Here are the important lessons I learned today:
If you are carrying something very heavy and want to move quickly, do not ask your 4-year-old to help you.
If your mother (a.k.a. Nana) needs something heavy carried, she may ask the aforementioned 4-year-old for help and will receive it.
¼ cup of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream is not enough ice cream, even you are in a relatively decent mood.
Purchasing strawberries in October and then leaving them in your car all day will certainly guarantee you a batch of mostly moldy strawberries.
If you tell just one parent that the date and/or the time of your 1st-graders Halloween party may have to be changed, the entire class worth of parents will hear this “rumor” and not RSVP to your 1st-grader's Halloween party.
Little boys (mine, anyway), if given the choice between TV and playing with their father, will choose tv.
If you let the aforementioned, aforementioned 4-year-old carry heavy things for his Nana, he will complain later than his back hurts. And that his sore back precludes his ability to eat his dinner. And that he would rather just go to bed than eat. And that he cannot take Tylenol because he knows you told him it has bad ingredients in it. But that he really does like the Motrin.
Finishing off the aforementioned pint of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream will only make you want more Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream.
My 4-year-old does not need a reason to cry, fuss, whine, or otherwise disagree with what I want. It is simply his birthright to do so. Apparently.
Just because it is mid-October and you were wearing a short skirt and tank top a week ago and mittens and a hat a few days ago does not mean you will be wearing either a short skirt and tank top or mittens and a hat today. If you live in Chicago.
My world revolves around food. Making a good hearty breakfast to keep the boys well-nourished until lunch. Filling a lunchbox with tempting foods that Mac will have time to eat before he is shooed out to recess. Preparing a version of dinner that includes lots of side dishes, given our aversion to meat. Cooking, preparing, washing, shopping (not in that order, right). From the girl who hated cooking to the mom who is all about the food!
And no matter how nice I make these lunches, Mac still wants to eat hot lunch because, “it is SO delicious, Mom!”
“But you never say that about my lunches, which I work so hard to make for you.”
“Oh, Mom, your lunches are the best!” Oh Mac, you are so diplomatic.
That no matter how much I yell at my 6-year-old and no matter how much I yell at my 4-year-old, my 6-year-old will remain an extremely well-behaved child, when I really step back and look at him, and my 4-year-old will remain a spoiled little ….
Suggesting painting of a bedroom on the upcoming Friday off to your 6- and 4-year-olds will not be met with enthusiasm.
It is a very bad sign when you ask your sister for her opinion on your hair – meaning the hideous new shade of brown you just colored it – and her only comment is, “Well, it just looks like it’s growing out,” even tho you just had it cut two weeks ago. (Also Learned: I do not like how I look as a brunette.)
A loose tooth can start being loose in August and still be loose in mid-October.
Whether you like it or not, you cannot choose which children your 1st-grader will play with at school.
Finding 10 dimes to send to school with your child as part of a homework assignment this week is only slightly less challenging than finding 10 nickels was last week.
There is no limit (apparently) to the number of times you can load, run and unload your dishwasher in a day.
The chorus to the mid-1980s top 40 hit “Walk Like an Egyptian” will, if put in your head, remain there.
Waking up at 6:45 and starting my day at full-speed every day (with the added bonus of a 4-year-old starting and maintaining his day at full-whine) renders me completely incapable of any type of human function past 8pm.
And I have learned that school is not about me, the mom. It is about the 6-year-old. And his world while he is there is not a world I have any control over. And so I must bite my tongue and resist making suggestions when Mac reports that, “Joseph spit on me,” and “Nich wants me to have hot lunch or he won’t be my friend,” and the like. I am no longer there to guide my son thru his days. Only to prepare him for the day each morning and help him ease out of the day each night.
It’s Friday afternoon. 1:02 pm. Mac has a friend over. A mild-mannered, freckle-nosed boy from first grade. The boy is not in his class, but he has come highly recommended as a friend from two of Mac’s favorite girl friends. In an hour or so some other friends will be by to play. There is some talk that the next segment of the day will include pizza and wine. Now, while I am adequately sated from the French toast and hash browns I ate about 2 hours ago at the pancake house (Mac wanted to take Sailor and me out for breakfast this morning), the thought of the wine is so tempting I am sucking down hot tea in anticipation of the rest of the afternoon. For this “mild-mannered” boy is anything but and I am coming to realize that boys will be boys but I wish they would do so anywhere than inside my house. I also think my friend Anna has the right idea that all toys requiring batteries (to make requisite annoying noises) should be banned from the confines of my home.
So much for a fabulous day off spent with my children. We should have just hung out and watched tv instead. Sigh…
Oh, how does this fabulous day off end? Well, by 2pm I am on the phone to the boy’s nanny. “I think this play date has run its course,” I tell her, and ask her to come for the child. Half an hour later she is here. One hour later he is still here. He refuses to leave. “We just started a new game,” is among his most convincing protest. He is better behaved while the nanny is here. Sort of. Except that he won’t leave. I finally suggest the nanny call the boy’s mother. When she arrives she is none too pleased and ends up hauling her boy out under one arm. I expect her to call later in the evening to apologize again for her child’s behavior and/or find out exactly what went on here this afternoon. She does not. Her child has just lost any and all invitations to come to our house to play.
During the above ordeal, Sailor finds his way to the bathroom. He calls for my help. “Look at my pants,” he says, from atop the porcelain throne. I inspect carefully to find a couple drops of what appear to be spit-up. “What happened?” “I gagged a little and some throw-up comed out.” Why did he gag? “Because my poops smell yucky!” This from the small boy who has a self-declared “allergy to poop.”
Our friends coming for wine and pizza blow us off. Without calling. I only learn of their decision not to come when I call them 2 hours after they are due here.
My sister comes over and we attempt to make a healthful version of popcorn balls, which is an oxymoron at best. They are sticky, messy, and gross. I eat them anyway but the kids decline.
But there is one good thing that happens at the end of this disastrous day. The boys are watching a video that I wanted to watch but then do not like. I tell them they don’t have to watch but when Mac jumps up and flies out of the room Sailor bursts into tears and we rejoin him to watch with him. Then suddenly from his spot on the floor Mac cries out, “My tooth is about to fall out!” And so it is. The tiny tooth is literally hanging from a thread. I try to pull it but it is still attached. I tell Mac he has to pull it out. He does. He hands me the tooth, which I clutch like the Hope Diamond it is. And he throws himself into my arms and burst into tears. I cry with him for a moment and then stop, not exactly sure why we are crying. Or even if we should be. We wash his mouth and rinse the tooth. We have to go down to show my parents right away. And then Mac leaves the tooth under his pillow. In my bed. I am worried that it will not survive the night with all three of us vying for space in there. I call my parents, "So how does this tooth fairy thing work?" My dad is trying to explain but then passes the phone to my mom, who wants me to put a note from the tooth fairy under the pillow on Mac's bed explaining that she heard about a tooth but he was in the wrong bed.... As if I would punish him that way! When Mac wakes in the wee hours he finds a note wrapped around two gold coins. The note thanks him for his beautiful tooth, congratulations him and is signed, “Love, Tooth Fairy.” “The Tooth Fairy is real!” His doubt has been completely erased.
Minutes later Sailor finds us in the bathroom. “I looked under Mac’s pillow but there is nothing there.” Ah, I tell him, but when Mac looked under Mac’s pillow… Mac and Sailor trot off to see the coins.
And while the loss of my first child's first tooth is no big deal to the rest of the free world, it is a major event in our little world. I document it in his baby book. I wrap the tooth in saran wrap and label it before we slip it under the pillow. Really label it: Mac's 1st tooth. Bottom right. October 19, 2007, 7:45 pm. Really. Because this is the tiny tooth that made its apearance in my 8-month-old first born's mouth on February 6, 2002, and to me this is a very big deal!
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Week 6 Happy Columbus Day!
Two minutes before 8pm and my kids who “go to bed at 7:00” are still awake. Mac just came out of bed with the all-important tattle, “Sailor just bit me on the hand and choked me!”
Sailor was right on his heels with a gesturing finger at the end of an outstretched arm, “But I said I’m sorry!”
“Why did you do it in the first place?” How do I make them understand that they can’t hurt each other at will and then just say they are sorry to make it right?
“Beez it’s my day to go first and I want to sleep in the middle.” He is speaking, of course, of my bed. Each boy wants a chance to sleep in the middle, which places them next to me. Why don’t I make it easy on them both and sleep in the middle myself? Because then I am a Mommy-wich and I get no sleep at all. Plus the lamp and alarm clock are not positioned in the middle.
“How about if I send you both back to your own beds?”
“NO!” they chorus. We have a problem here, I know. And I also know that I am (at least) 1/3 of the problem.
“Settle it yourselves.” They run back to my bed. But after a few moments of quiet chatter Mac emerges. “When Sailor choked me he almost killed me. And it hurts.” He returns to his own bed. There is so little use in yelling at anyone anymore. It’s just too sad to yell at Mac and too frustrating to yell at Sailor.
Which is why I grounded them from their playroom over the weekend. A friend asked me what I plan to do to keep them busy if they don’t have their toys. She feared I might have to entertain them myself. While we have been quite busy the past few days, the kids have had some idle time. Together Mac and I worked some math problems and a word find from among his many unfinished summer workbooks and today we all colored together. I'll have to tell my friend that having to “entertain them” isn’t such a bad thing after all.
And about this weekend. It was hot. So hot that our city’s marathon was called off mid-run. So hot that there was a ridiculousness about attending a fall fest at the farm in 90 degree heat that made us long for the beach while we choose our fall pumpkins and wash off itchy face paints.
And then a day off. Not anticipating the summer-like weather we planned a day at the science museum where there is a very overpriced exhibit about StarWars. The kids are enthralled. We learn all about robotic arms and the living climate of Wookies and how we might use our own robots in the future. But what strikes me as particularly bizarre is the way the narrators of all the short films playing throughout the exhibit talk about the StarWars characters as if they are actual, real, live beings. Reality check, people! This is MAKE BELIEVE!
What is not make believe are the prices in the gift shop. Litesabers, $6.99 at Target, are going for $12. Costumes that cost about $19.99 in the real world are inflated to double or more. Galactic Heroes mini-packs of tiny StarWars guys, normally $5.85 at Target are $11. We spend $7 on 2 postcards, a pencil, stickers and tattoos. And that is with the member discount!
Some funny things my children have said recently:
Sailor: "Something smells funny. Let I smell Mac. Mac is fine. Let I smell me."
Sailor [who has unfortunately caught me peeing when I have my period]: What is that?!
Mommy: Blood.
Sailor: WHY?
Mommy: Because I am not having a baby.
Sailor: Does blood smell yucky? [Sailor gags.]
Mommy: Yes. It’s ok.
Sailor [trying, I think, to make me feel better]: It looks like strawberries.
Sailor: Can I marry you, Mommy?
Mac: You can’t marry Mommy.
Mommy: You can want to marry me, Sailor.
Sailor: But I forgot, is I am the one who has the baby or do you have the baby?
Listening to the Mix&Match radio show last night while putting away clothes in Mac’s room, Mac seriously suggests, “You should go on that, Mom.”
"I think I may be too old," I tell him.
“You could go on and find us a new dad,” he continues. I think about this, in terms of his dad. “What would we do with your old dad?” I ask, lightheartedly, to gauge his response.
“Well, I just assume our old dad and our new dad will just have to get along with each other.” How old is this child?!
Friday morning I am reminded of something I have felt for years: I hate field trips. I hate going on them. I hate the children who go on them. I hate the parents and teachers who run them. And I think they are the single most ineffective use of a school day. Especially in the city, where I live, where we are cultured, have money, take our children to more than just Chuck E. Cheese’s for adventure and experience. Today Mac’s class is going on a field trip. And I get to come along. Why? Because several weeks ago I let his teacher know in no uncertain terms that if I don’t go, Mac doesn’t go. In fact, I used those exact words. And so for punishment she assigns me five boys. I spend my morning walking. Freezing. And calling out to five 6-year-old boys who think they were on a free-for all. Led, no less, by Mac. It goes something like this: "Brian, come back here. Kevin and Brian come here! Mac, get down from there. Nich and Mac, I have told you three times to stay on the path. Kevin and Brian come here! Hey! Stop at the street! We are a group. Stick together! Mac do you want me to call GrandDad to come get you? Where is Nich?" And once in awhile, "Jack, you're right beside me. Thank you!" Toward the end of the neverending trek around the park I look around nad see only Mac, Brian, Kevin and Jack. That's good enough, I think. Four out of five. Only a moment later I realize that I am insane!
By the way, no one still names their children Brian and Kevin, not even the moms of the boys in Mac's class. But if I write their real names here their moms might read this and think that I think their little boys are brats.
Sailor was right on his heels with a gesturing finger at the end of an outstretched arm, “But I said I’m sorry!”
“Why did you do it in the first place?” How do I make them understand that they can’t hurt each other at will and then just say they are sorry to make it right?
“Beez it’s my day to go first and I want to sleep in the middle.” He is speaking, of course, of my bed. Each boy wants a chance to sleep in the middle, which places them next to me. Why don’t I make it easy on them both and sleep in the middle myself? Because then I am a Mommy-wich and I get no sleep at all. Plus the lamp and alarm clock are not positioned in the middle.
“How about if I send you both back to your own beds?”
“NO!” they chorus. We have a problem here, I know. And I also know that I am (at least) 1/3 of the problem.
“Settle it yourselves.” They run back to my bed. But after a few moments of quiet chatter Mac emerges. “When Sailor choked me he almost killed me. And it hurts.” He returns to his own bed. There is so little use in yelling at anyone anymore. It’s just too sad to yell at Mac and too frustrating to yell at Sailor.
Which is why I grounded them from their playroom over the weekend. A friend asked me what I plan to do to keep them busy if they don’t have their toys. She feared I might have to entertain them myself. While we have been quite busy the past few days, the kids have had some idle time. Together Mac and I worked some math problems and a word find from among his many unfinished summer workbooks and today we all colored together. I'll have to tell my friend that having to “entertain them” isn’t such a bad thing after all.
And about this weekend. It was hot. So hot that our city’s marathon was called off mid-run. So hot that there was a ridiculousness about attending a fall fest at the farm in 90 degree heat that made us long for the beach while we choose our fall pumpkins and wash off itchy face paints.
And then a day off. Not anticipating the summer-like weather we planned a day at the science museum where there is a very overpriced exhibit about StarWars. The kids are enthralled. We learn all about robotic arms and the living climate of Wookies and how we might use our own robots in the future. But what strikes me as particularly bizarre is the way the narrators of all the short films playing throughout the exhibit talk about the StarWars characters as if they are actual, real, live beings. Reality check, people! This is MAKE BELIEVE!
What is not make believe are the prices in the gift shop. Litesabers, $6.99 at Target, are going for $12. Costumes that cost about $19.99 in the real world are inflated to double or more. Galactic Heroes mini-packs of tiny StarWars guys, normally $5.85 at Target are $11. We spend $7 on 2 postcards, a pencil, stickers and tattoos. And that is with the member discount!
Some funny things my children have said recently:
Sailor: "Something smells funny. Let I smell Mac. Mac is fine. Let I smell me."
Sailor [who has unfortunately caught me peeing when I have my period]: What is that?!
Mommy: Blood.
Sailor: WHY?
Mommy: Because I am not having a baby.
Sailor: Does blood smell yucky? [Sailor gags.]
Mommy: Yes. It’s ok.
Sailor [trying, I think, to make me feel better]: It looks like strawberries.
Sailor: Can I marry you, Mommy?
Mac: You can’t marry Mommy.
Mommy: You can want to marry me, Sailor.
Sailor: But I forgot, is I am the one who has the baby or do you have the baby?
Listening to the Mix&Match radio show last night while putting away clothes in Mac’s room, Mac seriously suggests, “You should go on that, Mom.”
"I think I may be too old," I tell him.
“You could go on and find us a new dad,” he continues. I think about this, in terms of his dad. “What would we do with your old dad?” I ask, lightheartedly, to gauge his response.
“Well, I just assume our old dad and our new dad will just have to get along with each other.” How old is this child?!
Friday morning I am reminded of something I have felt for years: I hate field trips. I hate going on them. I hate the children who go on them. I hate the parents and teachers who run them. And I think they are the single most ineffective use of a school day. Especially in the city, where I live, where we are cultured, have money, take our children to more than just Chuck E. Cheese’s for adventure and experience. Today Mac’s class is going on a field trip. And I get to come along. Why? Because several weeks ago I let his teacher know in no uncertain terms that if I don’t go, Mac doesn’t go. In fact, I used those exact words. And so for punishment she assigns me five boys. I spend my morning walking. Freezing. And calling out to five 6-year-old boys who think they were on a free-for all. Led, no less, by Mac. It goes something like this: "Brian, come back here. Kevin and Brian come here! Mac, get down from there. Nich and Mac, I have told you three times to stay on the path. Kevin and Brian come here! Hey! Stop at the street! We are a group. Stick together! Mac do you want me to call GrandDad to come get you? Where is Nich?" And once in awhile, "Jack, you're right beside me. Thank you!" Toward the end of the neverending trek around the park I look around nad see only Mac, Brian, Kevin and Jack. That's good enough, I think. Four out of five. Only a moment later I realize that I am insane!
By the way, no one still names their children Brian and Kevin, not even the moms of the boys in Mac's class. But if I write their real names here their moms might read this and think that I think their little boys are brats.
Week 5 – Or, “We’re Outa Here!”
Not really. But nearly. And quite frankly this 1st grade year has been so dismal already that I feel absolutely no desire to relive it thru my fingertips on the keyboard. Nor do I feel the need to do so, as I have done my fair share of bitching and moaning to everyone who will listen, including my unfortunately over-friendly bank tellers.
So the highlights (or, more accurately, the low-lights – which reminds me… that I got my hair cut last week. By a man who had a better head of curls than any woman I know. He insisted that my hair color is all wrong and that I really need to make it a little darker to match my complexion. I explained to the pockmarked, crooked-teeth’ed, chin-and-eyebrow-pierced probable drag queen, that I really like my hair color, but that as my tan has faded a bit I do realize that I should make my hair a little darker. Soon. When I am really and truly ready to look like total winter crap and have zero self-esteem left. But he went on and on. And on. About the chocolates I should add and the lowlights and highlights. And when a client walked by with foils in her hair to make the top of her head match the sooty grey-green locks that hung down her back, I vowed I would never again be insulted when the professionals ask me, “You do your own color, don’t you?).
Anyway, where was I? Yes, our wonderful week. Let’s start at the beginning. At least as far back as I am willing to recall. (These weeks are LONG!) Monday. Right. I think that was the morning my mom had to drive my almost-ex and me downtown for a court date. He was a nervous wreck, which made me the calm one. I don’t think I did much after that. I hate going downtown so that zapped my umph for the day. In the afternoon Sailor and Mac and went to tap. Except Sailor didn’t want to go to tap. He wanted to scream and cry and make an enormous fuss. That lasts most of the class. When he does finally get his tap shoes back on and rejoin the class he taps only a short while before wetting his pants and most of the dance floor. Which I have to clean up with those brown paper towels that are truly more suitable for writing stories on. Then we try to pay for Mac to take the class but after 15 minutes I get fed up with the office girl’s inability to do math. Somewhere between the dance class and home we lose Mac’s lunch box. The new Spiderman one. With the $15 Spiderman thermos inside.
Sailor throws no fewer than 5 tantrums on Tuesday. It's a fun day. All day. I shoe-shop, but come home empty-handed, while Sailor is at school. I pick up Mac. Which, instead of being the highlight of my day, turns out to be the absolute low point of the entire past month. All over chocolate milk. Which Mac want. In a box, not from Starbucks, after school. My boys love Starbucks as much as I do. So he cries. I lose it. Completely. “Are you actually bitching at me for wanting to do something nice for you and take you to Starbucks?!” He keeps crying. I am incredulous.
We turn a corner, both physically and emotionally. “Can’t I ever do anything right for you kids?!” I scream. Have I mentioned that at this point I have lost all control? Right. I have. Mac starts to cry. And he takes my hand and we walk all the way home this way. I give him the box of chocolate milk I have in my bag for Sailor. But then we have to stop home for another for Sailor so that I don’t have to listen to yet another fuss on the way home from preschool. I want this day to get better. But at preschool Sailor runs right into Mac’s arms and completely ignores me!
I am beside myself and drop my ungrateful offspring with my parents. I am on the phone seaking solace from one of my best friends when my mom comes up. She wants to take me for coffee. I know I am the worst mother ever.
Mac gives exhaustion as his reason for his unfortunate behavior. I give the fact that I have realized we’ve been unhappy for 4 weeks as the reason for mine. Sailor gives his personality as his.
Wednesday morning we putter. I have no energy to prod the boys to get ready quickly. I am still reeling from last night and Mac remains upset as well. We spend long minutes just hugging and trying to fill the space between us with love and understanding. Sometimes being a mom feels a bit like being a wife. Except the (little) guy is, thankfully, much more understanding and forgiving. Sailor won’t get dressed, and I truly want to keep Mac with me today, so I don’t insist on anything. We arrive at school some time after 9:00. Mac is given a tardy pass and I am told he is to walk upstairs to his classroom. Alone. I am more than a little unsettled by the office lady’s tone. So I ignore her completely and acquiesce when Mac says he is scared and wants me to walk him up. He is 6. He is small. He has never been late to school before. (And he will never be late again, after this experience.) We are almost to the 2nd floor when we are stopped. I have been followed. I am told parents cannot be on the classroom floors. I tell her, in no uncertain terms, that Mac is MY CHILD! And that "you people can’t keep telling me what to do with him!" It is a beautiful moment of how not to behave at your child’s school in front of your child. I offer Mac the option of coming home with me. He declines. I kiss him and Sailor and I leave. I am sobbing. Sailor is as furious as I am. “Those people owe you a serious apology for making you cry, Mommy!”
I find out late in the day that I have inadvertently blown off a meeting with the principal. “I never got confirmation,” I email him.
The only thing that makes the day halfway decent is that Sailor is well-behaved. And I find metal thermoses at Borders for $6. By the time I get Mac from school late in the afternoon I have already arranged to take him on a tour of a charter school on Thursday morning.
Which Mac is uncertain about. “I have to miss school?”
I decide that he will have the whole day off. With me. Without Sailor. We visit the school. Mac says he likes the new school. But he prefers his own school. I decide it’s his call. We go to lunch. Mac buys flowers for my mom. We buy jibbitz from a very cool new kids’ book store. And some books. Mac chooses a book on slavery and for Sailor we choose a book on finger painting. We play in a small park district playground and Mac makes friends with a few little boys. We go inside to use the bathroom. We buy a necklace for Mac’s kindergarten teacher from last year who is about to have her 1st baby and will be leaving our school for good on Friday. We drive to Target. We have a very nice day together. I realize just how big is this child, whom I insist is still just a baby, when I see toddlers lunching with their mothers. My child seems large. Slightly messy with his crazy hair and glasses, and just out of place. I enjoy my time with him immensely while also longing for those days of our original togetherness.
Thursday relaxes us. We are together. We settle our decision about school. We don’t have to listen to Sailor whine about anything. And so it goes.
We have all learned some important lessons on how to treat one another this week. Sailor runs right to me at pick-up: “My mommy is here!”
Some time during the week Mac brings a form home in his folder that says we are poor enough to receive not the reduced price hot lunch but the free hot lunch. I am mortified. I can afford the full price of $1.85 a day on the rare day that I allow Mac to eat a coveted hot lunch. And I can certainly afford the 40 cents of the reduced price. But based on the numbers I supplied (no, I did not lie) Mac can get his lunch for free anytime he wants to.
At another point my mom brings up some groceries from Coscto. Or more accurately Sailor brings them up.
“Nana is very nice to bring us food,” Mac says.
“That’s beez she is our gather fooder,” Sailor says.
At another point Sailor suddenly decides he needs crutches. “Croutches,” he calls them. “Here’s my croutch!” he says, picking up a tube of cardboard. I am laughing hysterically. I have not heard that word since I was 7 and had a strangely dysarthric friend.
I bring Sailor to the PTA meeting on Friday morning where he earns a well-behaved child comment and gives me an excuse to leave early. We gift Mrs. K and she cries. I cry. Sailor refuses to take a photo with her or of us. We cry some more. I pass on some unsolicited advice regarding epidurals, wipes warmers and strollers. We say goodbye. And then I come back to tell her one more thing, “More important than goodbye is thank you.” This one will be sorely, sorely missed!
We book- and shoe-shop (I am sensing a trend here, are you?) but forego lunch (Sailor has been on a long hunger strike) and play in a playground. It’s summer-warm outside. I am exhausted when we get Mac from school and take the kids to the playground near school. I have no plans to stay up past 8:00 tonight. We are watching StarWars. I won’t give the boys back their lightsabers, despite their daily requests. So they are “battling” with lightsabers they’ve made from a connecter toy. It’s been a long and very stressful week.
So the highlights (or, more accurately, the low-lights – which reminds me… that I got my hair cut last week. By a man who had a better head of curls than any woman I know. He insisted that my hair color is all wrong and that I really need to make it a little darker to match my complexion. I explained to the pockmarked, crooked-teeth’ed, chin-and-eyebrow-pierced probable drag queen, that I really like my hair color, but that as my tan has faded a bit I do realize that I should make my hair a little darker. Soon. When I am really and truly ready to look like total winter crap and have zero self-esteem left. But he went on and on. And on. About the chocolates I should add and the lowlights and highlights. And when a client walked by with foils in her hair to make the top of her head match the sooty grey-green locks that hung down her back, I vowed I would never again be insulted when the professionals ask me, “You do your own color, don’t you?).
Anyway, where was I? Yes, our wonderful week. Let’s start at the beginning. At least as far back as I am willing to recall. (These weeks are LONG!) Monday. Right. I think that was the morning my mom had to drive my almost-ex and me downtown for a court date. He was a nervous wreck, which made me the calm one. I don’t think I did much after that. I hate going downtown so that zapped my umph for the day. In the afternoon Sailor and Mac and went to tap. Except Sailor didn’t want to go to tap. He wanted to scream and cry and make an enormous fuss. That lasts most of the class. When he does finally get his tap shoes back on and rejoin the class he taps only a short while before wetting his pants and most of the dance floor. Which I have to clean up with those brown paper towels that are truly more suitable for writing stories on. Then we try to pay for Mac to take the class but after 15 minutes I get fed up with the office girl’s inability to do math. Somewhere between the dance class and home we lose Mac’s lunch box. The new Spiderman one. With the $15 Spiderman thermos inside.
Sailor throws no fewer than 5 tantrums on Tuesday. It's a fun day. All day. I shoe-shop, but come home empty-handed, while Sailor is at school. I pick up Mac. Which, instead of being the highlight of my day, turns out to be the absolute low point of the entire past month. All over chocolate milk. Which Mac want. In a box, not from Starbucks, after school. My boys love Starbucks as much as I do. So he cries. I lose it. Completely. “Are you actually bitching at me for wanting to do something nice for you and take you to Starbucks?!” He keeps crying. I am incredulous.
We turn a corner, both physically and emotionally. “Can’t I ever do anything right for you kids?!” I scream. Have I mentioned that at this point I have lost all control? Right. I have. Mac starts to cry. And he takes my hand and we walk all the way home this way. I give him the box of chocolate milk I have in my bag for Sailor. But then we have to stop home for another for Sailor so that I don’t have to listen to yet another fuss on the way home from preschool. I want this day to get better. But at preschool Sailor runs right into Mac’s arms and completely ignores me!
I am beside myself and drop my ungrateful offspring with my parents. I am on the phone seaking solace from one of my best friends when my mom comes up. She wants to take me for coffee. I know I am the worst mother ever.
Mac gives exhaustion as his reason for his unfortunate behavior. I give the fact that I have realized we’ve been unhappy for 4 weeks as the reason for mine. Sailor gives his personality as his.
Wednesday morning we putter. I have no energy to prod the boys to get ready quickly. I am still reeling from last night and Mac remains upset as well. We spend long minutes just hugging and trying to fill the space between us with love and understanding. Sometimes being a mom feels a bit like being a wife. Except the (little) guy is, thankfully, much more understanding and forgiving. Sailor won’t get dressed, and I truly want to keep Mac with me today, so I don’t insist on anything. We arrive at school some time after 9:00. Mac is given a tardy pass and I am told he is to walk upstairs to his classroom. Alone. I am more than a little unsettled by the office lady’s tone. So I ignore her completely and acquiesce when Mac says he is scared and wants me to walk him up. He is 6. He is small. He has never been late to school before. (And he will never be late again, after this experience.) We are almost to the 2nd floor when we are stopped. I have been followed. I am told parents cannot be on the classroom floors. I tell her, in no uncertain terms, that Mac is MY CHILD! And that "you people can’t keep telling me what to do with him!" It is a beautiful moment of how not to behave at your child’s school in front of your child. I offer Mac the option of coming home with me. He declines. I kiss him and Sailor and I leave. I am sobbing. Sailor is as furious as I am. “Those people owe you a serious apology for making you cry, Mommy!”
I find out late in the day that I have inadvertently blown off a meeting with the principal. “I never got confirmation,” I email him.
The only thing that makes the day halfway decent is that Sailor is well-behaved. And I find metal thermoses at Borders for $6. By the time I get Mac from school late in the afternoon I have already arranged to take him on a tour of a charter school on Thursday morning.
Which Mac is uncertain about. “I have to miss school?”
I decide that he will have the whole day off. With me. Without Sailor. We visit the school. Mac says he likes the new school. But he prefers his own school. I decide it’s his call. We go to lunch. Mac buys flowers for my mom. We buy jibbitz from a very cool new kids’ book store. And some books. Mac chooses a book on slavery and for Sailor we choose a book on finger painting. We play in a small park district playground and Mac makes friends with a few little boys. We go inside to use the bathroom. We buy a necklace for Mac’s kindergarten teacher from last year who is about to have her 1st baby and will be leaving our school for good on Friday. We drive to Target. We have a very nice day together. I realize just how big is this child, whom I insist is still just a baby, when I see toddlers lunching with their mothers. My child seems large. Slightly messy with his crazy hair and glasses, and just out of place. I enjoy my time with him immensely while also longing for those days of our original togetherness.
Thursday relaxes us. We are together. We settle our decision about school. We don’t have to listen to Sailor whine about anything. And so it goes.
We have all learned some important lessons on how to treat one another this week. Sailor runs right to me at pick-up: “My mommy is here!”
Some time during the week Mac brings a form home in his folder that says we are poor enough to receive not the reduced price hot lunch but the free hot lunch. I am mortified. I can afford the full price of $1.85 a day on the rare day that I allow Mac to eat a coveted hot lunch. And I can certainly afford the 40 cents of the reduced price. But based on the numbers I supplied (no, I did not lie) Mac can get his lunch for free anytime he wants to.
At another point my mom brings up some groceries from Coscto. Or more accurately Sailor brings them up.
“Nana is very nice to bring us food,” Mac says.
“That’s beez she is our gather fooder,” Sailor says.
At another point Sailor suddenly decides he needs crutches. “Croutches,” he calls them. “Here’s my croutch!” he says, picking up a tube of cardboard. I am laughing hysterically. I have not heard that word since I was 7 and had a strangely dysarthric friend.
I bring Sailor to the PTA meeting on Friday morning where he earns a well-behaved child comment and gives me an excuse to leave early. We gift Mrs. K and she cries. I cry. Sailor refuses to take a photo with her or of us. We cry some more. I pass on some unsolicited advice regarding epidurals, wipes warmers and strollers. We say goodbye. And then I come back to tell her one more thing, “More important than goodbye is thank you.” This one will be sorely, sorely missed!
We book- and shoe-shop (I am sensing a trend here, are you?) but forego lunch (Sailor has been on a long hunger strike) and play in a playground. It’s summer-warm outside. I am exhausted when we get Mac from school and take the kids to the playground near school. I have no plans to stay up past 8:00 tonight. We are watching StarWars. I won’t give the boys back their lightsabers, despite their daily requests. So they are “battling” with lightsabers they’ve made from a connecter toy. It’s been a long and very stressful week.
Week 4
Mac calls home from the school office during lunch recess. He hurt his cheek. He wants me to pick him up. The office lady assures me he is fine and I convince him to stay the last 2 hours.
8:30 pm. He should be sound asleep. He is hysterically in tears. “I had a hard day at school today,” he cries, “and I don’t like being at school for so long. I don’t get to see you too often,” he wails.
He has suffered the following assaults today: he banged into a pole in the playground and smacked his cheek, one of the French girls stepped on his foot, and the librarian elbowed him in the head, “but she said she was sorry.” Oh, and his new glasses are broken.
I look at him tonight in bed and see such a very little boy. Who in their right mind sends a child this small away for the whole day? Who? I ask! Who?! It’s insane, is what it is!
“I have one foot out the door already,” I tell Mrs. K. She is nearing the end of her pregnancy and will be leaving soon. “Race you!” I say, only half joking.
While Mac is at school I spend the day playing with Sailor. Literally. We drawk (former Mac-speak for “draw with chalk”), blow bubbles, play tag (really! Mommy running! in sandals), learn about funnels, and play a car game in the playroom. I realizedjust how much harder it would be to be single mom to one child than two. And I also remember what it was like when I had just Mac and had time to spend with him. No business to run, no PTA newsletter to get out, no little brother to distract him with StarWars play, no… crazy life. It was a joy to spend my day playing with my child.
Sailor started tap class this afternoon. He loves it. Mac makes the official decision to drop out of TaiKwonDo. “I thought about it while I was sitting on the bench after I hurt my cheek,” he tells me, “and I decided I am just absolutely not doing it.” Alrighty then.
Welcome to another Monday in Hell – I mean 1st grade.
And now it’s Friday. I hate school so much I don’t even want to write about it.
The best part of the week was when Sailor asked for a gumball for lunch and when I tell him I don’t know where to get one he tells me, “the Laundromat,” remembering the gumball I let him have last week when we were washing our comforters.
Have to go write checks to the school…picture day, I chose the $17 package; and the classroom wants $20 for upcoming events, but I told the room mother we should just call it even since I just paid $23 to replace Mac's stolen lunchbox! I can't wait to see what she says!
8:30 pm. He should be sound asleep. He is hysterically in tears. “I had a hard day at school today,” he cries, “and I don’t like being at school for so long. I don’t get to see you too often,” he wails.
He has suffered the following assaults today: he banged into a pole in the playground and smacked his cheek, one of the French girls stepped on his foot, and the librarian elbowed him in the head, “but she said she was sorry.” Oh, and his new glasses are broken.
I look at him tonight in bed and see such a very little boy. Who in their right mind sends a child this small away for the whole day? Who? I ask! Who?! It’s insane, is what it is!
“I have one foot out the door already,” I tell Mrs. K. She is nearing the end of her pregnancy and will be leaving soon. “Race you!” I say, only half joking.
While Mac is at school I spend the day playing with Sailor. Literally. We drawk (former Mac-speak for “draw with chalk”), blow bubbles, play tag (really! Mommy running! in sandals), learn about funnels, and play a car game in the playroom. I realizedjust how much harder it would be to be single mom to one child than two. And I also remember what it was like when I had just Mac and had time to spend with him. No business to run, no PTA newsletter to get out, no little brother to distract him with StarWars play, no… crazy life. It was a joy to spend my day playing with my child.
Sailor started tap class this afternoon. He loves it. Mac makes the official decision to drop out of TaiKwonDo. “I thought about it while I was sitting on the bench after I hurt my cheek,” he tells me, “and I decided I am just absolutely not doing it.” Alrighty then.
Welcome to another Monday in Hell – I mean 1st grade.
And now it’s Friday. I hate school so much I don’t even want to write about it.
The best part of the week was when Sailor asked for a gumball for lunch and when I tell him I don’t know where to get one he tells me, “the Laundromat,” remembering the gumball I let him have last week when we were washing our comforters.
Have to go write checks to the school…picture day, I chose the $17 package; and the classroom wants $20 for upcoming events, but I told the room mother we should just call it even since I just paid $23 to replace Mac's stolen lunchbox! I can't wait to see what she says!
Week 3
Monday afternoon I finally have an audience with the Pope. I mean, with Mac’s teacher. We talk about shoes. We talk about the weather. We get down to business. We talk for nearly 45 minutes while my boys play in the school playground with a friend and her daughters. I feel I have made progress. Halfway thru our conference I am asked, “So what is it you want here?” “This,” I tell the teacher, indicating out little tete-a-tete. I just want to know her. To know who has my child all day. And I want her to know me. To know whose child she has. To understand that I think my child really belongs home with me, although I understand intellectually that he belongs in this school. Maybe not this school, though… I am starting to think…
Tuesday. Summer is back. It's warm out! I want to be out getting ice cream or reading on the back porch even now!
School is going somewhat better but I am hearing from parent after parent that they are not happy with 1st grade, that it needs an overhaul, that there is a lot of teasing already, etc. Makes me sad. But my little bespectacled 1st grader seems to be doing much better since I let him stay home last Thursday to recuperate from just being too tired. And we have started a 7pm bedtime, which helps also, tho it makes it a little crazy to try to visit with him, do homework, eat dinner and get to bed and then I have so little time with my little man! That's barely 4 hours (if we read for 1/2 an hour) plus 2 hours in the morning, which means THE DAMN TEACHER HAS MY CHILD MORE THAN I DO! I HATE THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!! But what am I to do? And then to make it worse, I have to work a lot on Saturdays now! And I have NO time that is just for Mac and me, except our 30 minute walk to get Sailor on Tuesdays! No, I am not complaining, just coming to a clearer understanding that soon my baby will be in college and I will only see him on holidays, and then he will get married and I will see him a few days a week if I am lucky! I need to have more babies!
Sailor went for his shots today he cried bravely when he learned he had to have them but then stopped when I explained that he needed them so he would not get very sick. He actually watched the 1st two and DID NOT CRY! But the 3rd one stung and he cried in earnest, as if he'd been truly hurt, either physically or emotionally (and he lamented later that he was in fact not brave because he did cry). He has the most beautiful crying face, when it just crumples.
I have been working on the school newsletter (I am the new editor this year -- yay me!), which seems to basically be a public thank you note from the PTA president. And I have a sinus infection so I think I am going to have some hot tea and go to bed!
Thursday
I would like to know how many times in a row I have to listen to Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girls.” I would also like to know why my 4-year-old has consistently chosen this song, on repeat, as his regular night time “lullaby” music.
Mac cried thru TaiKwonDo today.
Mac’s lunchbox was stolen yesterday. From his locker. Sailor and I spend half an hour looking everywhere in the school where Mac could possibly have accidentally left it yesterday. I even send Sailor into the boys’ bathroom. Nothing. Now a lunch box can be had for $4 or $5 right now, depending on where you shop. The metal thermos inside, however, is $15 if you can even find one. That’s the part that has my panties in a twist! That and one of the teachers denouncing Mac’s claim of theft with a perky, “Now I am sure it will turn up in a few days.” Turn up? From where? From the lunch box dimension, perhaps? Thank goodness Mac reports having actually eaten everything I packed him yesterday. Lest there be festering carrots and a mouldy pbj rotting in his box when and if we ever do find it. So Sailor and I go to Target and buy a new lunch box. Spiderman. Guaranteed not to be the focal point of recent teasing as his Little Einsteins box has been. Thermos: $15. I even go so far as to question whether or not Mac himself had anything to do with the box’s mysterious disappearance, as his claims of teasing (“That’s a babyish lunchbox,” as heard from other 1st grade children who are supposed to be his friends.) have worsened again over the past couple of days. I mean, who could blame the boy if he really wanted to get rid of such the object of ridicule? Though Mac should know I would buy him a new one if he were to have asked. He denies any involvement in the box’s disappearance. As does his pretty but surly locker partner.
Friday night. 6:40 pm. I want to go for ice cream. It’s 89 degrees outside. Instead I am trapped in my living room with Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi. I can hear normal, non-StarWars-obsessed children playing outside. It’s been a long and exhausting week. For the children. For me. I have had a sinus infection or maybe just a cold since Tuesday and have been dragging myself around from one activity to the next, one chore to another. I feel like crap. The school principal emailed me to tell me he was out sick. How nice for him. Mommies – especially single mommies – don’t get sick days. And no matter how I try to explain my physical lack of well-being to my children they persist in insisting I do everything here at home. Sailor’s birthday party is on Sunday and I have NOTHING done for it and somehow the house is still a mess.
Ah, our good news for the day is the return of the lunch box. “A third-grader gave it to me,” Mac tells me. Not sure where this third-grader got my child’s lunch box. Of course he now prefers his new Spiderman lunchbox anyway, but at least I have the $15 thermos back.
Sailor has a new nickname at home, which he despises. It’s Beez-I, which is how he says, “Because I.” I think he thinks I am calling him Bee’s Eye.
We play in the nearby playground after school today. I find it interesting how much better the children play and get along when they are not on school property. We play til 5:00, which leaves us 2 hours to walk home, eat dinner, and do whatever. The kids choose StarWars as their Friday night video and I am tempted to let them see it thru to the end. Because I love letting my kids watch people shoot each other up with “blasters,” StarWars’ code word for guns. But now it’s 7pm and bedtime rules prevail. Mac asks to still go for ice cream. I want to say yes. Should I? Maybe the kids would sleep slightly later in the morning if we go to bed at 8 instead of 7 on a Friday night. Hmmm….
Saturday morning the tasks of mounting Sailor’s birthday party tomorrow are daunting. So I fuss at the boys all morning and threaten Sailor with a party cancellation if they won’t help me. Then I leave for work for the better part of the day. When I return I am full of energy until I step into my house and see just how much really still is left to be done. I want to call up a girlfriend and have her join me for a bottle of wine and a cheesy flick so we can do the goody bags and piñata. My wonderful mom surprises me with a kindly offer to come up for an hour and spends the whole afternoon. We bake, we clean, we iron, we organize, we plan and brainstorm. We order pizza and drink wine and it is perhaps the best afternoon I have spent with my mom in a very long time.
Mac and Sailor help a little and play. Then I hear Sailor follow Mac into the bathroom. “Do you have to just go pee?” Sailor is asking. I do not hear Mac’s reply but then Sailor says, “Cuz I don’t’ want to smell your poop!” Sailor has a self-proclaimed allergy to poop. Poor boy gags at the smell of his own poop!
Later I send the kids to the bathtub with my father to supervise. I assure him they can do the bath themselves. They starte the bath playing something cute. Sailor asks what he is supposed to say and Mac tells him to say whatever comes out of his imagination.
But soon enough, my dad comes out in disgust.
“They are peeing in the water.”
I assure him they frequently do this. “You were a little boy once,” I begin.
“We never peed in our bath!” Ah to have been a child growing up in the perfect 1930s. “Then they were drinking the water,” he goes on. I have told them a million times not to do that.
"You have to tell them not to do that!” I make them apologize to my dad for harassing him.
By a little after 8:30 both boys are miraculously asleep and I am just about ready for the party at 10:00 tomorrow morning. 13 children ranging in age from 2 to 6 will be here, assumedly all dressed up in real party clothes (as specified on our invitation – as if one should have to specify dressing in party clothes for a party!!!!!!!!!) for a good, old fashioned party, complete with pin the tail on the donkey, a piñata, party hats and blowers, and porcelain cupcake decorations that are from my mother’s childhood. Bring ‘em on!
Tuesday. Summer is back. It's warm out! I want to be out getting ice cream or reading on the back porch even now!
School is going somewhat better but I am hearing from parent after parent that they are not happy with 1st grade, that it needs an overhaul, that there is a lot of teasing already, etc. Makes me sad. But my little bespectacled 1st grader seems to be doing much better since I let him stay home last Thursday to recuperate from just being too tired. And we have started a 7pm bedtime, which helps also, tho it makes it a little crazy to try to visit with him, do homework, eat dinner and get to bed and then I have so little time with my little man! That's barely 4 hours (if we read for 1/2 an hour) plus 2 hours in the morning, which means THE DAMN TEACHER HAS MY CHILD MORE THAN I DO! I HATE THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!! But what am I to do? And then to make it worse, I have to work a lot on Saturdays now! And I have NO time that is just for Mac and me, except our 30 minute walk to get Sailor on Tuesdays! No, I am not complaining, just coming to a clearer understanding that soon my baby will be in college and I will only see him on holidays, and then he will get married and I will see him a few days a week if I am lucky! I need to have more babies!
Sailor went for his shots today he cried bravely when he learned he had to have them but then stopped when I explained that he needed them so he would not get very sick. He actually watched the 1st two and DID NOT CRY! But the 3rd one stung and he cried in earnest, as if he'd been truly hurt, either physically or emotionally (and he lamented later that he was in fact not brave because he did cry). He has the most beautiful crying face, when it just crumples.
I have been working on the school newsletter (I am the new editor this year -- yay me!), which seems to basically be a public thank you note from the PTA president. And I have a sinus infection so I think I am going to have some hot tea and go to bed!
Thursday
I would like to know how many times in a row I have to listen to Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girls.” I would also like to know why my 4-year-old has consistently chosen this song, on repeat, as his regular night time “lullaby” music.
Mac cried thru TaiKwonDo today.
Mac’s lunchbox was stolen yesterday. From his locker. Sailor and I spend half an hour looking everywhere in the school where Mac could possibly have accidentally left it yesterday. I even send Sailor into the boys’ bathroom. Nothing. Now a lunch box can be had for $4 or $5 right now, depending on where you shop. The metal thermos inside, however, is $15 if you can even find one. That’s the part that has my panties in a twist! That and one of the teachers denouncing Mac’s claim of theft with a perky, “Now I am sure it will turn up in a few days.” Turn up? From where? From the lunch box dimension, perhaps? Thank goodness Mac reports having actually eaten everything I packed him yesterday. Lest there be festering carrots and a mouldy pbj rotting in his box when and if we ever do find it. So Sailor and I go to Target and buy a new lunch box. Spiderman. Guaranteed not to be the focal point of recent teasing as his Little Einsteins box has been. Thermos: $15. I even go so far as to question whether or not Mac himself had anything to do with the box’s mysterious disappearance, as his claims of teasing (“That’s a babyish lunchbox,” as heard from other 1st grade children who are supposed to be his friends.) have worsened again over the past couple of days. I mean, who could blame the boy if he really wanted to get rid of such the object of ridicule? Though Mac should know I would buy him a new one if he were to have asked. He denies any involvement in the box’s disappearance. As does his pretty but surly locker partner.
Friday night. 6:40 pm. I want to go for ice cream. It’s 89 degrees outside. Instead I am trapped in my living room with Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi. I can hear normal, non-StarWars-obsessed children playing outside. It’s been a long and exhausting week. For the children. For me. I have had a sinus infection or maybe just a cold since Tuesday and have been dragging myself around from one activity to the next, one chore to another. I feel like crap. The school principal emailed me to tell me he was out sick. How nice for him. Mommies – especially single mommies – don’t get sick days. And no matter how I try to explain my physical lack of well-being to my children they persist in insisting I do everything here at home. Sailor’s birthday party is on Sunday and I have NOTHING done for it and somehow the house is still a mess.
Ah, our good news for the day is the return of the lunch box. “A third-grader gave it to me,” Mac tells me. Not sure where this third-grader got my child’s lunch box. Of course he now prefers his new Spiderman lunchbox anyway, but at least I have the $15 thermos back.
Sailor has a new nickname at home, which he despises. It’s Beez-I, which is how he says, “Because I.” I think he thinks I am calling him Bee’s Eye.
We play in the nearby playground after school today. I find it interesting how much better the children play and get along when they are not on school property. We play til 5:00, which leaves us 2 hours to walk home, eat dinner, and do whatever. The kids choose StarWars as their Friday night video and I am tempted to let them see it thru to the end. Because I love letting my kids watch people shoot each other up with “blasters,” StarWars’ code word for guns. But now it’s 7pm and bedtime rules prevail. Mac asks to still go for ice cream. I want to say yes. Should I? Maybe the kids would sleep slightly later in the morning if we go to bed at 8 instead of 7 on a Friday night. Hmmm….
Saturday morning the tasks of mounting Sailor’s birthday party tomorrow are daunting. So I fuss at the boys all morning and threaten Sailor with a party cancellation if they won’t help me. Then I leave for work for the better part of the day. When I return I am full of energy until I step into my house and see just how much really still is left to be done. I want to call up a girlfriend and have her join me for a bottle of wine and a cheesy flick so we can do the goody bags and piñata. My wonderful mom surprises me with a kindly offer to come up for an hour and spends the whole afternoon. We bake, we clean, we iron, we organize, we plan and brainstorm. We order pizza and drink wine and it is perhaps the best afternoon I have spent with my mom in a very long time.
Mac and Sailor help a little and play. Then I hear Sailor follow Mac into the bathroom. “Do you have to just go pee?” Sailor is asking. I do not hear Mac’s reply but then Sailor says, “Cuz I don’t’ want to smell your poop!” Sailor has a self-proclaimed allergy to poop. Poor boy gags at the smell of his own poop!
Later I send the kids to the bathtub with my father to supervise. I assure him they can do the bath themselves. They starte the bath playing something cute. Sailor asks what he is supposed to say and Mac tells him to say whatever comes out of his imagination.
But soon enough, my dad comes out in disgust.
“They are peeing in the water.”
I assure him they frequently do this. “You were a little boy once,” I begin.
“We never peed in our bath!” Ah to have been a child growing up in the perfect 1930s. “Then they were drinking the water,” he goes on. I have told them a million times not to do that.
"You have to tell them not to do that!” I make them apologize to my dad for harassing him.
By a little after 8:30 both boys are miraculously asleep and I am just about ready for the party at 10:00 tomorrow morning. 13 children ranging in age from 2 to 6 will be here, assumedly all dressed up in real party clothes (as specified on our invitation – as if one should have to specify dressing in party clothes for a party!!!!!!!!!) for a good, old fashioned party, complete with pin the tail on the donkey, a piñata, party hats and blowers, and porcelain cupcake decorations that are from my mother’s childhood. Bring ‘em on!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Week 2
With Mac in school all day my days at home seem very, very long. For example, the drama of yesterday morning seems as if it occurred easily many days ago. And yet it was just yesterday morning that I was told by a probably well-meaning male teacher that I could not enter the school with Mac to tell his teacher about his brand-new glasses. “All visitors must check in with the front office,” he informs me. “This is my school!” I want to shout! “I was here before any of you!” Instead I call Mac back. “They won’t let me in,” I tell him, “please give my note to your teacher and have a great day.” I try not to shed the welling tears as I make my way back to the stroller with Sailor. You are wondering why I didn’t just follow the male teacher’s instructions. The school grounds are small and packed with parents, teachers, and students before school. If I had been able to make my way thru the crowd and then waited for the students to enter the main door and then stopped in the office to explain what I was doing, I would have arrived upstairs just in time to interrupt Mrs. S’s morning. Which would not have gone over well.
This isn’t kindergarten anymore, Baby!
Instead I put Sailor into the stroller and head off with the daughter-in-law of my mom’s best friend toward the home of Sailor’s friend Taylor. We are going to try a little playgroup for our younger children, who will all be entering kindergarten together on fall 2009. I want to call it Club09.
We spot a coyote running down the middle of the street and heading west. Right. A coyote in the middle of the city. I call 911. A little frightened, to say the least.
Club09 gets off to a bad start. The girls head upstairs leaving Sailor alone to warm up with me. Another boy arrives with his mom and wants to play in the basement. Sailor follows. I attempt conversation with this mom over her boy’s very LOUD protestations of, "Stop talking, Mom! Stop talking!” OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN! And then, “Play pirates with me, Mom!” I give up and make up an excuse to head upstairs. The girls are playing with dollies. I am sequestered with the mom of the painfully demanding boy. We will not be attending Club09 again.
Sailor has a haircut. We shop for dinner food. We shop for party goods for his fast-approaching 4th birthday. After we have chosen a fun birthday pattern, I find a slightly less fun pattern for legitimately less money. I try to convince Sailor. He wants the first set we chose, but then says, “Get whatever you want, Mom,” in a very mature and understanding way. I get him the stuff we have already chosen, thus not saving myself probably $20. We go shoe shopping for Mac. Who is not with us. And Sailor wants Skechers. Even tho he has no fewer than 3 decent pair of gymshoes – one his, and two hand-me-downs. I buy the beloved Skechers, which he and Mac have been asking for since early spring. He spends the entire rest of the day talking about them. “I love my Skechers, Mom!” “Do you see my new Skechers?” “Did you really buy me Skechers?” “I LOVE my new Skechers, Mom!” and on and on. We have lunch with my dad and by the time we are done it’s almost 3:00 and we run off to get Mac a short time later after Sailor walks Maurice the dog and we discover that one of Mac’s French classmates lives right across the street.
I think we are dreadfully late. I think the bell has already rung. I walk fast. I expect to see Mac in a panic that I am not there, or at least a bit miffed. Mac and the rest of his class are nowhere to be seen. They exit the building several minutes later. This is when I know there is no way we would make it to the 3:45 drama class Mac is set to begin next week.
Back at home Mac tries on his new gymshoes. I think they might fit him in a few years. We drive back to the store and find a pair that not only fits better but looks better and also is a better make. I mention to the sales guy the “helpfulness” of the very un-knowledgeable staff earlier in the day.
We eat a snack plate of Swiss cheese, hearty rolls, apples, broccoli, carrots and veggie dogs for dinner.
And it is hard to believe all of that was just yesterday. No wonder I am tired.
Today is Tuesday, September 11, 2007. The 6-year anniversary.
Which I decide to downplay in my own little world. And for reasons I don’t quite understand I feel more at peace today than I have felt in a very long time. I listen to what my favorite radio has to say on the tragedy. I mix up a batch of homemade cookies for our local fire department while the boys eat breakfast. Normally I would keep my children home with me and not go far on this date. But it happens that today is Sailor’s first day of preschool, and I hate to have him miss out on today over something that happened before he was born.
We are running late to school. Or so I think. We leave 15 minutes later than usual. We run into all sorts of people on our walk. And it is freezing out. Mac is dressed in jeans (which I think are certifiably too small despite their “size 6” label), a white t-shirt, a red, blue and grey argyle vest, his new gym shoes, his glasses, and a fab new brown corduroy jacket I just got him for school. Undeniably the best dressed boy in the 1st grade. But perhaps also the geekiest? But why should I have to dress him down? More on this later.
Despite our late departure time we still have time to wait in line outside school. And I wonder about the real times of entry and dismissal at this school.
Sailor and I run to the bank on the way home. He complains he is cold and needs a blanket. Indeed there is a fall chill in the air.
We pack up our summer gear and haul it to the basement. We vacuum up the sand in the hallway. We play “tennis” in the backyard. I indulge Sailor and let him toss a few more water balloons off the porch.
He does everything in his power to procrastinate and put off getting ready for his first day of preschool. He eats while I iron his outfit: linen pants and a light blue embroidered button down shirt. It is warm enough for him to wear his sandals by the time 12:30 rolls around. We get to school on time, my sister along for “fanfare” and photo detail. Sailor is reluctant but I am amazingly proud of him that he does not cry. Of course, for me, listening to the cacophony of all the small children who do not want to be torn from their mothers brings me to tears. But I don’t want to upset Sailor so I point out that Teacher S really needs his help today with all these new kids. Sailor prefers to go to his comfort spot and I walk him to the beanbag. There we find the twin daughter of my childhood best friend. I introduce the two. I pick a Curious George book for Sailor and give him many kisses. I leave, dragging my sister with me, mid-sentence with Teacher S, who sees exactly what I must do!
Surprisingly, despite the fact that it is my almost-4-year-old’s first day of school, and despite the fact that we are remembering 9/11 today, my afternoon goes off without a hitch. I don’t even feel lonely at home. I have my afternoon planned: first I drop off my cookies, decorated with red, white and blue M&Ms, to the fire station. Then I come home and continue my fall cleaning project. I complete both the dining room and the living room, so that by the time Mac gets home he is truly wowed.
I have a mini-date with Mac after school. We stop at Starbucks on the walk to get Sailor. Mac orders a latte. Really. “I want exactly the same coffee you had the other day. It was so good.”
“Do you make a kid-sized latte?” I inquire of the stunned, is not somewhat amused, barista.
“No, I want a huge grown-up size one like you had,” Mac says.
Not!
Mac wants to know why I am pouring WOLE milk into his latte. “The W is silent,” I tell him.
I almost step on a beautiful insect that looks like two bright green leaves. We stop to inspect it and to move it off the walking path.
Mac tells me about his day.
“I peed on my face.”
“What?! How?!”
“My peeper was pointed up and I peed on my face.”
Pointed up? But that would not result in pee on his face. I need more of an explanation.
“I knew I couldn’t snap my pants if I unsnapped them so I tried to just pull them down but I couldn’t get them down all the way so my peeper was pointed up and I peed on my face.” I am laughing hysterically at this tragic event. “Billy helped me clean it up.” He does not seem upset by either the incident or my laughter. In fact I think he is pleased that he has amused me.
We are the second-to-last ones to pick up our preschooler. Sailor is happy to see us and we share a group hug! Teacher S said he smiled the while time.
The boys play outside school for 45 minutes, both peeing on a nearby tree when the urge hits, while I turn away and pretend they are not my children.
And for dinner on the illustrious occasion of Sailor’s first day of preschool during which he does not cry? Chuck E. Cheese’s, of course! Sailor’s choice. And a good one, at that.
I let my kids eat the crappy pizza and root beer on a school night (deciding we will wait to return to “Chucky,” as Sailor calls it, until Mac receives his first report card, which will have lots of good grades on it, earning him extra game tokens).
I have 4 more rooms to clean. Before Sailor’s birthday on Sunday. That is my goal.Mac has a playdate arranged for next Tuesday with a new boy named Nich.
Sailor is asleep by 8:20. Mac’s key time seems to be 8:45.
Life is good. I feel happy. The 6th anniversary of 9/11 is almost over. We continue to survive. No, to live.
Tomorrow is another day. We have learned not to take a moment of it for granted and to enjoy each bit we are given, from vacuuming the summer’s sand off the floor, to throwing water balloons with my almost-4-year-old, to enjoying a latte with my 6-year-old, to reading the boys a bedtime story from a Beverly Cleary book that is nearly 20 years older than I am, to looking closely at a beautiful and unique insect, to listening to my children tell my parents about their respective day at school today. It is life. Every day.
And so it goes. We will never forget. And so it goes.
Wednesday Sailor and I wake up earlier than Mac. When Mac finds us in the bathroom he is rumpled and grumbly. “I’m tiiiiiired,” he whimpers. “Brush your teeth and hop in the shower,” I suggest. I am so sympathetic. I am. Really. “It’s cold,” he whines. It is. Very.
Mac does not want to go to school. But he goes. Sailor doesn’t want to go to French. But he goes. I only stay for a minute. I am still so truly amazed that he lets me go so easily this year. He is reluctant to let me go, it’s true, but he does not put up a fuss.
After French I drive him and Taylor to soccer. He eats a few bites of lunch and we change him into his soccer uniform and he takes off. Literally. “Bye Mom!” Again I am stunned.
I am talking to a preschool mom I know at Whole Foods when Sailor asks to be removed from his seat in the shopping cart. “Uppie!” He is still so 2! Moments later he is asleep in my arms. I approach the checkout woman. “I need gefilte fish,” I tell her, “and I can’t find it.” She starts to tell me where I would find it but I cut her off. “And I need someone to get it for me.” Sailor is heavy and I cannot walk around the store in search of gefilte fish. She obliges me by bringing me one of each of 4 different varieties. I choose one and carry my baby and my dad’s gefilte fish to the car.
After I gently lay Sailor on my parents’ sofa I run upstairs. I check phone messages and find one garbled child message, which I assume is for Mac, followed by Mrs. K, Mac’s kindergarten teacher from last year, explaining that Mac is tired and sad and out of sorts and wants to talk to me. “What should I do?” I ask my mom, back downstairs. “Should I go get him?” It’s 2:30. I call the school and tell them I have to come for him, if they don’t mind, because of a nondescript “family thing.” “You’ll have to sign him out,” says the possessive, over-controlling secretary. “I’ll be there in ten minutes." I decide to drive and I am there in two. I sign Mac out and wait for him. And wait for him. And wait for him. I look around for Mrs. K to see if she can offer any insight into what happened during lunch recess that prompted her to call me. I have a conversation about the age of the school with the security guard. The principal comes out and we talk about the school newsletter, of which I am the new editor. “We have to be like this because of this newsletter,” says Mr. A, holding up his crossed fingers.
“We have to be like this,” I hold up my own crossed fingers, “because you have my kid!” I know he understands. I am in with the principal. He knows me. And I am much relieved.
At least 20 minutes pass before Mac arrives at the office, escorted by a little girl from his class. He does not seem surprised to see me. He looked exhausted.
On Thursday morning he asks to stay home. He is too tired to go to school. I am unable to disagree with him. I let him stay home. The boys play and basically trash the house, which I have worked very hard to clean this week in preparation for Sailor’s 4th birthday on Sunday.
I eat bagels and chat with my designer, who has come to help me give Mac’s room a facelift. We remove a garbage bag worth of stuffed animals from his pet net. We remove books. We take photos from the walls and move his personal art gallery. When we are done the room is bare, like mine. It looks neat and clean. We now need to schedule a day to paint.
Sailor protests going to his 2nd day of school. But again he goes with little fuss. Mac and I walk home. “Why can’t you home school me?” he asks. I take out a workbook when we get home. One of the many we did not complete this summer. An hour and a half later Mac has completed three pages. “This is why we can’t home school,” I point out. We walk to the zoo. It’s a warm day. Sunny. My sister comes along. I completely understand why Mac prefers a day at home to a day at school. I prefer it, too. Having him home with me, his mommy, where he belongs.
He bumps his lip on the rail by the seals. He bleeds everywhere. It’s the perfect excuse to get a snow cone. There are no snow cones. He stops crying when I suggest Starbucks. He orders water and I order a grande decaf iced mocha.
We pick up Sailor from school early but we are late to Mac’s first TaiKwonDo class anyway. We see right away that tardiness will not do. Mac’s reading buddy from last year is in his class. Brilliant! I can ask his mom if I can drive him to class so he can watch Mac while I get Sailor from school. Brilliant.
Mac has to pee. I run him to the bathroom. “We do not leave the room!” Master K bellows when we return. “We do not pee on the floor,” I wish to bellow back. Whatever. “I am a little afraid of my teacher,” Mac confesses. I can understand why. I am not afraid of the man but if I were six I would have peed in my pants from fright. But I can see the man has a sparkle in his eyes and I point this out to Mac. I can tell this class will do wonders for Mac and I wish we had started years ago. We watch the class and I read Sailor a story and he falls asleep in my lap.
I win the Master’s Golden Star for the day by answering a question right. “What does HWA mean, moms?!” he bellows. “Home work assignment,” I quip. He shakes my hand and praises me while playfully berating the veteran moms for not knowing.
We raid my parents fridge for Rosh Hashanah leftovers, clean the kitchen – really clean, as in down on my hands and knees with a sponge and scraping guck from under the dishwasher clean. And at 7:00 prompt, I have the boys in bed. That is the new plan. To have Mac in his bed by 7:00 and done reading stories by 7:30. If he is not so tired perhaps he will like school better.
Friday morning Mac does not want to go to school. But we made a deal yesterday morning when he woke up. He could stay home Thursday but he has to go to school Friday. We have a bad morning.
The kids return to their old habit of opening the bathroom door right before I end my shower, letting all my warm air out and all the cold house air in. I ask them kindly not to do this. I ask them kindly to please finish cleaning up their toys from the living room. They run out – leaving the door open! I shout something I am too ashamed to put in print.
We have a bad morning. The boys take too long to eat breakfast. I don’t get into the shower on time. I don’t get out of the shower on time. We are late for school. The shy mom from last year is walking away from school as we approach. “Good morning,” she says. I am surprised.
The school doors are still open, tho Mac’s class has already entered. We do not have to check in at the office. I kiss my boy. I apologize for our bad morning. I tell him how much I love him. I tell him to have a good day.
Outside school I meet up with a friend whose daughter is having as bad a time as Mac is, in terms of being exhausted by the new first grade schedule. Seems all the kids are. But her daughter is being particularly awful. She too wanted to stay home from school – which I have heard several parents say about their children – but then had a tantrum when her mother said she could stay home and rest.
Perhaps next week will be better. Tho I am told on Friday afternoon by Mrs. K that it takes the children roughly two months to get used to being in school all day for 1st grade. I have no memory of this hardship. I loved first grade. Children were not tired in the 1970s. We were just children.
Sailor and I spend three hours at the dollar store, Target and the shoe store. I am trying to muster enough strength and energy to get to the grocery store and laundormat. I don’t know if I have it in me today. Especially the hours required to wash and dry my down comforter, which has been peed on by both my children in their sleep this week. But after Sailor has a major meltdown over a StarWars toy I won’t by him for his birthday, he falls asleep in the shoe store. No, he is not in the stroller. He simply climbs upon a small bench used by customers to sit on while trying on shoes, and falls asleep. I alert the sales woman running the store because I am sure she has never had this happen in her store before.
Sailor is still asleep when I leave to get Mac from school. Mac is exhausted. He wants to come home and go to sleep. But because our weekend plans for Sailor’s birthday have completely gone up in smoke and required a total revamp - - which seems to happen every year – we have made new plans to go up to the suburbs tonight to get Sailor’s birthday photo taken. Poor Mac. He will not be in bed by 7:00 tonight.
Sailor hams it up. He does a great photo shoot. We go for dinner. The restaurant has been moved and redone. It looks like an old folks’ diner or a pancake house. It looks like crap and I say so. The waiter brings Mac apple juice instead of chocolate milk, forgets my sister’s water, does not offer us bread, and actually brings the bill before bringing the pizza because he says we did not order pizza. We pay $9 for the salad and receive two complimentary dinner cards from the manager.
We labor over which of Sailor’s photos to choose. We stop for hot chocolate – it is very cold out. The kids are asleep before 10pm. I feel terribly guilty. I have to work in the morning and I hope the kids will sleep until I have to leave.
As I fall asleep I think over the week. The best moment: On Monday morning I had a great deal of garbage to take out. Sailor was awake and Mac was still asleep. “I’ll take care of Mac,” Sailor told me.
It is Sailor who sleeps in on Saturday morning and my mom has to come up so I can go to work. He is adorable wrapped up in my bed sheet. I want to just stay and look at him. My bed was wet when I got out of it this morning. Oddly, I am sleeping in the wet spot, which has never happened before. I check myself to see if I am the offender. I am not.
“Mac did you pee in my bed?”
“No,” he says, “I peed in my own bed.” Sigh.
We strip his sheets and I ask him to please make sure mine are stripped when Sailor wakes up. I have not changed this many sheets since last year. It’s been at least 4 times this week. Mac says he is too tired to get up too pee. I remind him how much I hate changing sheets. I tell both boys they are no longer allowed pre-bed beverages.
At night I use all my energy to get the boys to bed so I can wrap Sailor’s birthday gifts and decorate the dining room.
Sailor will be 4 when he wakes up. He still seems so young to me. So two. Not that he is immature for almost 4. He is just so "second child." He still wants uppie, still cries a lot, still wants to be held. Mac was required to give up his baba milk on his 4th birthday yet I remember him as being so much more mature. Of course, Mac was a big brother to an almost-2-year-old when he turned 4.
Mac’s birthday creates a great deal of hoopla every year. There is not the same momentum to Sailor’s birthday because there was not the same momentum to his birth. Whereas I was in labor for 3 days before Mac was born, I woke up on a regular Tuesday morning and began labor while I was putting on my makeup on the day that would become Sailor’s birth day. A very different experience. But the joyous birth of my baby, nonetheless. “Read me the story of when I was a baby,” he requests, sleepily. Mac used to ask me to read him stories from my mouth, too. I whisper the story of his birth to him as he falls asleep.
And so we have a fun day planned tomorrow and the dining room is decorated and I hope that Sailor is able to leave behind his crabby attitude and begin fresh as a 4-year-old. Right.
This isn’t kindergarten anymore, Baby!
Instead I put Sailor into the stroller and head off with the daughter-in-law of my mom’s best friend toward the home of Sailor’s friend Taylor. We are going to try a little playgroup for our younger children, who will all be entering kindergarten together on fall 2009. I want to call it Club09.
We spot a coyote running down the middle of the street and heading west. Right. A coyote in the middle of the city. I call 911. A little frightened, to say the least.
Club09 gets off to a bad start. The girls head upstairs leaving Sailor alone to warm up with me. Another boy arrives with his mom and wants to play in the basement. Sailor follows. I attempt conversation with this mom over her boy’s very LOUD protestations of, "Stop talking, Mom! Stop talking!” OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN! And then, “Play pirates with me, Mom!” I give up and make up an excuse to head upstairs. The girls are playing with dollies. I am sequestered with the mom of the painfully demanding boy. We will not be attending Club09 again.
Sailor has a haircut. We shop for dinner food. We shop for party goods for his fast-approaching 4th birthday. After we have chosen a fun birthday pattern, I find a slightly less fun pattern for legitimately less money. I try to convince Sailor. He wants the first set we chose, but then says, “Get whatever you want, Mom,” in a very mature and understanding way. I get him the stuff we have already chosen, thus not saving myself probably $20. We go shoe shopping for Mac. Who is not with us. And Sailor wants Skechers. Even tho he has no fewer than 3 decent pair of gymshoes – one his, and two hand-me-downs. I buy the beloved Skechers, which he and Mac have been asking for since early spring. He spends the entire rest of the day talking about them. “I love my Skechers, Mom!” “Do you see my new Skechers?” “Did you really buy me Skechers?” “I LOVE my new Skechers, Mom!” and on and on. We have lunch with my dad and by the time we are done it’s almost 3:00 and we run off to get Mac a short time later after Sailor walks Maurice the dog and we discover that one of Mac’s French classmates lives right across the street.
I think we are dreadfully late. I think the bell has already rung. I walk fast. I expect to see Mac in a panic that I am not there, or at least a bit miffed. Mac and the rest of his class are nowhere to be seen. They exit the building several minutes later. This is when I know there is no way we would make it to the 3:45 drama class Mac is set to begin next week.
Back at home Mac tries on his new gymshoes. I think they might fit him in a few years. We drive back to the store and find a pair that not only fits better but looks better and also is a better make. I mention to the sales guy the “helpfulness” of the very un-knowledgeable staff earlier in the day.
We eat a snack plate of Swiss cheese, hearty rolls, apples, broccoli, carrots and veggie dogs for dinner.
And it is hard to believe all of that was just yesterday. No wonder I am tired.
Today is Tuesday, September 11, 2007. The 6-year anniversary.
Which I decide to downplay in my own little world. And for reasons I don’t quite understand I feel more at peace today than I have felt in a very long time. I listen to what my favorite radio has to say on the tragedy. I mix up a batch of homemade cookies for our local fire department while the boys eat breakfast. Normally I would keep my children home with me and not go far on this date. But it happens that today is Sailor’s first day of preschool, and I hate to have him miss out on today over something that happened before he was born.
We are running late to school. Or so I think. We leave 15 minutes later than usual. We run into all sorts of people on our walk. And it is freezing out. Mac is dressed in jeans (which I think are certifiably too small despite their “size 6” label), a white t-shirt, a red, blue and grey argyle vest, his new gym shoes, his glasses, and a fab new brown corduroy jacket I just got him for school. Undeniably the best dressed boy in the 1st grade. But perhaps also the geekiest? But why should I have to dress him down? More on this later.
Despite our late departure time we still have time to wait in line outside school. And I wonder about the real times of entry and dismissal at this school.
Sailor and I run to the bank on the way home. He complains he is cold and needs a blanket. Indeed there is a fall chill in the air.
We pack up our summer gear and haul it to the basement. We vacuum up the sand in the hallway. We play “tennis” in the backyard. I indulge Sailor and let him toss a few more water balloons off the porch.
He does everything in his power to procrastinate and put off getting ready for his first day of preschool. He eats while I iron his outfit: linen pants and a light blue embroidered button down shirt. It is warm enough for him to wear his sandals by the time 12:30 rolls around. We get to school on time, my sister along for “fanfare” and photo detail. Sailor is reluctant but I am amazingly proud of him that he does not cry. Of course, for me, listening to the cacophony of all the small children who do not want to be torn from their mothers brings me to tears. But I don’t want to upset Sailor so I point out that Teacher S really needs his help today with all these new kids. Sailor prefers to go to his comfort spot and I walk him to the beanbag. There we find the twin daughter of my childhood best friend. I introduce the two. I pick a Curious George book for Sailor and give him many kisses. I leave, dragging my sister with me, mid-sentence with Teacher S, who sees exactly what I must do!
Surprisingly, despite the fact that it is my almost-4-year-old’s first day of school, and despite the fact that we are remembering 9/11 today, my afternoon goes off without a hitch. I don’t even feel lonely at home. I have my afternoon planned: first I drop off my cookies, decorated with red, white and blue M&Ms, to the fire station. Then I come home and continue my fall cleaning project. I complete both the dining room and the living room, so that by the time Mac gets home he is truly wowed.
I have a mini-date with Mac after school. We stop at Starbucks on the walk to get Sailor. Mac orders a latte. Really. “I want exactly the same coffee you had the other day. It was so good.”
“Do you make a kid-sized latte?” I inquire of the stunned, is not somewhat amused, barista.
“No, I want a huge grown-up size one like you had,” Mac says.
Not!
Mac wants to know why I am pouring WOLE milk into his latte. “The W is silent,” I tell him.
I almost step on a beautiful insect that looks like two bright green leaves. We stop to inspect it and to move it off the walking path.
Mac tells me about his day.
“I peed on my face.”
“What?! How?!”
“My peeper was pointed up and I peed on my face.”
Pointed up? But that would not result in pee on his face. I need more of an explanation.
“I knew I couldn’t snap my pants if I unsnapped them so I tried to just pull them down but I couldn’t get them down all the way so my peeper was pointed up and I peed on my face.” I am laughing hysterically at this tragic event. “Billy helped me clean it up.” He does not seem upset by either the incident or my laughter. In fact I think he is pleased that he has amused me.
We are the second-to-last ones to pick up our preschooler. Sailor is happy to see us and we share a group hug! Teacher S said he smiled the while time.
The boys play outside school for 45 minutes, both peeing on a nearby tree when the urge hits, while I turn away and pretend they are not my children.
And for dinner on the illustrious occasion of Sailor’s first day of preschool during which he does not cry? Chuck E. Cheese’s, of course! Sailor’s choice. And a good one, at that.
I let my kids eat the crappy pizza and root beer on a school night (deciding we will wait to return to “Chucky,” as Sailor calls it, until Mac receives his first report card, which will have lots of good grades on it, earning him extra game tokens).
I have 4 more rooms to clean. Before Sailor’s birthday on Sunday. That is my goal.Mac has a playdate arranged for next Tuesday with a new boy named Nich.
Sailor is asleep by 8:20. Mac’s key time seems to be 8:45.
Life is good. I feel happy. The 6th anniversary of 9/11 is almost over. We continue to survive. No, to live.
Tomorrow is another day. We have learned not to take a moment of it for granted and to enjoy each bit we are given, from vacuuming the summer’s sand off the floor, to throwing water balloons with my almost-4-year-old, to enjoying a latte with my 6-year-old, to reading the boys a bedtime story from a Beverly Cleary book that is nearly 20 years older than I am, to looking closely at a beautiful and unique insect, to listening to my children tell my parents about their respective day at school today. It is life. Every day.
And so it goes. We will never forget. And so it goes.
Wednesday Sailor and I wake up earlier than Mac. When Mac finds us in the bathroom he is rumpled and grumbly. “I’m tiiiiiired,” he whimpers. “Brush your teeth and hop in the shower,” I suggest. I am so sympathetic. I am. Really. “It’s cold,” he whines. It is. Very.
Mac does not want to go to school. But he goes. Sailor doesn’t want to go to French. But he goes. I only stay for a minute. I am still so truly amazed that he lets me go so easily this year. He is reluctant to let me go, it’s true, but he does not put up a fuss.
After French I drive him and Taylor to soccer. He eats a few bites of lunch and we change him into his soccer uniform and he takes off. Literally. “Bye Mom!” Again I am stunned.
I am talking to a preschool mom I know at Whole Foods when Sailor asks to be removed from his seat in the shopping cart. “Uppie!” He is still so 2! Moments later he is asleep in my arms. I approach the checkout woman. “I need gefilte fish,” I tell her, “and I can’t find it.” She starts to tell me where I would find it but I cut her off. “And I need someone to get it for me.” Sailor is heavy and I cannot walk around the store in search of gefilte fish. She obliges me by bringing me one of each of 4 different varieties. I choose one and carry my baby and my dad’s gefilte fish to the car.
After I gently lay Sailor on my parents’ sofa I run upstairs. I check phone messages and find one garbled child message, which I assume is for Mac, followed by Mrs. K, Mac’s kindergarten teacher from last year, explaining that Mac is tired and sad and out of sorts and wants to talk to me. “What should I do?” I ask my mom, back downstairs. “Should I go get him?” It’s 2:30. I call the school and tell them I have to come for him, if they don’t mind, because of a nondescript “family thing.” “You’ll have to sign him out,” says the possessive, over-controlling secretary. “I’ll be there in ten minutes." I decide to drive and I am there in two. I sign Mac out and wait for him. And wait for him. And wait for him. I look around for Mrs. K to see if she can offer any insight into what happened during lunch recess that prompted her to call me. I have a conversation about the age of the school with the security guard. The principal comes out and we talk about the school newsletter, of which I am the new editor. “We have to be like this because of this newsletter,” says Mr. A, holding up his crossed fingers.
“We have to be like this,” I hold up my own crossed fingers, “because you have my kid!” I know he understands. I am in with the principal. He knows me. And I am much relieved.
At least 20 minutes pass before Mac arrives at the office, escorted by a little girl from his class. He does not seem surprised to see me. He looked exhausted.
On Thursday morning he asks to stay home. He is too tired to go to school. I am unable to disagree with him. I let him stay home. The boys play and basically trash the house, which I have worked very hard to clean this week in preparation for Sailor’s 4th birthday on Sunday.
I eat bagels and chat with my designer, who has come to help me give Mac’s room a facelift. We remove a garbage bag worth of stuffed animals from his pet net. We remove books. We take photos from the walls and move his personal art gallery. When we are done the room is bare, like mine. It looks neat and clean. We now need to schedule a day to paint.
Sailor protests going to his 2nd day of school. But again he goes with little fuss. Mac and I walk home. “Why can’t you home school me?” he asks. I take out a workbook when we get home. One of the many we did not complete this summer. An hour and a half later Mac has completed three pages. “This is why we can’t home school,” I point out. We walk to the zoo. It’s a warm day. Sunny. My sister comes along. I completely understand why Mac prefers a day at home to a day at school. I prefer it, too. Having him home with me, his mommy, where he belongs.
He bumps his lip on the rail by the seals. He bleeds everywhere. It’s the perfect excuse to get a snow cone. There are no snow cones. He stops crying when I suggest Starbucks. He orders water and I order a grande decaf iced mocha.
We pick up Sailor from school early but we are late to Mac’s first TaiKwonDo class anyway. We see right away that tardiness will not do. Mac’s reading buddy from last year is in his class. Brilliant! I can ask his mom if I can drive him to class so he can watch Mac while I get Sailor from school. Brilliant.
Mac has to pee. I run him to the bathroom. “We do not leave the room!” Master K bellows when we return. “We do not pee on the floor,” I wish to bellow back. Whatever. “I am a little afraid of my teacher,” Mac confesses. I can understand why. I am not afraid of the man but if I were six I would have peed in my pants from fright. But I can see the man has a sparkle in his eyes and I point this out to Mac. I can tell this class will do wonders for Mac and I wish we had started years ago. We watch the class and I read Sailor a story and he falls asleep in my lap.
I win the Master’s Golden Star for the day by answering a question right. “What does HWA mean, moms?!” he bellows. “Home work assignment,” I quip. He shakes my hand and praises me while playfully berating the veteran moms for not knowing.
We raid my parents fridge for Rosh Hashanah leftovers, clean the kitchen – really clean, as in down on my hands and knees with a sponge and scraping guck from under the dishwasher clean. And at 7:00 prompt, I have the boys in bed. That is the new plan. To have Mac in his bed by 7:00 and done reading stories by 7:30. If he is not so tired perhaps he will like school better.
Friday morning Mac does not want to go to school. But we made a deal yesterday morning when he woke up. He could stay home Thursday but he has to go to school Friday. We have a bad morning.
The kids return to their old habit of opening the bathroom door right before I end my shower, letting all my warm air out and all the cold house air in. I ask them kindly not to do this. I ask them kindly to please finish cleaning up their toys from the living room. They run out – leaving the door open! I shout something I am too ashamed to put in print.
We have a bad morning. The boys take too long to eat breakfast. I don’t get into the shower on time. I don’t get out of the shower on time. We are late for school. The shy mom from last year is walking away from school as we approach. “Good morning,” she says. I am surprised.
The school doors are still open, tho Mac’s class has already entered. We do not have to check in at the office. I kiss my boy. I apologize for our bad morning. I tell him how much I love him. I tell him to have a good day.
Outside school I meet up with a friend whose daughter is having as bad a time as Mac is, in terms of being exhausted by the new first grade schedule. Seems all the kids are. But her daughter is being particularly awful. She too wanted to stay home from school – which I have heard several parents say about their children – but then had a tantrum when her mother said she could stay home and rest.
Perhaps next week will be better. Tho I am told on Friday afternoon by Mrs. K that it takes the children roughly two months to get used to being in school all day for 1st grade. I have no memory of this hardship. I loved first grade. Children were not tired in the 1970s. We were just children.
Sailor and I spend three hours at the dollar store, Target and the shoe store. I am trying to muster enough strength and energy to get to the grocery store and laundormat. I don’t know if I have it in me today. Especially the hours required to wash and dry my down comforter, which has been peed on by both my children in their sleep this week. But after Sailor has a major meltdown over a StarWars toy I won’t by him for his birthday, he falls asleep in the shoe store. No, he is not in the stroller. He simply climbs upon a small bench used by customers to sit on while trying on shoes, and falls asleep. I alert the sales woman running the store because I am sure she has never had this happen in her store before.
Sailor is still asleep when I leave to get Mac from school. Mac is exhausted. He wants to come home and go to sleep. But because our weekend plans for Sailor’s birthday have completely gone up in smoke and required a total revamp - - which seems to happen every year – we have made new plans to go up to the suburbs tonight to get Sailor’s birthday photo taken. Poor Mac. He will not be in bed by 7:00 tonight.
Sailor hams it up. He does a great photo shoot. We go for dinner. The restaurant has been moved and redone. It looks like an old folks’ diner or a pancake house. It looks like crap and I say so. The waiter brings Mac apple juice instead of chocolate milk, forgets my sister’s water, does not offer us bread, and actually brings the bill before bringing the pizza because he says we did not order pizza. We pay $9 for the salad and receive two complimentary dinner cards from the manager.
We labor over which of Sailor’s photos to choose. We stop for hot chocolate – it is very cold out. The kids are asleep before 10pm. I feel terribly guilty. I have to work in the morning and I hope the kids will sleep until I have to leave.
As I fall asleep I think over the week. The best moment: On Monday morning I had a great deal of garbage to take out. Sailor was awake and Mac was still asleep. “I’ll take care of Mac,” Sailor told me.
It is Sailor who sleeps in on Saturday morning and my mom has to come up so I can go to work. He is adorable wrapped up in my bed sheet. I want to just stay and look at him. My bed was wet when I got out of it this morning. Oddly, I am sleeping in the wet spot, which has never happened before. I check myself to see if I am the offender. I am not.
“Mac did you pee in my bed?”
“No,” he says, “I peed in my own bed.” Sigh.
We strip his sheets and I ask him to please make sure mine are stripped when Sailor wakes up. I have not changed this many sheets since last year. It’s been at least 4 times this week. Mac says he is too tired to get up too pee. I remind him how much I hate changing sheets. I tell both boys they are no longer allowed pre-bed beverages.
At night I use all my energy to get the boys to bed so I can wrap Sailor’s birthday gifts and decorate the dining room.
Sailor will be 4 when he wakes up. He still seems so young to me. So two. Not that he is immature for almost 4. He is just so "second child." He still wants uppie, still cries a lot, still wants to be held. Mac was required to give up his baba milk on his 4th birthday yet I remember him as being so much more mature. Of course, Mac was a big brother to an almost-2-year-old when he turned 4.
Mac’s birthday creates a great deal of hoopla every year. There is not the same momentum to Sailor’s birthday because there was not the same momentum to his birth. Whereas I was in labor for 3 days before Mac was born, I woke up on a regular Tuesday morning and began labor while I was putting on my makeup on the day that would become Sailor’s birth day. A very different experience. But the joyous birth of my baby, nonetheless. “Read me the story of when I was a baby,” he requests, sleepily. Mac used to ask me to read him stories from my mouth, too. I whisper the story of his birth to him as he falls asleep.
And so we have a fun day planned tomorrow and the dining room is decorated and I hope that Sailor is able to leave behind his crabby attitude and begin fresh as a 4-year-old. Right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)