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.