it's fine

I just dropped off my baby, my firstborn child, at the high school.  High School. See? I said it out loud, or in ink, or... something like that. That means I'm on my way to acceptance, right?  I seem to be comfortable with the words "ninth grade" but the "fresh..." word hasn't made it out yet. I'm trying.

No, school doesn't start quite this early. August tenth is bad enough. This is the start of rookie band camp, held at the high school for two days. Next week they go away to a 4-H campground for five days with the full group. 

We talked him into marching band. He has enough friends participating that I think he'll love it.  He needed a group of peeps to start school with. The kids in the high school are the same as those in the middle school, and the place is just across the street, but somehow it felt like it would be important for him to have a circle. Kids he already knows, who can watch his back, other boys who can play wingman for him with girls.

He's tried a variety of extracurricular activities and nothing has really stuck. Chess club was "ok," winter swimming was "meh," Lego robotics club was "fine," and Ultimate Frisbee is "fine when my friends go."  His motto would be "it's fine."

And marching band will be fine. High school will be fine. For him. But for me? I still get the words stuck in my throat, a lump in my gut, and tears in my eyes every time I talk about it.

The way my brain goes is this:
1. Pook started preschool at 2 1/2. That was the end of ever knowing what he did during the day. It was "fine" every day. He liked the playground.
2. Elementary school lasted a long time. I'd gotten pretty comfortable there and saw no reason to leave. I still never had a clue what he did. He told me about the cafeteria and the rest was just "fine."
3. Middle school went by like a quick roller coaster. I learned about his friends and activities through the mom of his buddy. He said it was all "fine."
4. High school will go by quickly. He will never tell me squat. It will be "fine."
5. College will be far away, physically or metaphorically. He will communicate with text and tell me it is "fine."
6. He will move somewhere cold. It will be "fine" and I will be lonely.

At this point in the thinking process, I get teary. I announced to CD that I needed a dog.

parenting points

I did not say "Well that was stupid."
I did not say "Why the H*** did you do THAT?"
I did not say "You did WHAT?"
I did not say "You should have...."
I did not say "I guess you deserve this."
I did not say "Natural consequences, dear."

But dang it was hard to hold it in.

insides

Tomorrow is the last day of school. They just keep moving on. Next up, fifth and eighth grades.

Today was the last day at the preschool where I work. Parents were tearfully snapping end-of-year photos of their five year olds. Their children are done with preschool and ready for kindergarten.  The parents are not ready for kindergarten. I know I wasn't. I wasn't ready for middle school. And the talk of high school makes me dizzy.

Pook's first day of preschool was the beginning of a big change for me. For the first time he'd had a day full of new experiences and I hadn't been part of them. And he told me nothing about them. I wanted to share in his day. I asked him open-ended questions to lead him into longer stories. In the end, all I ever learned about his preschool days was who he sat with for lunch. In elementary school I learned what he ate for lunch. In middle school I only know that they do eat lunch, but what else happens is a mystery. Just like all of Pook's days.

Bug tells me a bit more. Sometimes I hear stories about his friends and the silly things they do. And yet it is still all factual. There is no commentary. Maybe this is a trait held by more girls. How do you feel? What are you thinking? Can I see inside your brain and into your heart?

life choices

While tucking Bug into bed, after his first ever band concert, I complimented him on being so well rounded. I love that he plays the trombone AND the piano, plays baseball, basketball, and swims, plus likes to read, write and draw. He seemed uncomfortable at the compliment, but apparently not for modesty.

"I know. But when I'm good at so many things, how do I choose a career path?"




**********
Thirteen years ago when CD and I turned off The West Wing and headed up to bed, my waters broke. Many hours later I became a mom. Tomorrow I will have a teenager. Pook, I couldn't love you more.

got pants?

"Hey, guys, your piano recital and band concerts are coming up. Do you have dress clothes and shoes that fit?"

"Uh, mumble, mumble, uh huh"

"Can you pull them out for me to see?"

(multiple sighs)

Bug has his bedroom organized these days into the following piles (to the best I can discern): dirty clothes in hamper, dirty clothes under the bed, baseball clothes in milk crate and the floor around the milk crate, cardboard box of shorts and swim suits which I pulled out but which are getting worn without ever being put in a dresser, clean laundry still in a laundry basket, dress pants on a shelf in the closet, a scattering shoes on the closet floor (mixed with toys and clothes which have fallen off hangers.)

He pulls out the dress pants and says "Here, see" in that 'duh, mom' sort of way. I clearly decided to torture him because I then said, "Try them on."  (ack, horrors!)

Pook's floor looks better, there is only a hamper of dirty clothes and a cardboard box of shorts and swim stuff but if you look in his closet you will see scores of shoes from years gone by, clothes I hardly recognize because they have collars and therefore are never worn, and well, you really can't get in the closet to see what else is there. That might be for the best.

"Try 'em on guys."

(multiple sighs, groans and "aw, mom"s)

Bug: "I just wore them. They fit fine."

"Prove it."

"See?"

"Why don't you button them?"

"Uh, maybe they're too small."

"What size are they?"

"8"

The next pair was the same. The third pair fit. Size 12. They get pulled off and left, inside out on the floor. I'm picking my battles, so I fold them and set them aside on top of the khakis he's planning to wear to the first concert.

"How's it going, Pook?"

He hasn't started trying on clothes but is instead standing in his underwear playing with the Electronic Pocket Distraction (EPD) he removed from his pocket when he took off his pants.

We find him pants which fit, but he can't locate the dress shirt he says he owns. Turns out, it is two sizes too small and I'd put it in Bug's closet. Nevermind, he needs a tux shirt one night and anything with a collar the other.

Now to Pook's shoes. He pulls out five pairs of black dress shoes, two pairs of holey running shoes and two pairs of sandals from his closet. I immediately throw some in the trash can. He begins to try on dress shoes. Bug grabs a pair and puts them on.

"They're fine."

I suggest socks be added to the try-on process. They begin an argument over who owns which black socks.

Pook is still working on shoes. Bug is now at the top of the stairs looking classy, wearing shorts and t-shirt, black dress socks, and shoes which maybe would fit Pook better but Bug got to them first. Their feet may be the same size.

"Hey everyone!"  My mom is standing at the bottom of the stairs. (Holding a cookie jar!)  "The garage door was up and the door was unlocked and no one heard me, so I just came in."

I'm trying to avoid losing control now. "No cookies until you're wearing clothes!"  She eases herself away and I get them back to the business of trying on shoes. Finally, success. I put aside the remainder and offer them online to Friends With Boys.

If I had a chance to do it again, I'd join with a few families of boys and suggest we buy one pair of black dress shoes in every size. We could swap them around for 18 years.

**************

It is ten minutes until we should leave for the recital.

"Mom!  My pants don't fit! I can't button them!"

Sure enough, the khaki pair Bug wanted to wear today (did I ever see him trying them on?) is too tight. Size 12. Super mom that I am, I locate a pair of 14s.  I'd cut off his head but it wouldn't make the pants fit any better.

**************
5 minutes later:

We will never get out the door.  Bug came down in khakis (which fit, with a belt) but black socks.

"But I don't have any khaki socks!" (Clearly I am guilty.)

I find the child some khaki socks.
**************
 in the car, running about five minutes late:

"I guess these shoes are a little too small."

***************
between the car and recital hall:

"My shirt is missing a button."

it must have been the right "stuff"

A camping Pook will go!

Pook and his friend Tuck attended a weekend retreat in March, up in the North Carolina mountains. They must have had a good time because when they came home they began to talk about possibly going there for summer camp.

I don't know how many of you have sent kids to summer camp in the past thirty years (that leaves out you, Mom) but oh holy hiking trails are the prices high. It isn't unusual to find week long sleepover camps priced over $1000.  I have looked and I have considered and I have then distracted the interested child and looked at day camps instead. (Although $250 for a camp that sends them home after they eat their self-packed lunch is still pretty crazy.)

This time the price was $600. But then came an email: "Thanks for attending our retreat. Any of the children who attended the retreat and come to summer camp for the first time can receive a $100 discount."

Ok, this we can work with. I spoke to Tuck's parents and they were feeling the same way. Child interested, parents on the edge.

"What if the boys helped earn the money?" The church had been saying that they needed people to make Wednesday dinners. Having done this with a group before and made about $250, I found a good date and picked the menu. The boys wrote out emails to help advertise and Pook made a list for me of possible baked potato toppings. I thought they had a chance of making $100 each, maybe more if they plead their case well and put out a tip jar.

Then the organizer told me to expect more like 40-50 people, not the 100 plus I'd had last time. It was too late to back out, but suddenly it didn't feel like it would be worth the effort. The other mom and I each made a large pot of chili, we bought cheese, butter, sour cream, broccoli and all the rest.  We sent the boys' emails to the youth director, who sent it to all the families with children. The choir director sent it on to his members, who rehearse Wednesdays. I decided to aim for 60 people. Leftover potatoes make fine potato salad and everything else was usable or freezable.

Wednesday night Pook put a sign on the tip jar, his Nana put seed money in, and we began.

Twenty minutes later we were out of potatoes and chili. I offered to take Pook out for fast food if he'd sell his meal to one last customer.

An hour later, eating the remaining cookies, Pook and Tuck counted their money. $399.  It must have been the advertising:

Come to this week’s Wonderful Wednesday Dinner!

Help us go to summer camp

April 30 at 6:15

Social Hall

Potatoes with chili and other stuff

a baker's dozen

I’ll have my first teenager in… 24 days. He’s not there yet, but I see the changes in his friends. The babyish curves on the boys' faces are gone, replaced by angles. I hear voices of men in my house when they come over and I still startle. It scares me because it means the end of the tunnel exists. As tough as it is doing this parenting thing, I don’t want it to end either.


I’ve got to say, I adore the stage my about-to-be-a-teenager is in. I even like his brother at ten. Each stage is so fun to greet and get to know. Each might be better than the last. But also, each day for work I go to a childcare center which includes babies. And I can borrow a baby anytime I need! Right now I’m in a toddler infatuation stage and I’ve got a cluster of barely-twos who I adore. I can give them back when they stink or fuss but when they want to climb on me and ask for tickles? I’m there.

Last week was spring break for us and we went to Florida to see family and spend time at the beach. After a great visit to the Dali Museum in St. Petersburg, we went out to eat at a Spanish tapas restaurant for "Tapas Tuesday!" (If you ever find yourself there, it was called Ceviche.) While I had little doubt that an evening of cocktails and appetizers would disappoint my boys, I had a great time watching them. There was nothing on the tapas menu that they wouldn't try. (Never had mussels? Well, have a mussel.) We sat for two hours eating and talking. And the conversation was good. It was truly a relaxing and fun evening out.

Pook spent some time on his electronic, pocket-sized distraction with either games or texts to friends back home, but he put it away for family times. He cooperated on sand castles, tested the still-cold waters of the Gulf, screamed on roller coasters at Busch Gardens, and harassed Bug just enough to remind his brother that he was still around.

One night he woke me, sometime after midnight, to tell me that he couldn't sleep. Had he not been a good sleeper as an infant, I'd probably have thrown a shoe at him. But this insomnia just started this past fall and doesn't happen often, so I sat with him, rubbed his back, kissed his soft cheek goodnight once again, turned the thermostat down a notch, and went back to bed. (To lay awake for hours thinking it was a mistake to have not thrown the shoe.)  The next morning I gave him a hug and realized I couldn't get my chin on the top of his head any more.  He'd grown overnight.

So he's still sweet, he's still sane, he's getting taller by the minute, and I guess I'm as prepared for a teen as I can be.  Happy Not Yet Birthday Pook.

already

The time has flown. My little one! My baby! My Bug is a decade old. Double digits.

He pointed out to me, at my January birthday, that our whole family has significant 2014 birthdays: I am a prime number, his brother becomes a teen and his daddy turns fifty.

I would not have realized that I belonged in that crowd my dear. Thank you for including me. But I shouldn't be surprised. Even if I had been a totally nondescript age (was 46 less interesting?) you would have found a way to have included me. Because that is the way you are.

You already have the long, lanky limbs of a much older child. You like it when you're mistaken for a middle school peer (or twin!) of Pook. But you still fold up those long limbs to squeeze yourself into our laps. Anytime. After dinner laps, scary movie laps, nowhere-better-to-sit laps. I will cope with the numb legs for a while yet, because I don't know how long this will last. And then I will miss it.

You have so much to give. When your daddy and I were asked to describe you in one word, we chose "more." You've always been more, liked more, given more and needed more. Liking more action, more tickles and more spice to your food is fun, but you also have more worries, more emotions and more stress.  Giving 101% to everything can be exhausting, and sometimes you have a tough time shouldering it all. I want to be able to make it easier for you.  And so, whether you want it or not, I will always be nearby. Just in case.

Your energy draws people to you. So many people care about you.Your piano teacher adores you. (All your teachers adore you.) I'm so glad you talked us into letting you start piano so young. You were still four when we met her and convinced her to let you start lessons. You'd only been asking for two years. I'm waiting to see where you'll go with your new trombone. While I write this, I am listening to you play new piano music. No, you aren't required to learn it, but when it arrived in the mail you found you couldn't stop. For a while, sight reading fun music won over eating. That might be a first. You're pretty fond of eating.


Right now you're playing basketball for the winter and you'll join the swim team again for summer, but baseball is your passion. You even called yourself "Ball" when you began to talk. Pook loved it and gave you all the laughs you desired. You may take baseball seriously, but you take laughs any time you can get them. Your own laughs are so contagious! (Seriously, I should offer a prize to anyone who can watch this video snippet and not laugh aloud.)

I think I understand what they mean when they say that we are all ages at once. Just because you are turning ten does not mean that sometimes you aren't in need of the emotional support of a three year old and the time reading aloud with us like a five year old. And sometimes, you are so mature you are well beyond those ten years.You have been a challenge to me for all ten of these years. I can't rest on my laurels when you're around. But Bug, you make my life exciting.

I love you.  Happy Birthday.
~Mama

back in time

I have been deeply absorbed in family video recently!  For my birthday, CD and Pook gave me equipment and a "coupon" to transfer all our old mini DV tapes onto the computer. One hour-long tape at a time, six years of video. Randomly, the first tape transferred was the most recently recorded. Bug was three, Pook six. This means Bug will gradually get younger, until he disappears like an ice cube held in a warm hand.

We're enchanted. The boys laugh, barely recognizing themselves, hearing their little boy voices. Bug refers to himself as "he" instead of "me."

Bug is usually in dress-up clothes in these videos. In one of the first we watch, he's asked me to interview him (with my 2lb weight as a microphone) about his "Aklympic" experience. He "mostly does fencing. And hurdles." He used to do swimming. And gymnastics. When he got too old for being an athlete he coached. Now he talks about the sports (he's dressed in a suit to be a commentator) but then he'll be a minister before he's a president.  I keep a mostly straight face during the interview. He's adorable.

He wasn't always adorable. I filmed a couple tantrums of Bug's. I reassure him that we don't have to watch them; they were filmed so I could appreciate how much better he became. They're tough to watch even for me. I may not ask him, but I'd kind of like him to see at least one.

In many of the videos, Bug is doing something loud and silly. Pook shows up and pushes into the scene for some attention too. Either Pook tries to outdo his baby brother or Bug begins to copy Pook. Soon, they're both wild and silly.  The Pook videos will be quieter. All the attention from both parents, but a quieter, calmer kid too.

I'm addicted and can't leave the computer. I'll be back in six years.

ten test two

Pook reminded me, just recently, that Bug has a Ten Test coming up! How this can be happening, I really have no idea. Last I checked, the boys were still three years apart in age and if the younger one is turning ten then the older one must be almost... (no, I'm not going there.)  But, if it is truly so, I'd better get Bug's test out. The test varies and siblings can expect different questions.  Here is Bug's Ten Test. (Pook's test is here.) He has until February to master the following:

1. Can you brush your teeth in the same bathroom as a sibling without arguing with him or spitting on him?
2. Can you remove pants with both legs right side out?
3. Can you have a conversation which avoids making excuses, blaming someone or complaining?
4. Can you bring home all materials needed for homework assignments?
5. Can you talk to an adult politely? Even if that adult is your parent?
6. Can you prepare a healthy snack for yourself?
7. Can you successfully throw dirty laundry in a hamper?
8. Can you spear a bite of food which will fit into your mouth without effort?
9. Can you pack the materials you need for a sport without forgetting anything?
10. Can you carry a glass of milk to the table without spilling any of it?

If you have answered 'yes' to all ten of these questions, and if your tenth birthday is imminent and you know what the word 'imminent' means, then you are deemed worthy of turning ten.

Congratulations!

brotherly love

Is this a sign of brotherly love or what? Older brother to younger brother:

"That's just my spit. Here, I'll wipe it off for you."


Bug's school starts all the fourth graders on instruments (band or orchestra) in the second semester. They put in three top choices and are assigned an instrument based on the rest of the kids' preferences and the musical balance of the group.

Bug requested trumpet, trombone and clarinet, in that order. I had strongly encouraged him to take saxophone off his list. The child is too competitive with Pook already and having something else in common seemed like a big mistake. The band instructor had already told Bug that, due to his height, he would be a great trombonist. This clearly influenced him, but not enough to put the instrument on his list as number one. But now he's assigned the trombone and he's very happy and all is well.

We sent out a couple of emails to friends and quickly were offered the use of three trombones. CD and Bug went to pick one up and then dropped it off at the music store for some TLC. It was collected Saturday. Bug has picked it up each day since and tried to make some music.

The dying duck has not left the house, but he's sounding healthier.  Enough healthier that Pook is interested. And, I must say I'm thankful that Pook couldn't make much sound from the trombone and allowed Bug to instruct him. Even with the educated guidance of the two-day-experienced player, Pook couldn't do much with it.  Bug glowed.

Then Pook surprised me by pulling out his saxophone and suggesting that Bug give it a try. First he demonstrated how to suck on the reed. Then he wiped off his spit and gave it to Bug to use. (I tell you, brotherly love!) He leaned over and around Bug to help him put his fingers just so, and demonstrated the mouth position a few times before, finally, a saxophonish noise came from the instrument.

Both boys acknowledged the difficulty of the other instrument performance and traded back to get their own. A few saxophone enhanced duck calls later, both instruments were packed up for school tomorrow.

shooting for the stars

We've hit that stage I was warned about for so many years: "Two boys? Better get a second refrigerator!"  Pook, while still eating at the pace of a sloth, is now going in for seconds regularly and thirds sometimes. He's put on almost four inches since May.

I bought him a bunch of long pants a month before the warm weather came last spring but I suspect none of them will fit. I don't see much change in his waist, so I also suspect it will be very hard to find anything to fit him until he eats thirds more regularly and fills out a bit.

I told him he could wear shorts all winter, then the length of pants won't matter this year.  He's never cold, so he might just do it. We've had a few mornings as low as fifty degrees already but he hasn't decided against wearing shorts yet.

This morning I went for a lesson on giving tours of the middle school. Although they want us to take parents to the library, which is on the eighth grade floor, they want us to spend most of our time around the sixth graders. The reason made me laugh: they don't want to let the size of the eighth grade boys intimidate the parents who are still thinking about their fifth graders as little kids.

This is not to say that Bug hasn't grown. He usually puts a good three inches on each year and stands a good head above most of his friends. For him though, its the feet. Maybe Pook will have his feet grow soon, but right now the boys wear the same size shoe (7.5 for both my 9 and 12 year olds, if anyone cares.)

I've decided that the perk of all this is that as they outgrow clothes before wearing out clothes, I will try the best ones on and see if I want to keep them for me!

eye see you

I’m procrastinating in taking Bug to get an eye check.

CD has had thick glasses since the beginning of time and I've had perfect eyes until I… um, got old.  Humbly, I admit I have prided myself on having good eyesight and having attractive eyes.  When we decided to have kids, we made a deal.  CD would give any future children his hair (thick, blond and curly whereas mine is thin, mousey and straight) and I’d give them my eyes.

Well, Pook came out with straight auburn hair and then got glasses at age 7. Fail on both our parts. We admitted it and moved on. His hair is pretty awesome anyway and his eyes, although hidden behind glasses, are a lovely pale blue. I remember looking down at him when I fed him as an infant and noticing that every eyelash was a different color.  I was sad when he needed glasses.  But, he looks like his daddy in glasses and well, I like the way his dad looks, so its all ok.  Maybe he'll try contacts someday.

Bug got my boring hair but hasn’t YET needed glasses. Recently he mentioned that it was hard to see the writing at the front of the classroom.  So now I’m worried that he might need them. But I don’t want to put those darling baby blues behind glass. And I haven’t made the appointment I think he needs.  If he gets glasses then we’ll have both failed on both hair and eyes with both children and I’ll be so disappointed!

The upside would be that he'd be able to, you know, see.

he gets it

We decided to spend part of our Labor Day weekend visiting Stone Mountain Park. I was feeling a desperate need to use our membership passes at least one more time before expiration, and last time we'd attended the ropes course had been closed. This time we planned to do the ropes course and stay long enough for the nighttime laser show.  We had chairs, bug spray and dinner packed and in the car. 

"Prepare yourself for being in crowds guys. The lines could be really miserable."

We headed in, taking a parking spot near an exit, anticipating the departure to be just as tough as the rest.

Splitting up, we managed to get one to the bathroom and a spot in line reserved. When we were all gathered again, we noticed the "You are 1 hour from your turn" sign approaching.  Yikes. I smiled at the man behind me, on his own with three children under seven. They all had duck quacking noisemakers in their mouths. "You may be regretting those duck quackers on the ride home!" I laughed.

Oh holy duck quackers! Ten minutes of that noise was all I needed before I felt my jaw tighten up.  I forced a smile and remembered how bored the kids must feel.  Deep breath. 

I looked at my boys. Half an hour in line now and still not a complaint. Why was I so lucky?

The dad was beginning to regret his purchase too.  "Stop it. Don't bump your sister. Be quiet. Stop that now. Be quieter."  I cringed as his tired voice began to criticize their not really bad behaviors.

Then it got worse. "If you do that again, we'll have to leave.  Stop that or I'll take it away. Stop it. Stop it now or we'll leave."

I caught CD's eye.  He and I think alike when we hear that sort of tired, ineffective parenting. But then something unexpected happened.  "He just needs to really do it, not just say it," whispered Pook.  CD and I looked at each other again.  "He gets it!" All those years of following through, no matter how unpleasant it became. It pays off. Our baby is growing up.

my prince

"The little boy started to fade, just like we left him in the sun too long. … He had been a ragamuffin, hurled into space by the seat of his pants. Suddenly, he shopped for shirts, and worried about his hair. He got too heavy to throw. ... He turned twelve, then thirteen, and then the little boy just disappeared.
Just when you start to get used to it, to not minding it so much, it all vanishes, and the little boy you launched in the air stands at your shoulders like a man, and when you turn to say something you find yourself looking right into his eyes.
He is not helpless, not needy.
He is everything I rushed him to be."

Does that make your heart hurt or what? Yeesh!

The Prince of Frogtown is a memoir inspired by Rick Bragg’s relationship with his ten-year-old stepson as well as of his father (who left the family when Rick was still very young.)


My firstborn has started seventh grade. He has less than one more year before we begin to call him a teen. Right now he's still a young boy. He's still innocent and naive and I like it that way. I think the decision to start him in kindergarten as a "young five" is showing now. Academically he's always been where he belongs. Socially and emotionally I see the differences between him and his peers more now than ever. But I see them in a way that makes me grateful, not sorry we sent him on.

I was sorting photos on Picassa, which tries to label people. I got distracted by the hundreds of pictures of the boys and browsed through them, pulling out pictures labeled as them which were not them. As I looked through the pictures of Bug I saw how his face has changed over the years. Nevertheless, they all look just like him.  Pook, not so much. None of the older pictures looked like him. Instead, they all looked like little kids. I realized that I can't remember Pook ever being a little kid. He is so grown up. He has always been so grown up.

He does things no child of mine has ever done.

"He is everything I rushed him to be."  I need to slow things down. I want to appreciate him now as the young boy he is. I want to enjoy his silliness as much as I'm awed by his insights. I want to notice that he is little. He will always break new ground around here, but I need to hang on to his childhood before it slips away.

dropoff

Or, this could be titled, "needs practice."


I dropped Pook and his friend off for two free games of bowling. Dropped. Them. Off.  This is a huge milestone for me, but my friends who also have biggish kids aren't impressed. I need someone with a whiny seven year old to really appreciate this. I learned today, as summer is nearing its end, that kids could register to get two free games of bowling daily this summer.  We will be back.

And we need to go back, because my usually dawdling child did not quite get the point of the whole thing. Their goal is to spend as much time enjoying free and air conditioned play away from home as is possible. My goal is to get things done while not having bored kids. Perfect for us all.

Except, after dropping them off, I filled up the tank with gas and came home. The place was about a mile from here, so no big deal. I pulled out some things I need to do, started, then answered the phone.

"OK, we're ready."

"What?"

"We're done. We're ready for you to come get us."

"But... it's only been 30 minutes."

"Oh. Well, we're ready."

So I drove back.  But we reviewed the concept so that we can try this again, perhaps with more friends next time.

1. free
2. air conditioned
3. play with friends
4. away from home
5. as long as possible

Some things just need practice.

bittersweet

Bug came home on May 1 with a calendar of end-of-year activities. I immediately saw an error where they'd put the last day of school on May 23 instead of May 29. Bug insisted it was right and somewhere in me there was a ningling feeling that I'd been hearing "three more weeks" not "one more month" as my calendar indicated.  I did some investigation and sure enough, the county CHANGED the last day of school at some point this year. How dare they!?  I lost a week!

Now, two more days of school. For Pook, this means two days of exams. For Bug this means Field Day, cleaning out his desk and playing outdoors a lot (movies in the classroom if it rains). For me, it means cramming in some last To Do's.  For both Bug and myself it means saying Goodbye to his school.

Bug won the lottery (literally) for a placement in our county's Magnet School for High Achievers. Six kids from our school got in this year, which may be a record number.  Once you're in this program, you're in it until you graduate. They house it in a different elementary building for grades 4-6, but the older kids are conveniently housed in the same schools the boys would attend anyway.

I apply each year for Pook to get in, and I will continue to do so until it no longer matters. But I think it matters more for Bug. I've always told people that Pook could learn even if he was under a rock. Sure, teachers are nice to have, but he'd learn anyway.  For Bug, I think we need teachers, and I think we need good teachers. I think he just needs the relationship between himself and an adult to inspire him. With a few exceptions, this has not been a year of inspiration for him.

I was so excited that his name had been drawn that I focused on him and how he'd feel about it. He was initially concerned, but the idea has grown on him. What I didn't think about immediately was that I too would be leaving the school. And I've been there more years than he!

For seven years I've been in that building weekly, helping and visiting and getting to know everyone in every corner. I've participated in lots of projects and done my part for the PTA as one of those stay-at-home-moms who can. Most of my time was spent in the library, where I mindlessly shelved books, stuck tags on book spines, helped add and delete books, rounded up overdues and organized the shelves. It was a relaxing place and I was always needed. There's something meditative about alphabetizing books that rested my brain.

I went up to the school today with gifts for a few teachers. I'd told the media specialist that I'd come in one more time to help her.  She's retiring this year, but trying to get the place in perfect order for her replacement.  She's been special to Bug for the past few years too, so I wanted to be sure I got in a nice Goodbye. He's having an easier time leaving, knowing that she's leaving too. I think she feels the same way about him.  There weren't tears, but it was sad saying goodbye to so many wonderful people. We'll miss it there.

monitor

I am very much a lazy parent. Sure, I'll help when needed and I'll read aloud and even play a game now and then, but in general, I do the least required of me. As soon as my kids could set the table, I dropped out of table setting. As soon as they could dress themselves I was happy to avoid the process. Even car seat buckling was handed over as a "reward" when they turned four. 

I dragged them into the women's restroom for what felt like a long time. Bug, being three years younger than Pook, needed my help and supervision for much of the time that Pook could have been independent. But even that was finally ceded to them, first at church and then in other locations.

I've used our church as a practice site for many of these independent skills. I figured that it was a safe place where most people knew whose kids they were and would come find me or CD if we were needed.  There is a well published rule that children should be under direct supervision of a parent at all times, but I've not enforced it for my kids. I'd be talking and they'd want to go play, requiring me to either stop my chatting or skip the supervision. If you don't know how easy that choice was for me, you don't know me.

My kids aren't troublemakers. Mischief has never been a problem. No one ever colored on the walls, broke windows with baseballs or practiced scissor skills on the curtains. Even Bug, with his tendency to get lost, never ran off on purpose.  So, I trust them.  The worst trouble they've gotten into at church was for knocking coats off their coat hangers while playing "fort" in the coat closet.  In my opinion, that is worth a "hey kid, pick up the coats" and not a "hey parent, you have to keep your kid at your ankles."

So last week when I was contacted by the church office administrator to come meet with her to discuss "playground monitoring" I was a bit surprised. I expected to be a bit embarrassed, but figured I'd better come clean and admit that I'm not much of a playground monitor for my kids. Was she wanting to come up with new rules for families? Did she want me to be in charge of scheduling parent supervisors? This job might not be well suited for me. Was I going to have to be more strict with my kids to comply with new rules?

Imagine my surprise when I learned that the children are fine. The playground needs a monitor. We're getting new playground equipment and they want someone to check it monthly to see if it needs any maintenance. Playgrounds I can monitor. Kids? Not so much.

cooties

Lice.

Go ahead, scratch your head. I did. I do every time I think that word. I try hard not to think that word. In fact, every time the school nurse sends home the "Someone in your child's class has ****" note, I recognize it and try to throw it away before my brain registers what the page is about.

Of course when I saw Pook scratching at his head and went to look for a copy of that note, there wasn't one to be found. Scratch.

I decided that my part of this parenting chapter would be the research. Research into what CD needed to do about this problem.  I was helpful. I got CD a comb. I drove to the store for the $20 shampoo. I'm doing lots of laundry. I try to be in another room when he combs Pook's hair.  Helpful.

Behind the scenes I'm scratching my own head.  I'm combing my own head. Just in case. I can't spell "blech" in quite the same way I say it. I say it with a shudder. Maybe more of a cringe.

However, I am being a good mom. I am not making him feel like a pariah. Just because he has cooties it doesn't mean he needs to be treated as if he has cooties. Good mom. I remove and wash pillowcases after he's left the room. I try to remind him gently to stay off the upholstered chair in the den. I still snuggle him and try to be discrete about not kissing him on the head. I used to run my fingers through his hair often. I've noticed this because I haven't been doing it. There are limits to this good mom thing.

If I think too much I begin to itch. I read that they tend to stay near the hairline and ears. I scratch there. Then it moves to my neck and shoulders. I wonder if they crawl around. By this time I'm itchy everywhere and I'm wondering if they could be on my ankles too.  I learned that five minutes at 128° kills them. I put the probe thermometer in the laundry water to be sure it is hot enough. I debate taking it into the shower with me. I can put boiling water on the hairbrushes, but hot water on me will just make my skin dry and... make me itch.

This too shall pass. I'm surprised it hasn't ever happened before. The boys used to share dress up hats and batting helmets with other kids. Now, in middle school, I'm not sure where Pook contracted them. I've bought a preventive spray at a natural foods store. Maybe it'll work and this won't ever happen again.  

Meanwhile... scratch.

dizzy, blurry and old