everyday life

Four years & taking questions

Today is my four year anniversary in this space. Which is amazing, to me.

To mark the date, and because I’m brain dead and slightly heartbroken these days (my beloved Kelly Diels said this {as usual} better than I ever could) I thought I’d follow Corinne’s able lead and ask you if there is anything you want to know. Please share any questions or things you are interested in in the comments – big or small, anything you’d like to hear more about. I am very interested in what you are interested in.

Summer 2010

I’m late with this year’s end-of-summer post, but I’ve been sifting through the richness of the last few months, feeling the happy and the heavy memories drift through my fingers, parsing what it is that rises to the top.

I re-read my reflections on the summer of 2009 and was struck, predictably, I guess, by the feeling that they were written ages ago and also yesterday.

This summer was many things … most of all, different from the rest of my life, an interlude between two more standard realities, a carved-out three months where I spent more time than I ever have with Grace and Whit.

I read almost nothing this summer. I didn’t feel like reading books, on the whole, which is unusual for me. What I felt like reading, intensely, and over and over, was Mary Oliver’s poetry. And so I did. I even listened to her reading (thank you, Katrina, for the suggestion) her own poems as I drove down to see Dani Shapiro at Aidan‘s Happier Hour event in July.

Mary’s words, spoken and read, called to me all summer long. I’m not exactly sure why, but I’m listening.

I spent a lot of time this summer driving with Grace and Whit, often singing along at the top of our lungs to Top 40 songs. One Saturday morning as we drove up to see Hadley and her family, the kids and I were listening to a top 20 countdown. We had a debate going on about what song would be number one. We dashed into a rest stop bathroom during the commercial break before #1 and ran back out just in time to catch the first notes of California Gurls. I’ll never forget the sheer joy on the kids’ faces as they collapsed into their carseats, giggling, the fact that something so small could make them so happy.

Many, many times this summer, enough that I’m paying attention, I turned on the car radio to hear Let It Be. Okay. I’m trying.

I am homesick for my trip to LEGOland with the kids. Those four magical days only grow more burnished as I move away from them. Grace and Whit were absolutely enchanted with the idea of a mom who did such spontaneous and downright fun things. This translated into their being absolutely delightful to be around: cheerful, agreeable, and charmingly wide-eyed at everything they saw. I am so grateful that I planned and took that trip, and the fact that it was a last-minute idea makes me even gladder. How uncharacteristic. I wonder if I can carry some of that enthusiasm, flexibility, and sheer joy into this new phase of my life. I hope so.

Running through my head the past few days has been this quote, which I think perfectly captures the photograph above:

One must wait until the evening to see how splendid the day has been.
– Sophocles

The first day of kindergarten, 2.0

Dear Whit,

Today you start kindergarten. I’m astonished, in a way both cliched and powerful, that we are here.

For three years you didn’t say much of anything. Your first preschool teacher, in fact, urged us to have you evaluated by a speech therapist. She even gently suggested that you might have cognitive delays. Within months your speech therapist (an adorable blonde woman that you thought was fabulous) had you talking a blue streak, and within weeks she had ascertained that there was definitely nothing cognitive going on. You do speak with a distinctive accent, which we like to joke is from Pawtucket. You may not have spoken for three years, but you haven’t stopped since.

You say the funniest, most observant things, often causing me to pull over to jot them down for posterity (or use on this blog). You, Whit, are just downright hilarious. I’m not sure where that came from, since neither your Dad nor I is particularly funny. But you make me laugh out loud every single day, which is an enormous gift.

This was the summer you really became comfortable in the water. You can reliably – though inelegantly – swim laps and stay afloat for a long time (which is kind of amazing because you have no body fat and generally sink like a stone). In June you decided you wanted to learn how to dive and you have. The way you hurtle yourself off a diving board is a good metaphor for the unbridled enthusiasm and fearlessness you bring to life. You shout, “I’m going!” to make sure all around you are watching and then you take off at a run, not even hesitating before plunging into the water. I’ve yet to meet a diving board high enough to give you pause.

You love Legos and robots and trucks. You are always looking to understand how things work. As a three year old you crept under the toilet, put your hand on the pipe after flushing, and said to me, awestruck, “There’s water running here, Mummy!” And just last week at Basin Harbor I couldn’t find you for a minute on the beach. I finally noticed you crouching near one of the paddleboats, looking underneath it, trying to understand how it moved and steered. I am eager to watch where this curiosity takes you, and hope I will always nourish it, even when being asked “why …” every three minutes all day long gets old.

Whit, you are the definition of marching to your own drummer. One evening this summer I went in to kiss you goodnight to see that you had stripped down and were sleeping naked on the floor, lying flat on your back on top of the sleeping bag that you’d found in the closet, with your small fan blowing right on your face. Decked out in mardi gras beads this summer after Magic Night with Hadley and family, you announced from the back seat of the car, “I could be an international pop star with all of this jewelry!” Where you learned that I have no idea.

Your presence in my life pushes and challenges me every single day. We see the world so differently, Whit, you and I. You approach every day as a wide open canvas, never assume that there are limits until you physically meet them, and need to have the reason for rules proven to you before you follow them. You inspire me, in this way, because the automatic way I stoop before authority has held me back so much in my life. Where I see a closed door, you see a hurdle to find your way around. You are wily and bright and as a baby we called you Houdini for the infinite ways you found to wriggle out of your pajamas and then your crib. I tried everything, eventually winding up with too-small footie pjs on backward with the feet cut off and a crib tent with the zipper carabinered to the side of the crib.

Two years ago I wrote a letter to Grace on her first day of kindergarten. Reading it always makes me cry. Now here I am, even more sentimental, even more raw, surprised once again at the speed with which the days pass by. You, the baby who healed so much for me, whose arrival showed me I could fall in love with a newborn, who made me believe that maybe, just maybe, I was cut out to be a mother after all. You, who gave back to me all that I missed the first time around. You aren’t easy, Whit, with your stubborn outbursts and steadfast refusal to accept “because I said so” as a reason.  But it is so worth it.  I learn so much from you. You make me question so many of the things I’ve always taken for granted, and watching you operate in the world both bewilders and dazzles me. You are so immensely sweet at your core, and so, so funny: this morning I woke up to a soft kiss on my cheek and turned to see you standing there in your pajamas and sunglasses, cocking your finger at me and smiling, as though to say “Hi there, lady!”

Happy first day, Whit. I am so excited for you about all of the adventures that lie ahead, and I know I’ll never, ever stop laughing as I travel them alongside you. I’m so grateful to be your mother.

I love you.

Six years of school, seven tomorrow …

First day in the Red Room, September 2004

First day in the Yellow Room, September 2005

First day in the Blue Room, September 2006

First day of Beginners, September 2007

First day of Kindergarten, September 2008

First day of First Grade, September 2009

The time is whistling past my ears, it’s flying so fast.

Tomorrow, 2nd grade for Grace and kindergarten for Whit. I’m proud and sad all at the same time.

Goggles

I have a few areas of definitive, even spectacular, parenting Fail.

Food.  Both of my kids are terrible eaters, Whit far worse than Grace.  I never make them finish their food, and generally believe that no child will charge in the presence of food.

Shoes.  There will come a day this fall when inevitably the only shoes that fit my kids will be crocs and rainboots.  Probably a day when we need to do something like go to soccer practice or church or a birthday party – that is to say, somewhere that crocs and rainboots are at best inappropriate and at worst totally insufficient.

Tooth brushing.  Um … casual.  At best.  I’m just not sure I feel the urgency here.  Every time we go to the dentist my childrens’ beautiful teeth are remarked on.  See?

I get it—sometimes it feels like there’s no rush when their teeth always seem to look great at every check-up. But here’s the thing: even with naturally beautiful teeth, good habits like regular brushing are key to preventing problems that might not show up right away. Cavities, plaque buildup, and gum issues can creep up slowly, and by the time they’re noticeable, they can lead to discomfort or more serious dental procedures.

That’s why staying on top of daily brushing and routine visits to the dentist helps ensure those healthy smiles stay that way for years to come. Even the most beautiful teeth can face challenges without proper care, but with the right attention, any issues can be addressed early, and smiles restored before they ever lose their shine. After all, taking small steps now helps avoid bigger problems later and keeps your kids’ smiles sparkling.

Googles.  Oh.  My.  God.  I hate the goggles.  I continuously forget them and then deal with screaming kids who won’t go in the water.  I’m sure this is some kind of Freudian attempt by me to subvert their goggle habit, but it’s not working.  I forget them, they lose them, they don’t work, they can’t be tightened or …

They break.

Is there a parenting nadir lower than the broken goggles?  If so, I don’t know it.  Well, specifically, overtired + broken goggles. And, + my 5 year old boy.

Today, with half an hour on the clock at Basin Harbor, I was trying to pacify a hair-trigger, exhausted Whit by letting him jump off the diving board a few more times.  He came over to me and asked me to tighten his goggles.  I did so … and wound up with one of the ends in my hand.  Uh-oh.  The goggles were still on his face.  Aware that I was surrounded by land mines, I suggested, gingerly: why don’t you just go in with those?  Mentally, I was already trying to figure out where we could  stop en route to my in-laws’ to get a new pair.

Whit barrelled off of the diving board, came up smiling, and swam to the side.  I sighed.  Crisis averted.

Just as my pulse was beginning to slow, Whit was standing in front of me, goggles in hand, face awash in both pool water and tears.  “They broke!  Mummy, you broke my goggles!  You are the Worst Mummy Ever!” he shrieked.

He handed me the goggles and the orphan piece of rubber.  “I can fix them, Whit, I can,” I said urgently and began the panicky effort to thread the broken end through the (incredibly difficult, still, always, why?) fastening at one side.  I tried to poke the rubber end through the small opening.  Tried it in both directions.  Used my teeth.  Futile.  Frustrated.  Frantic.

The volume of Whit’s whining rose and rose.  “Whit!” I hissed.  “Shhhh!”

I HATE GOGGLES.  Have I mentioned that?

A kind-looking woman walked over to me, holding out a pair of blue goggles.  “Do you want to borrow these?” she addressed Whit directly, who set his lips and vigorously shook his head.

“No.” He said, surly, adolescent, rude.

“Let’s try them, Whit,” I smiled gratefully at her.

“Believe me, I’ve been here.” What a nice woman.  The goggles didn’t work for Whit (the pickiness, also, with goggles?  because they are unnecessary, children … get your face wet already).  But they interrupted his rising tantrum in a way that was incredibly helpful, and the offer touched me.

Just be kind, people.  We are all trying.  Stranger woman, fellow mom at the pool?  Thank you.