out of sight, on my mind
August 25, 2011 § Leave a comment
Day 2: first full-day of my children’s new school year. This morning’s routine familiar, drawing on the experience of a successful first day, each child began their morning eager to return to school. My children are navigating their days independently and I am keeping busy with the distractions of housekeeping and errands; filling the quiet that seems to surround their absence with activity. They are out of sight, but on my mind.
in the blink of an eye
August 24, 2011 § Leave a comment
One minute I was chasing after my children as they ricocheted off the corners of their days, tirelessly propelling themselves in different directions while tossing around new ideas and testing boundaries. Then, in the blink of an eye, they were older and there was calm.
Watching my children prepare for their first day of school this morning I was overwhelmed by the stillness. The simple acts of sharing breakfast and getting ready for their day were filled with a quiet assurance. My own sentimental emotions rippled beneath my calm while my children were smiling, eager for a new beginning.
My son, making his way to the bus stop, waved a cheerful goodbye as he crossed the street without a backward glance. My daughter skipped several steps ahead of her father and I, lining up among peers, ready to file into school. I linked my hand in my husband’s and we found our way home, grateful for their readiness and mindful of their absence.
My hopes for their happiness and well-being guarded inside my heart, I wish my children the ability to approach each new beginning as an opportunity; with confidence in themselves and curiosity for a future filled with endless possibilities.
school daze
August 23, 2011 § Leave a comment
Yesterday morning I walked my daughter hand-in-hand down our tree lined street to the cozy elementary school nestled in our neighborhood to meet her new teacher for the coming school year. It is the first time we have walked to school without her big brother. Mindful of my son’s absence, the sidewalk felt too wide without his company. Memories of years past were ever-present with each new step.
My son is transitioning to Middle School and this milestone has brought both anticipation and anxiety. While he moves towards a new experience his sister is lonely for the shared space of their school days. Mealtimes are peppered with her concerns for his absence, what was theirs has become her own. No longer identifying herself as her big brother’s sister in school, the shade of his company has left her feeling exposed without his shadow. She will do well, the change will soon become familiar. She is adjusting.
Mornings will begin earlier, this is an unavoidable challenge given my son’s difficulty falling asleep at night. Waking early today in preparation for the week ahead, our movements felt forced; my son seemed to sleepwalk, awkwardly stumbling through simple tasks. I immediately longed for familiar mornings of pancakes and play time before school.
One more day. In the morning my son will find his way to the bus stop and join his friends and classmates. No longer will he walk two steps ahead of me with his nose tucked into a book. It is both exciting and terrifying letting go. I smile, breath held, and guide both children toward change.
Tomorrow new routines will create new normals for each of us. Today backpacks and new shoes sit by the door as quietly as our hopes and fears unspoken.
pulling teeth
August 9, 2011 § 1 Comment
In teaching my children to think critically, at some point they hold me accountable. Normally, I embrace the challenge. On occasion, I avoid it like my dentist.
When scheduling my children’s dentist appointments, my daughter asked me when do I go to the dentist. “When you are in school,” I bluffed. She studied my face closely and then knowingly said, “I hope so. That would only be fair.” It was right up there with catching me eating a cupcake for breakfast or running with scissors. I knew that she knew.
What my children do not know is that I am terrified of the dentist. I have never met an unkind dentist, I just cannot find anything pleasant about the experience and thereby immaturely exercise the power entrusted to me as an adult to avoid what I want to, because I am a grown-up now and no one can make me. Back to what they don’t know can’t hurt them.
My children also do not know who I vote for. I am determined that they grow up learning to gather information, balance their own values and priorities against those of politicians, and think for themselves rather than rely on what political party their father or I identify with. This is actually great fun come election time. My son is determined to “out” me and cleverly poses various questions designed to make me identify with a candidate. I put on my Devil’s Advocate hat and debate the opposite side of each coin until my son calls a truce and retreats to construct new questions.
Tomatoes and mushrooms. I do not like these in various forms, but my children are unaware. That’s right, I refuse to have them shun a food until they try it. Once they try it, if they can explain what they do not like about something, I am willing to honor their unique likes and dislikes.
I will confess, they do know I do not like snakes and their father feels equally uncomfortable around spiders. Otherwise, I am a mystery. Getting me to share would be like pulling teeth.
a walk in the park
August 5, 2011 § Leave a comment
The day of our second family photograph session was filled with the same humor, fun, and good intentions that compose our days outside the lens. I debated detailing the day, but thought perhaps I need this reminder to revisit next year.
Good intentions began early, with a mother-daughter moment. Last year, Rapunzel inspired my daughter to begin growing her chin length bob to fairytale proportions. At present her shoulder length hair is typically a tangled nightmare of defiance against all my endeavors to tame her tresses. My daughter hides behind the thick curtain of her hair and I was eager that our photographs capture her expressive features. Unpracticed at braiding I enlisted a stylist for a quick and simple braid to sweep my daughter’s features into the forefront while still allowing the remainder of her hair to fall comfortably, that she would feel at ease. I did this approximately 9 hours before our session to an active 7-year-old. Lesson: The braid was a good idea. The appointment was too early.
My daughter prematurely prepped and still uncertain what I should wear, we stopped by a store for a simple summer dress. I was rewarded with an adorable, white sundress that would blend quietly into my family’s wardrobe. The fit was perfect, but the cost unreasonable. I was working hard to choreograph an image rather than embracing myself as is. I set aside the dress and settled for my familiar summer uniform of shorts and a top. Lesson: Be yourself. Costumes not required. Smiles should be more prominent than clothing.
Feeling a little distracted by the details, I ran to shake off my anxiety. My hair previously styled for the day was slick with sweat. I raced through washing and drying my hair, primping and fussing. Then I made water balloons. I sat outside, sweating from the heat and sprayed with water from a stubborn hose filling tiny plastic balloons. Much to my children’s delight I released them to our backyard to burn off their own pent-up energy in a water war. Lesson: Make time to play. Happy children are more relaxed.
Picture time came just hours before sunset. Between grassy locations and mosquitoes we settled into ourselves in the company of a friend. This is my greatest indulgence, having someone who knows the best pieces of my family using her lens to guide the camera. My children opened up to her and I relaxed in her company. I will inevitably fret over my own image, but I know without a doubt that the images will reflect the humor, fun, and good intentions of our days as a family. Lesson: Bring a friend. Schedule outdoor photographs for after the first frost to avoid pesky pests.
At day’s end our session was a walk in the park, filled with happy discoveries.
a sandwich
August 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
When my son was 4 I took him to a Kindergarten screening. I sat in a quiet classroom sprinkled with brightly colored toys, rugs, and materials with a handful of other parents waiting in a place of paused uncertainty. It was another new experience in motherhood. A task expected, but unanticipated for its foreignness.
My son toddled off enthusiastically with the teacher that collected him for his evaluation; unaware of expectations and happy for the company of a new friend. I could hear the sound of his voice trailing down the hallway as he unfolded his thoughts preparing to settle into the day, familiarizing the new with the known.
Soon after, another woman appeared calling my name and directing me to a table; I perched hugely pregnant on a tiny, plastic elementary chair. A folder with my son’s name materialized filled with forms and blank with questions. I studied the questionnaire endeavoring to date my son’s developmental milestones while enumerating on questions of ability. One question seemed misplaced.
Can your child make himself/herself a sandwich?
I didn’t know. More importantly, in my mind, why would he? Stripped of all pretense, I directed my confusion to the teacher/therapist. Why wouldn’t I care for him? That’s my job. Years later, the sandwich became symbolic.
My daughter, on a nondescript day, without expectation or direction made herself a sandwich. My mind raced backwards to the old question and suddenly I understood.
My daughter knew she was hungry. She had observed the process of making a sandwich and could identify what steps she needed to take to complete the simple task.
It was a trick question. The sandwich was never a gesture of love or nurturing. It represented my son’s ability to process information and coordinate his actions. I had been so quick to defend my love for my son, to shelter him from expectations, that it never occurred to me to set the table for success.
I am learning. As my daughter races towards independence, I struggle to step back and provide room for each child to make mistakes, try new things, and care for themselves and others. I am learning that sometimes we nurture with inacation and other times action is something unseen.
birthday presence
July 31, 2011 § 2 Comments
On the dawn of each child’s birthday I wake to memories of the day we met; sentiment draws me into consciousness. Today I am remembering my daughter’s first moments. Tomorrow is her birthday.
She came into the world like a storm, energy emanating from her tiny form; her first cry a declaration of arrival. The nurse settled her, swaddled, into my arms and my heart seemed to sigh with the weight of peace. I had not been able to hold her big brother and the simple act of nestling her to me was a balm mending an old heartache. In the span of a moment, my daughter had given me a gift of experience; time overlapped as she connected two very different deliveries.
Watching her eyes search my face, her tiny rosebud mouth pursed with determination, I was enamored by the strength of her spirit. Headstrong and peaceful, she was a beautiful contradiction from the beginning.
She still clamors noisily when passionate, eager to be heard and desperate to be understood. Each day she wakes full of the sunshine that slips through her window; tossing boisterous good mornings and gifting exuberant hugs and kisses. I stand in gratitude and absorb her presence.
growing pains
July 29, 2011 § 2 Comments
As my children stretch their independence and their abilities extend toward self-reliance I find myself stuck in a place of transition; caught between the experiences we have outgrown and the unmarked space of our futures. When my daughter’s language skills first formed concise thoughts, she inquired: Mommy, what do you want to be when I grow up? My heart and head stumbled over the answer. In truth, I was so busy being my children’s mother I couldn’t imagine what else to be. Her question, formed in innocence and curiosity has followed me, tucked between my conscious and subconscious thoughts like an item on my to-do list: buy groceries, choose future career, finish the laundry.
I try to recall my childhood fantasies, but I have outgrown tiny tutus and tap shoes. I still hear the echo of teachers’ and my parents’ voices projecting me on various academic paths; titles I wish would resonate if only to know my place. Motherhood was a happy reprieve from committing to a career. With my daughter’s prompting and no clear answer, I find myself window shopping for the future.
Where others create careers, I found only interests. In college, my favorite space was a classroom; unique personalities and opinions challenging old theories and projecting new possibilities. Subject matter was secondary to the experience, but my favorite teachers pushed boundaries in conversations centered in English, Psychology, Sociology, and Philosophy. I wonder now if my liberal arts education could still hold the key to doors of opportunity promised over years of academic guidance.
I am happy here, in this moment as a mother. Still, I sometimes look ahead and feel the familiar panic of my youth as old questions revisit bearing uncertainty and insecurity. Shouldn’t I know what I want to be? I envy the uncluttered wisdom of youth; tiny people dressed in costumes clearly marking their future with dreams. Firefighters, teachers, doctors, scientists, and dancers confident in their childhood career placement. I wish for a simple answer and the ability to demonstrate the passion and conviction of owning a dream. To model for my children the drive and ambition, hard work and stamina of working tirelessly towards a gratifying sense of self outside our home. To know myself more completely, and for my children to see, the woman in the footsteps of their mother.
paper dolls
July 18, 2011 § Leave a comment
My daughter intentionally separates her sock pairs to better create a perfect match for her personality. If she doesn’t like an article of clothing, it will go unworn fading into the background of her closet. Her body is her canvas and she will not project anything outside her comfort zone. This makes shopping with her terrifying. We agree on a few simple rules: words do NOT belong on the part of your anatomy used for sitting, short shorts and skimpy shirts are OUT, and if it feels uncomfortable it is unwearable. This said, we have different opinions on the use of glitter and color pallets. I prefer something more conservative and my daughter likes to color outside the lines. Add to our dilemma my daughter’s dread of retail clothing stores; the crowded fixtures looming at every turn like shadow monsters at bedtime.
As August approaches with the promise of a new school year and my daughter’s limbs stretch beyond last year’s well-worn, outgrown clothes I embraced a new shopping style. I gathered catalogues from familiar clothing companies and tore out images of clothing that I liked, creating a shopping collage. I then scattered the images across our kitchen island and encouraged my daughter to shop the pictures. This hassle free approach has inspired a moment of fun frivolity without the frustrations of previous shopping excursions. Like paper dolls of my youth, my daughter is fitting the colorful clothes to her form with play.
musical chairs
July 17, 2011 § Leave a comment
Spontaneous gatherings with friends and their children have taken on a peer inspired panic reminiscent of a traditional children’s party game. We meet amidst the chaos of enthusiastic hellos only for the noise to settle into calm leaving someone without a place. Lately it is my daughter who stands alone desperate for a chair among friends.
I am reminded of early days as a married couple; the fallout of couple casualties as spouses either joined existing friendships or resisted. Similarly the days when parenthood was new and other friends, without the obligations of children and evenings cut short from exhaustion, would embark on different paths as we settled into the rhythm of family life. Now as our children each different genders, ages, and needs look for their friends’ faces among our friends’ children I find myself grateful for those rare families who’s lives fit ours like puzzle pieces. Where the music never ends and no one is left standing alone.
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