The first night Luca was home from the hospital, I thought I would lose my mind. Sleep deprived. Sore. Curled into a recliner with pillows and blankets and pacifiers and a baby whose red faced shrieked to me in rage, "You are fucking this up!"
She wouldn't latch. Hadn't nursed fully as far as I knew since the one time some strange nurse turned a bright light on over my hospital bed at some unearthly hour and man-handled my breast to get her attached. Here I was at home with no nurse and no bright light and no one who knew what to do and my baby would only cry. She cried and cried and her face was red and her arms were so skinny, my little bird, and I sobbed in that uncontrollable heaving way so many sleep-deprived and hormone-flooded new moms have experienced.
Through fat tears, my husband's face grew closer. His hands lifted and repositioned our new baby. He helped me latch her and gently rubbed at her chin to get her to suck and before I knew it my baby was eating. Eating, which meant she was not crying. Eating, which meant no more shriek to remind me I was clueless and a brief respite from feeling like a caged wild mama bear whose cub is on the other side of the gate begging me for help.
That moment where my husband stepped in and took control and knew just what to do to help didn't solve all our problems. Breastfeeding my daughter was one of the hardest things I ever did. And the big lesson it taught me that night is that sometimes, in parenting, my husband really is right.
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There's a trend in the world of moms, to paint the men in our lives as less than us. Less capable. Less instinctual. Less smart. Less nurturing. Less skilled. Less of a parent.
We break them down into traits and characters. We tell ourselves and others that we're right and they are wrong. We tell them. We tell them in tears and in words, in passive aggressive behavior and in vitriolic words. We overstep them. We parent them because we seem to think they need it. As though we know better. As though by the virtue of being the mother we know; by virtue of being a man they can't possibly.
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We forget the power of those hopeless moments of desperation, a crying baby with fat tears and strained lungs from crying. Those moments when we're lost in our primal mama bear moments and through tears we see the same hands that helped guide our baby here, into our arms, guiding us together. Rubbing a newborn baby chin and silencing the desperation with calm.
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Out of the bath, wrapped in a warm blanket with wet hair and skin the color of apricots. Sitting on the bed, smoothing lotion over legs that keep growing, over toes with chipped polish and hands that now hold a pencil and expertly write her name and all the letters of the alphabet. We have these talks a lot, a routine we started when she was old enough to understand. This is yours, this body. This sacred land of soft skin and long eyelashes and feet that dance circles across my bedspread. Who is allowed to touch you? No one but me. Me and mommy and daddy, and only if you have to. Never if I say no. Who do you talk to if someone hurts you? Mommy. Or daddy. Grandma. A teacher. A police officer or a fireman.
"I have a scratch," she says, pointing. This body. This perfect little body folded into leggings and skirts and boots. Folded right now into a towel. This perfect little body over which I am smoothing lotion, lifting her wet hair to run my hands across her shoulders and down her arms. I freeze inside, but on the outside I am the calm in the storm.
A boy in her class. Lunchtime. A hand under the table and she moved away reflexively. A scratch and my brain feels on fire. She is five. He is too, or maybe six. I know enough. I know it's normal. I know that kids do these things and curiosity is the elixir of childhood. I know, also, of mugshots and headlines. Of children who are curious and grow to be men who steal innocence. Men who hurt. Who take childhood and twist it like an ugly nightmare. And this body. The same body that once unfolded from me like a lotus flower and slept on my chest heartbeat to heartbeat. My brain is on fire and it buzzes.
It's normal. It's probably harmless.
I will move her to another school. I will never let her leave my sight.
Instead: "Tell me what happened?"
A boy who touched her at lunch, from whom she pulled away. Told him not to do that. Told the teacher.
She did everything right, and sweet relief floods me, soaking through my veins. She did it right. She remembered our talks and she did it all the way we taught her.
We talk as the minutes pile up in the corner, going over what happened. Who he is. Does she sit by him in class? No. Did he get sent to the office? Yes. Is she ok? Yes.
She did everything right. We did everything right. He's five maybe. Maybe six. It's normal and it's still not ok.
Not to mama bear.
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Before I tuck her into her bed, wrap her in a Tinkerbell blanket with another pink blanket on top, I ask her if she wants to tell her daddy. She does.
She tells her daddy. A window of rage in his eyes, which he shutters quickly. His hand, again, under her chin. This time he looks in her eyes, holding her face, and he says, "You did everything right. And if that (fucking son of a bitch no-good kid) boy touches you again, you don't just tell him no."
My brain. On fire again. Is he for real?
"If he does that again, you grab the back of his head, push it down toward your leg, and land your knee square against his nose."
He's for real.
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She sleeps soundly. Her dreams, no doubt, of unicorns and fairies. She is safe. She is loved. She did everything right.
Downstairs, I approach the subject. I suggest calling her teacher. Making sure the boy isn't near her ever again in his natural-born life. Maybe he can be moved to another class? Maybe he can wear a straight jacket to keep his 'normal, curious' hands to his goddamned self? Maybe he's been expelled? I plan what to say next. What to do. How to be at work all day while simultaneously serving as her personal bodyguard and never leaving her alone with another boy ever again.
"She remembered," he tells me, "so you have to let it go. She did everything right, and if he touches her again she can knee him in the nose."
But I want to keep talking. I want to be sure she knows she did it right. It's not her fault. It's probably normal and probably benign and yet she can always say no. I wonder aloud at a meeting with the teacher. I wonder aloud at what more we need to talk about, to be sure she won't suffer some body-dysmorphic asexual side effect to the perv in kindergarten's actions. I wonder aloud and he stops me.
"You have to let it go. She's fine. She did it right and she will probably never bring it up again. If she does, you talk to her. You show her the best way to knee a guy in the nose. But until then, stop. Stop talking. Because it makes you feel better and you want to keep talking, but you talk and it makes it bigger and it grows until it's a Thing instead of just something that happened at school once and then she did everything right. Don't bring it up with her again. She talked to you now. She'll talk again if she needs to. Don't beat the subject to death to ease your own mind. For her sake, let it go."
And I listen. I listen because of the times I've wanted to be the nurterer and he knew the kids needed a "That sucks, but get over it" approach. I listen for the time I tried to talk to the kids about stranger danger and safety words and he interrupted and said, "If a stranger approaches, run. Yell and run and if you have to kick and punch. But first, you run." I listen because when the mama bear is in her cage and pacing and growling and wants to pull her cubs close but she can't because they are on the other side of the gate - - - those are the times papa bear teaches them how to climb the fence.
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I am a flawed mother. A flawed wife. But I love them fiercely and so does he. And I am so thankful for a husband who changed diapers and helped his wife breastfeed and smooths lotion over those same limbs that used to be exclusively ours but are now exclusively theirs. Sometimes my heart loses to his instinct, and in those times I'm so grateful for the instinct of a loving dad to guide them.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Love Tanked.
Perched on the edge of our big new tub, yoga pants rolled above my knees, I stretch one leg across to the far side, smoothing shaving gel over my legs. I'm careful with the razor; the two little bodies in the water have to be kept safe. I shave quickly, the swick swick swick of the blade againt my leg barely audible over splashing and giggling from my companions. I am utilitarian in my mission: make the most of these minutes while the kids are safely occupied in the tub and save a few minutes later when I take my own shower. They are anything but: merchildren of a wild sea, soap-bubble ice cream cone makers, Cinderella wiping the walls clean so she can get to the Ball and meet the Prince.
I am the laziest mom in the world. I am the most clever. I am a failure at prioritizing myself. I am Mother Earth.
Little bodies, slick and with a film of white bubbles on kneecaps and shoulder blades and under their chins. They acquiesce, standing still long enough for me to tousle their hair dry and wrap them, burrito style, in towels. I turn and they make a break for it, climbing up onto my bed and jumping, giggles and somersaults and wet towels and clean teeth and toes.
We read books. Sometimes I am patient with the inumerable questions and interruptions, small hands pointing details of the illustrations out to me. Sometimes I am bone tired, refusing any attempts at plot dissection or character analysis of Curious George. I mean, for fuck's sake---it says right there in the first two sentences of every damn tale that the damn monkey is curious. Must we revisit this each time?
Potty. Blankets. Kisses. Maybe a song (Mother Earth), maybe not (lazy).
The days are long and the nights are short. Other times, not so much. I fall asleep on the couch or I don't. I stay up too late, reading in silence because if I don't get a slice of quiet time with no one watching stupid movies (I Am Number 4????) and no one asking me for a snack or a book or a craft or to discuss some bill we need to pay or requesting some marital relations I will short circuit in a matter of days. The tell tale signs will include irrational loss of temper, profanity under my breath, and a clear realization that I'm being a huge ass + a complete lack of giving a shit about it.
Then later, from a dreamless sleep, a creak in the hallway and the light thump-thump of steps. A warm body - so warm - climbing up next to me. Without rising fully into consciousness my arm raises, scooping up the radiant warmth and swathing my baby in my own blankets. My baby. My sweetest, purest flesh of my flesh. Her: warm belly, long hair, long legs, feet intertwining instantly with my legs, morning breath all night long. Him: shaggy mop, cheeks so soft, hands finding my arm or my face or my neck, breath like honey and milk.
I may think about moving them. Kicking them out. Tough love. Independence. Space.
Fuck tough love.
Fuck independence.
And space? The warm bodies and soft skin. The tiny snores and toes tucked under my knees and wide, warm palm on my cheek. Breath in. Breath out. How can they invade my space, when they are so much a part of me.
I used to worry that I was doing it all wrong. My husband, that dear and kind man, remembers the manuscript of parenting, lackidaisically reminding me that we should kick them out of our bed. I might agree. I might invite him to be the one to crawl out of that cocoon of cuddles and walk tired, fuzzy kids back to own rooms. I might just not comment, the morning light peeking in the bathroom window and lighting their apricot cheeks in golds and roses.
Fuck doing it all wrong. The night hours - those darkest hours of the day when the stars are pulled over the earth in a silken blanket and dreams dance behind heavy lids. The night hours matter too. We all need our love tank filled. We all need closeness and space, tucked toes and a warm palm on your neck, morning and milk-honey breath. Circulating the air, sharing atoms and oxygen and breaths and blankets. The love tank is emptied by long days of work and school. Rushed dinners. Early bedtimes to quash bad moods. The love tank is filled with couch cuddle puddles and ice cream runs in our pajamas and bath time with warm water and bubbles. By nighttime cuddles in shared dream-space. I might be doing it all wrong. We all might. Fuck doing it all right.
In the morning, the bathroom tile will be cold and the coffee timer has only a 45% chance of being set. There will be breakfast to figure out. Lunch to pack with nothing appealing to include in it and the freezer packs unfrozen and still in the backpack. Clothes to select. Socks to hunt down and shoes to put on and hair to brush. Someone will be running late or too tired or hungry enough for three breakfasts when time scarcely allows for one. There will be school drop off and commuting to work and long days. There will be a day's end that comes at least an hour later than you'd planned and a rushed dinner that contains nothing organic and at least one thing microwaved. Fantasize about indulgent grocery store trips when the cart brims with leafy greens and fruits of all kinds and organic free range chicken and then the beep of the microwave will end this reverie as you remember that you're out of milk and don't have coffee creamer for tomorrow morning's caffeine rush.
There's no such thing as doing it all wrong. Doing it all right? Same thing. You just do. You dress and you bathe and you feed and you stress and you love and love and love until your brain is abuzz and your heart is hot pink infected with all that love. You pretend to be sleeping when the kids sneak into bed, surreptitiously curling a blanketed arm over them to wrap them in your love bubble. You hope for the best. You hope you're doing something right. You see in the glow of the alarm clock their long lashes and sleep-swollen lips and you remember a time when they were brand new and you spent hours just watching them sleep. You hope to god you're not doing it wrong.
There is no right. There is no wrong. There is only a love tank, ready to fill and be filled.
I am the laziest mom in the world. I am the most clever. I am a failure at prioritizing myself. I am Mother Earth.
Little bodies, slick and with a film of white bubbles on kneecaps and shoulder blades and under their chins. They acquiesce, standing still long enough for me to tousle their hair dry and wrap them, burrito style, in towels. I turn and they make a break for it, climbing up onto my bed and jumping, giggles and somersaults and wet towels and clean teeth and toes.
We read books. Sometimes I am patient with the inumerable questions and interruptions, small hands pointing details of the illustrations out to me. Sometimes I am bone tired, refusing any attempts at plot dissection or character analysis of Curious George. I mean, for fuck's sake---it says right there in the first two sentences of every damn tale that the damn monkey is curious. Must we revisit this each time?
Potty. Blankets. Kisses. Maybe a song (Mother Earth), maybe not (lazy).
The days are long and the nights are short. Other times, not so much. I fall asleep on the couch or I don't. I stay up too late, reading in silence because if I don't get a slice of quiet time with no one watching stupid movies (I Am Number 4????) and no one asking me for a snack or a book or a craft or to discuss some bill we need to pay or requesting some marital relations I will short circuit in a matter of days. The tell tale signs will include irrational loss of temper, profanity under my breath, and a clear realization that I'm being a huge ass + a complete lack of giving a shit about it.
Then later, from a dreamless sleep, a creak in the hallway and the light thump-thump of steps. A warm body - so warm - climbing up next to me. Without rising fully into consciousness my arm raises, scooping up the radiant warmth and swathing my baby in my own blankets. My baby. My sweetest, purest flesh of my flesh. Her: warm belly, long hair, long legs, feet intertwining instantly with my legs, morning breath all night long. Him: shaggy mop, cheeks so soft, hands finding my arm or my face or my neck, breath like honey and milk.
I may think about moving them. Kicking them out. Tough love. Independence. Space.
Fuck tough love.
Fuck independence.
And space? The warm bodies and soft skin. The tiny snores and toes tucked under my knees and wide, warm palm on my cheek. Breath in. Breath out. How can they invade my space, when they are so much a part of me.
I used to worry that I was doing it all wrong. My husband, that dear and kind man, remembers the manuscript of parenting, lackidaisically reminding me that we should kick them out of our bed. I might agree. I might invite him to be the one to crawl out of that cocoon of cuddles and walk tired, fuzzy kids back to own rooms. I might just not comment, the morning light peeking in the bathroom window and lighting their apricot cheeks in golds and roses.
Fuck doing it all wrong. The night hours - those darkest hours of the day when the stars are pulled over the earth in a silken blanket and dreams dance behind heavy lids. The night hours matter too. We all need our love tank filled. We all need closeness and space, tucked toes and a warm palm on your neck, morning and milk-honey breath. Circulating the air, sharing atoms and oxygen and breaths and blankets. The love tank is emptied by long days of work and school. Rushed dinners. Early bedtimes to quash bad moods. The love tank is filled with couch cuddle puddles and ice cream runs in our pajamas and bath time with warm water and bubbles. By nighttime cuddles in shared dream-space. I might be doing it all wrong. We all might. Fuck doing it all right.
In the morning, the bathroom tile will be cold and the coffee timer has only a 45% chance of being set. There will be breakfast to figure out. Lunch to pack with nothing appealing to include in it and the freezer packs unfrozen and still in the backpack. Clothes to select. Socks to hunt down and shoes to put on and hair to brush. Someone will be running late or too tired or hungry enough for three breakfasts when time scarcely allows for one. There will be school drop off and commuting to work and long days. There will be a day's end that comes at least an hour later than you'd planned and a rushed dinner that contains nothing organic and at least one thing microwaved. Fantasize about indulgent grocery store trips when the cart brims with leafy greens and fruits of all kinds and organic free range chicken and then the beep of the microwave will end this reverie as you remember that you're out of milk and don't have coffee creamer for tomorrow morning's caffeine rush.
There's no such thing as doing it all wrong. Doing it all right? Same thing. You just do. You dress and you bathe and you feed and you stress and you love and love and love until your brain is abuzz and your heart is hot pink infected with all that love. You pretend to be sleeping when the kids sneak into bed, surreptitiously curling a blanketed arm over them to wrap them in your love bubble. You hope for the best. You hope you're doing something right. You see in the glow of the alarm clock their long lashes and sleep-swollen lips and you remember a time when they were brand new and you spent hours just watching them sleep. You hope to god you're not doing it wrong.
There is no right. There is no wrong. There is only a love tank, ready to fill and be filled.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
M.I.A.
I've gone missing, and a lot has happened. The biggest news is that I am starting a new job tomorrow. After 6 years of throwing my heart into the same job, a perfect storm occured and I was offered an opportunity I couldn't pass up, so I jumped.
It was both exhilerating and terrifying. I stood in my boss's office just over 3 weeks ago and bawled telling her I'd been offered a new job, and here I sit one day before starting that job both thrilled and scared like crazy.
But before starting this new phase in my life I took all my PTO pay-out money and snuck my family away for 2 days at Disneyland and California Adventure. It was so worth it.
It was both exhilerating and terrifying. I stood in my boss's office just over 3 weeks ago and bawled telling her I'd been offered a new job, and here I sit one day before starting that job both thrilled and scared like crazy.
But before starting this new phase in my life I took all my PTO pay-out money and snuck my family away for 2 days at Disneyland and California Adventure. It was so worth it.
(Yes, my 5 and 3 yaer olds went on the Tower of Terror...and were champs. This was our second time. That's me on the far left in the middle row in green and black. Luca is next to me, burying her face in my arm, and Mo is next to her staring at her as she buries her face in my arm. Darrick is in the 4th seat over.)
Monday, September 3, 2012
Artistes.
This morning's crafty fun time involved a roll of butcher paper and my kids' first introduction to oil pastels.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Learning to Let Them Go.
Last night before bed, Luca picked her outfit for the first day of kindergarten: a brown dress with pink polka dots and her new brown shoes. Rohan asked me to get his orange 'buttons' shirt, and I selected some new khaki shorts to go with it. I packed Luca's lunch, cutting her turkey sandwich ino a star and a letter 'L' and including a strawberry cupcake she chose at the grocery store. I scrawled 'Rohan K' on the inside of an old t-shirt and pair of shorts with a Sharpie and tied them into a bag with his name on the outside. Extra clothes for school, in case he has an accident. Luca's bag was packed with her purple pencil case and a towel for after-lunch rest time. Everything was ready to go.
We took a bath together, the three of us, washing the manes and tails of every My Little Pony in the house and also washing Luca and Rohan's new hairstyles. Hers: bangs. His: short and neat.
Before bed, Luca told me she was worried about kindergarten because even though she can count, "Sometimes I skip a number." I assured her it was ok, and that lots of kids skip numbers and she was goign to school so she could learn how to remember ALL the numbers when she counts. That seemed to satisfy her, and before she rolled over to close her eyes she smiled at me and told me she was excited to start school.
This morning both kids were still sleeping when I got out of bed, so I went and woke them by rubbing their back and telling them it was time for school. Luca jumped out of bed, excited to put on her pretty dress and take her new backpack to class. Mo was a little slower going, telling me several times that he didn't want to go to preschool. I got them downstairs, dressed, and sitting in front of Bubble Guppies so I could finish getting everything ready to go.
The morning was punctuated with Rohan's sadface, as he told me several times he didn't want to go to preschool. I didn't know what to say to him other than to fill him with platitudes about how preschool is super fun and he's going to make a lot of new friends and learn new things. It didn't work. He was curled on the recliner in a ball telling me he didn't want to go. Even Luca chimed in, telling him how she was worried about preschool but it ended up being so fun and she made lots of friends. He still wasn't convinced entirely.
We parked down the street from the elementary school, following a crowd of other parents as they led kids large and small to the playground to line up for their first day. Each of my hands held a tiny hand of one of my children, and if you think for a second I didn't feel the power of that moment you must never have met me.
We got to school a few minutes before the first bell, found the spot where Luca's class lines up in the mornings, and waited. I could tell Luca was nervous, and Rohan could too which made him nervous which in turn made ME nervous and on the verge of tears. We stood together in a cluster eyeing the other kids and their parents. I was trying to guess which kids would be the nicest and hoping my kid would be seated next to them, and Luca was probably admiring all the Hello Kitty backpacks jealously. Her teacher made her rounds, checking to be sure all the right kids were in her line and she knew how they were all to get home every day that week and I tried to look friendly by half-smiling at the other parents while behind my sunglasses my eyes nervously scanned the group of new kids and parents.
I leaned in close to her, feeling very sentimental as every ounce of mama love burned in my throat, and whispered into her cheek, "Luca, I'm so very very proud of you and school is going to be amaz--" and she cut me off. "Mom," she said impatiently, "your breath stinks like coffee." Sentimental moment over.
I wasn't sure how Luca would do when the time came to walk into the school with her class. After two years of preschool this is sort of old hat to her, but it was a different school and this is a new teacher and new classmates and new rules and a new schedule. Leading up to the first week, she was really excited, so we went with that and played up the excitement in the hopes it would pay off the first day. And while she was a bit nervous, clinging to my hand most of the morning, when the time came to kiss her good-bye she was ready to go.
We stood there, Mo and I, watching her walk away from us and into big kid school. She turned several times and waved, blowing kisses as we enthusiastically waved and blew kisses back. I snapped pictures through tears I'd held in until that moment, and as she passed through the doors and disappeared down the hall to her first day of Kindergarten, I turned with Rohan, took 4 steps across the basketball court, and was stopped cold by a wave of heavy tears. Rohan was looking at me sadly, so I scooped him into my arms as I cried, and he burrowed his head under my chin, his right cheek flat against my collarbone and his left arm stretched wide to pull me into a hug.
That moment? I will never forget it. And when I looked down into my son's big blue eyes, he was crying too. We stood there for a moment, holding each other together, then he walked beside me to the car holding my hand the whole way there.
We took a bath together, the three of us, washing the manes and tails of every My Little Pony in the house and also washing Luca and Rohan's new hairstyles. Hers: bangs. His: short and neat.
Before bed, Luca told me she was worried about kindergarten because even though she can count, "Sometimes I skip a number." I assured her it was ok, and that lots of kids skip numbers and she was goign to school so she could learn how to remember ALL the numbers when she counts. That seemed to satisfy her, and before she rolled over to close her eyes she smiled at me and told me she was excited to start school.
This morning both kids were still sleeping when I got out of bed, so I went and woke them by rubbing their back and telling them it was time for school. Luca jumped out of bed, excited to put on her pretty dress and take her new backpack to class. Mo was a little slower going, telling me several times that he didn't want to go to preschool. I got them downstairs, dressed, and sitting in front of Bubble Guppies so I could finish getting everything ready to go.
The morning was punctuated with Rohan's sadface, as he told me several times he didn't want to go to preschool. I didn't know what to say to him other than to fill him with platitudes about how preschool is super fun and he's going to make a lot of new friends and learn new things. It didn't work. He was curled on the recliner in a ball telling me he didn't want to go. Even Luca chimed in, telling him how she was worried about preschool but it ended up being so fun and she made lots of friends. He still wasn't convinced entirely.
We got to school a few minutes before the first bell, found the spot where Luca's class lines up in the mornings, and waited. I could tell Luca was nervous, and Rohan could too which made him nervous which in turn made ME nervous and on the verge of tears. We stood together in a cluster eyeing the other kids and their parents. I was trying to guess which kids would be the nicest and hoping my kid would be seated next to them, and Luca was probably admiring all the Hello Kitty backpacks jealously. Her teacher made her rounds, checking to be sure all the right kids were in her line and she knew how they were all to get home every day that week and I tried to look friendly by half-smiling at the other parents while behind my sunglasses my eyes nervously scanned the group of new kids and parents.
I leaned in close to her, feeling very sentimental as every ounce of mama love burned in my throat, and whispered into her cheek, "Luca, I'm so very very proud of you and school is going to be amaz--" and she cut me off. "Mom," she said impatiently, "your breath stinks like coffee." Sentimental moment over.
I wasn't sure how Luca would do when the time came to walk into the school with her class. After two years of preschool this is sort of old hat to her, but it was a different school and this is a new teacher and new classmates and new rules and a new schedule. Leading up to the first week, she was really excited, so we went with that and played up the excitement in the hopes it would pay off the first day. And while she was a bit nervous, clinging to my hand most of the morning, when the time came to kiss her good-bye she was ready to go.
We stood there, Mo and I, watching her walk away from us and into big kid school. She turned several times and waved, blowing kisses as we enthusiastically waved and blew kisses back. I snapped pictures through tears I'd held in until that moment, and as she passed through the doors and disappeared down the hall to her first day of Kindergarten, I turned with Rohan, took 4 steps across the basketball court, and was stopped cold by a wave of heavy tears. Rohan was looking at me sadly, so I scooped him into my arms as I cried, and he burrowed his head under my chin, his right cheek flat against my collarbone and his left arm stretched wide to pull me into a hug.
That moment? I will never forget it. And when I looked down into my son's big blue eyes, he was crying too. We stood there for a moment, holding each other together, then he walked beside me to the car holding my hand the whole way there.
The ride to preschool for Rohan's first day was quiet. My right arm was stretched into the back seat, and he held my right hand in both of his for the whole drive. We got there much too fast and before I knew it I was unbuckling Rohan's carseat and pulling his backpack out to rest it on his shoulders. Thankfully, his hesitation and nerves had calmed some and he didn't try to change my mind about leaving him in preschool that day. Because, I swear, if he'd asked me at that moment to let him stay home one more day I would have burrowed him to me and whisked him home so we could snuggle on the couch together for a whole day.
There wasn't much time for long sentimental good-byes once we got to preschool. Most of the kids were there already and the class was just sitting down for circle time. One of the high schoolers that works in the class came right over and greeted Rohan, taking his hand and leading him to his space on the rug. And suddenly, I had two kids in school. Just like that. Babies, done. Kids, here.
I knew I should leave, but I couldn't. I needed one more hug and kiss from my son. Needed to sniff his skin and feel the softness of his blonde hair and remind him to be good and kind and listen well. So I waited patiently for circle time to end and the kids to go wash their hands and I grabbed him and held him close to me for a kiss. And then, I watched him walk away and join the other kids at the little circular table for snacks.
I walked out alone, sat in my car, and let the tears come. I was crying from pride that a new phase of their lives is starting, and in equal measure from sadness that the last chapter is ending. No longer can I even pretend they are my babies. They are big kids now, with classmates and teachers and lunch bags and friends. They bring home pictures and classwork with their names scrawled across the top. They ask questions such as, "Mama, how does a car turn all the wheels the same at once?" (him) and, "Are whales mammals? Because I know that dolphins are and whales feed their babies milk too."
Learning to let them go and let them grow up is hard for me. I absolutely adore the people they are becoming. I beam at the praise from their teachers. I smile when I hear about new friends and eating in a cafeteria and recess and music class and share day. My throat tightens and my heart feels like it will burst as I witness them growing minute by minute into the little adults they will someday become.
This will be a big year. I'm trusting my kids to teachers and other families and their kids. I'm letting my kids go and grow. And I cannot wait to look back at this time in our lives and remember it sweetness.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
60 Hours (Part 2)
The second day of vacation we ate shitty hotel free breakfast (because it's basically a vacation pre-req, right?) grabbed groceries and hit the road. Northern Utah is amazing, and southern Idaho will make you long for afternoons running through fields of yellow flowers.
We stopped just south of Idaho Falls for a picnic lunch and dove into a watermelon full force. The kids took off their shirts and let the juice drip down their faces. It was a slice of heaven.
That's the most beautiful thing about traveling somewhere lik Yellowstone with kids. People go there for the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone or Old Faithful. Kids see the beauty in bright yellow blooms they named 'sunny flowers' and a huge purple weed thriving by the side of one of Yellowstone's biggest pools of thermal waters.
We stopped just south of Idaho Falls for a picnic lunch and dove into a watermelon full force. The kids took off their shirts and let the juice drip down their faces. It was a slice of heaven.
This particular rest stop had a mini hike you could take over volcanic rock. The best part of the walk wasn't the nature or the weather, but the scares from Dad. Darrick would go ahead a bit while the kids took their sweet time lagging behind with me, waving a bubble wand through the air and sending huge bubbles floating above the black rocks.
And then they would come around a corner and...
Oh man, every time I look at those faces, I laugh so hard. Kids. Gotta love them.
We wrapped up our walk and headed back to the car to finish the drive north.
The kids fell asleep in the car, tired from running and shitting their pants with fear and eating half a watermelon. So Darrick and I had a little over an hour to just swoon over the landscape as it unrolled and unfurled around us. Everywhere we looked were idyllic farms and green pastures and rolling mountains.
The most amazing part was when we found ourselves in the northern part of eastern Idaho and out the right side of the van was nothing but endless green pastures and a sneak preview of the Grand Tetons. They rose into the sky and touched the clouds and I snapped about 200 pictures of Idaho rushing by.
Shortly before we got into the corner of Montana that we'd be making into a home-base the kids started to stir in the back, so we took the first turn off road we could find to give them a chance to go to the bathroom and stretch their little legs. By luck, we ended up in Henry's Lake Park which was a beautiful glimpse of what the next week would have to offer. Luca's head bobbed up sleepily from her nap, she stretched and looked out the window, and from the backseat we heard her exclaim, "Wow! This is awesome!" And let me tell you that even if the rest of the trip had been a complete disaster, that little outburst of pure unadulterated kid amazement would have made it all worth it to me.
There was a lot of time for running around in tall grass and picking wildflowers, which was just what we all needed after so many hours driving.
Those dandelion flowers became a mainstay of our trip. They were everywhere, and my kids could not be stopped from picking them. People would give them weird looks, carrying around these weeds, but in their eyes the were picking bright yellow wildflowers. Isn't a wildflower just a weed someone chose to admire, anyhow?
I mean, this guy is technically a weed, but he's also the size of Rohan's head and had people stopping to lean over and snap shots of him.
That's the most beautiful thing about traveling somewhere lik Yellowstone with kids. People go there for the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone or Old Faithful. Kids see the beauty in bright yellow blooms they named 'sunny flowers' and a huge purple weed thriving by the side of one of Yellowstone's biggest pools of thermal waters.
(to be continued....)
(posting is slow going because of the # of pictures...)
Friday, June 8, 2012
60 Hours of Driving.
On Memorial Day, we woke at 4 am, threw the last of our things in the van and tied two suitcases to the roof rack and then headed out the door. The TV was unplugged, the sprinklers were set to go off every other day rather than every, the A/C was set to 85 and the sun was just starting to toy with the idea of rising.
We stopped for coffee, gas, and donuts and then headed over to gather the kids from my mom's house, where they'd spent the night so we could go to a wedding the night before. They were awake and dressed, and we bundled them into their car seats with their blankets tucked around them and their travel bags of toys and books next to each seat.
We stopped for coffee, gas, and donuts and then headed over to gather the kids from my mom's house, where they'd spent the night so we could go to a wedding the night before. They were awake and dressed, and we bundled them into their car seats with their blankets tucked around them and their travel bags of toys and books next to each seat.
That first day, we didn't know how far we'd get. we only knew that our goal was to make it as far as we could before we lost both kids to epic meltdowns. We made it to Flagstaff around breakfast, so we stopped at a McDonald's so the kids could work out some energy and we could all use the restroom and get something to eat and drink. They were pretty excited to get back on the road, and we were anxious to put some distance behind us. The next few hours took us around the Grand Canyon National Park to the east, through reservation land where the sand is colored salmon and ochre and violet and the skies are baby blue. It was still early, and with the windows down and a cool breeze the ride was easy and went quickly enough. We stopped for an early lunch outside of Lake Powell.
Before hitting the road again, I took a few minutes to snuggle my puppies in the back of the van and telling them it was time to take a nap. Amazing as it seems, they DID nap. Success!
A few hours later, we checked into a hotel south of Salt Lake City and took the kids to dinner. The weather was amazing and the mountain range was topped in white snow when we found a sweet little elementary school and raided their park. Poor kids were so beat from a day of travel that they only played for a bit before asking to go to the hotel to sleep.
We went for a quick swim at the hotel's indoor pool, bathed the kids, and tucked in for the night. Luca and I laid down in one queen bed and Mo started the night next to Darrick. Before I fell asleep I felt his warm little body climb in next to me, and I drifted off for the first night of vacation sandwiched between my two kids and completely in bliss.
10 hours on the road, complete.
(to be continued)
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
First Day/Last Day
Luca's last day of preschool was today. And, in spite of my big fears it would go otherwise, I rolled with it pretty well. I only got choked up once, when talking to a co-worker about how I couldn't believe we will have a preschooler and a kindergartner in August.
She's grown and learned so much these past two years. She is completely the same in so many ways, but new in ways that really matter. Above all, preschool gave her a chance to become her own person outside the world of our family and gave her confidence. I look at the pictures of her biting her lip before walking into her first day of school, and compare that to the happy girl who ran to the car today to start summer break and I am eternally grateful for growth.
First Day:
First Day:
She's grown and learned so much these past two years. She is completely the same in so many ways, but new in ways that really matter. Above all, preschool gave her a chance to become her own person outside the world of our family and gave her confidence. I look at the pictures of her biting her lip before walking into her first day of school, and compare that to the happy girl who ran to the car today to start summer break and I am eternally grateful for growth.
First Day:
Last Day:
Last Day:
First Day:
Last Day:
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