to teach my students to the best of my ability. I have always been in it "for the right reasons."
I thought I really "got it"...the power of a teacher.
14 years, 4 different grade levels, 2 schools, and probably 400+ students later, I really "got it."
.
But my professional epiphany had nothing to do with my job.


On Sunday night, I lay in bed, trying to sleep, looking forward to the school year ahead, and thinking about my boys. Ben would start his first day of VPK with 2 certified real-deal degreed teachers and weekly homework (!) that Monday morning. Aidan Kai (my little rambunctious just-turned-two baby!) would be starting his first day of "school" in the "baby class" at his big brother's school that Tuesday. And as I lay there, I realized the amount of hope and trust I was placing in these teachers, these women who would be helping to mold my little boys over the next year. I was excited for my boys. They would learn and play and jump and laugh and cry and push the limits with these teachers. And in that moment, in the darkness of my room, I realized that, most likely, in many homes a few miles away, there were other moms (and probably dads) thinking the same thoughts and having the same feelings...about Me. Those parents were probably also laying in their beds, wondering what would be in store for their children when they entered my classroom the next day, hoping and trusting, too.

That was the moment when I truly realized the importance of my job.

And the incredible amount of gratitude I feel towards these teachers when they show an extra moment of patience or tenderness or understanding with my boys.


Lesson learned.

* * *

Ben's been attending his school for 2 years. He started 2 days a week when he was three. Last year he increased to 3 days a week. Monday he started "official pre-k"...5 days a week, full time. He was excited and happy.

Each afternoon, he's worked on his homework for this week.

Sometimes, it's like pulling teeth:

"C'mon, Ben, focus." "No, Ben you have to do some of the writing yourself." "Ben! You know what a letter M looks like!"

.

Other times, it's mommy ecstasy:

"No, Mama, I want to write that part myself." "Let me show Daddy." "I know that Aidan's name starts with a letter A."

.

I can't quite believe I've arrived (so soon!) at the point in my parenting career where I have to come home (after an entire day of working with 52 kids) to patiently and lovingly teach one more kid.

.

* * *

.

Last school year, whenever we went to pick Ben up from school, Aidan Kai was the one who'd pick up his brother's lunchbox from the cubby and carry it to the car. He sometimes even asked to stay. So we decided this year, a full year sooner than Ben, we'd start him out at the same school 2 days a week for half days. Although I knew it was the right thing for him at this point, I was a wreck.

.

The morning went so smoothly that I was sure all hell would break loose at any moment. He ate his breakfast, he helped pick out his clothing, he picked up his lunchbox, and was ready to go. When we arrived, cringing that surely at any minute he'd start his usual schtick of "Up! Up!" and cling to us, he instead insisted on walking himself down the hall to the front door.

That picture?

.

It's the one that made me cry when I looked at it later as I pulled into the parking lot at work.

* * *

I feel like we've started a whole new chapter in our parenting lives. I'm excited and proud of our boys, but I'm a bit melancholy and emotional about the days we're leaving behind. The feeling I've been walking around with today is one I can't even put into words, which is probably why this post has turned into more of an account of the facts than one with a point. I just feel emotionally full and emotionally spent at the same time, and I knew I had to chronicle this event, because it's yet another in which I realize there are some things you can't understand until you're a mom.