Homework Blues

Homework.

The very word sends shivers down my spine. I had heard, oh I had HEARD the tales of torture from friends with Older Children about the endless supply of worksheets, projects and book reports that seemed suspiciously non age-appropriate, but in order to protect my fragile mental state, I chose to block out the very idea of my evenings being spent with a Homework Packet until My Time Came.

My Time...it has a come.  And, yes, the rumors were correct: it’s unpleasant.  And let’s face it, people; I’m only dealing with a six-year old’s KINDERGARTEN homework.  Now, I put that in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS for a few reasons: 

One: The very fact that yes, a child in kindergarten has Homework.
Two: The very fact that yes, kindergarten Homework makes me unhappy.  What happens when I...uh...I mean...the Offspring have algebra Homework?  Three words: Go Ask Daddy. (Or, more likely: Get A Tutor.)
Three: The very fact that Son coming home with Homework is yet another reason in a long line of reasons that have recently inspired me to utter the dreaded tell-tale sign of age: “When I was a kid...”  

Before I proceed, it must be known that I love Son’s teacher.  She is funny.  She is The Boss.  She is able to keep 25 six year olds quiet and in control.  I worship her.  I wish she would hang out with me and tell me all her secrets.  She is exactly the teacher that Son needed and also the one I needed.  And cursing homework is not a reflection of her, her teaching, or my love for her.

It is a reflection of my purely selfish desire to not have to deal with or accept the fact that I have to do homework again.

It is a reflection of my concern and confusion about how these kids will survive and enjoy at least 12 years of schooling when the pressure is already on in kindergarten.  

It is a reflection of my never ending anxiety about the competitive environment in which my Children are being raised.

Yes, I think it’s amazing that Son is starting to read at age six.

But, does he know how to be bored?

Yes, I love that Son has access to learning on iPads and computers at his school.

But, will he soon forget that climbing a tree on a beautiful sunny day is 1000 times better than playing Angry Birds?

I love that my Children have the opportunity to play organized soccer, baseball, football, basketball, every season of the year.

But, will they be able to enjoy a quiet afternoon of shooting hoops by themselves?  Will a simple game of catch in the alley with Mom suffice?

We spend so much time and effort trying to stimulate our kids; trying to give them a leg up; trying to make sure they are set up for success that I fear they won’t know how to fail with grace and composure. 

Because only with age do you realize that the greatest lessons are learned from our natural inclinations to fail at something.  Many things.

I must depart as it’s time for me to go pick up the Offspring from school.  But before we go home today to work on our 10 pages of worksheets....we’re going to go learn how to ride a bike...perhaps the greatest example of failing...and then trying again...and failing...then trying again...and winning.

I HATE UNICORNS!

I had a dream last night that I woke up on Christmas morning and realized that I hadn’t wrapped any presents.  That I didn’t even remember where I hid them.  That we were having company over for breakfast and I didn’t make any food.  (It should be noted, however, that I did think to my dream self...at least we have champagne!)  And then in my panic to keep my kids in their room while I ran around in my pajamas trying to find all the presents and wrap them I remembered that we were going out of town and I hadn’t even packed.

Then I woke up.  Thank God.  I feel inadequate enough while the sun is out, I don’t need to be reminded of this while the moon shines.  Nights should be filled with visions of Ben Affleck, not anxiety ridden dreams that remind me of All That Crap I Still Haven’t Done.

Here I thought, with both Offspring going to school every morning, that I would have so much...time.  Before the school year started, I couldn’t even IMAGINE what I would do with all that TIME!  4 hours a day?! I was going to write a novel!  Become a successful actress!  Bake crap in the shape of a pumpkin or a Christmas tree!  Really get down to business and make homemade meals every night!  Lose 5 pounds! I was, obviously, going to BE AWESOME.  Because who couldn’t be awesome with THAT MUCH TIME FREE OF CHILDREN?  

Turns out...me. I am not, apparently, awesome.  Because I always feel that I am failing at all of those things.  Turns out...damn, there is a lot to do.  Every day.  All day.  I don’t want to sound all whiney because I realize there are many people in this world who have Actual Problems and me not remembering where I hid the bey blades, or the fact that I really don’t even understand what that toy is, is not one of them.  Nor is an Actual Problem the fact that when I hinted, suggested, toyed with the idea of Daughter maaaaybe getting a Unicorn Dream Light verses a Butterfly Dream Light, because what if Santa ran out or really thought Daughter would love a Unicorn one and was immediately shot down with a very passionate I HATE UNICORNS!!  NO UNICORNS!!...but trust me, if we don’t find that Butterfly Dream Light by Christmas morning, Daughter will make it an Actual Problem like no Actual Problem you’ve ever seen before.  She will take your Actual Problem and raise you 27 Actual Problems.  And then flip you off.

But I digress.

I wonder, will I always feel like this?  Like I’m always missing something?  That there’s never enough time?  Will that nagging question of What am I forgetting? ever leave my head?  Will the day come when I go to the store and DON’T come home and immediately start making my list of things I forgot?  Will my house ever be clean again for longer than 15 minutes?  Will anybody else ever clean the bathrooms besides me?  Can I go to bed one night without a mental list of the ways I failed that day?  Why wasn’t I more patient while helping with homework?  Was it really a big deal to read ONE more book?  Why didn’t I just wake up early and get my run in?  Can you really be a Good Mom, a Good Wife, AND feel like your purpose in life is greater than cleaning toilets and packing lunches?

Let me repeat...I realize that none of these things are Actual Problems.  And I know that I will wrap the presents, make a coffee cake and pack everybody for a fun-filled week with the Grandparents.  My kids will wake up to a wonderful Christmas and even though they are too young to really realize how very lucky the are, they will feel happy and loved and maybe a bit spoiled.  Every child should feel all of those things.  Especially on Christmas.  Things will get done.  Maybe not perfectly.  Maybe not on time.  You might get a Happy New Year card instead of a Merry Christmas card...but you’ll get a damn card, okay?  But, I’m going to try to give myself a break.  I’m not Susie Homemaker.  I’m not Career Connie.  I’m just Me.  I think most of us are sitting right there in the middle, trying to figure out where we should land.  I haven’t quite figured it out.  But...I’m working on it.

And hey...when all else fails...at least I have champagne.  

BELIEVE!

One of the very best things about being a parent is experiencing life through your young one’s eyes and reliving all the best moments of being a child. For me, there are no greater examples of this joy than at Christmas time.  Yeah yeah yeah...I know...Christmas is stressful.  It’s expensive.  I never know exactly who I’m supposed to tip and how much I’m supposed to give and, come to think of it, am I supposed to tip my mail carrier because I don’t think I ever have and that lady Does.Not.Like.Me.  But...besides Christmas bringing out even more reasons for me to feel inadequate (I mean...have you ever been to a Michaels?  People, apparently, like make their own wreaths.  And ornaments.  And bake things in the shape of a tree or a Santa or a sled), I do love the holiday season.  I like the red Starbucks cup.  I like the music.  I like the libations.  But what I like the most is believing in Santa again.

Because, in the Gelato House, we BELIEVE in Santa.  With a five and three year old in residence, we are in the throes of the Santa years.  There is no question.  There is no doubt.  There is a man who really likes the color red who lives at the top of the world and makes toys and flies on a magic sled led by reindeer and delivers presents to all the GOOD boys and girls in one single night.  Whatever explanation I care to give as to why Santa can still enter our home even though we do not have a chimney is blindly believed.  Hello...Santa is magic.  (‘Magic’ pretty much covers everything, by the way.)  

But the best part about Santa?  He is Always.Watching.  It’s not me who is the judge of your behavior for the next 6 weeks...it’s The Big Guy and he does not mess around.  You want to ninja kick your sister in the head?  Hmmm...what would Santa think about that?  Oh, we’re going to roll around on the floor and protest the very idea of a bath?  Well, guess what?  Santa likes clean children.  And while Santa loves a good cookie, he would never complain about eating his peas.  He might even say thank you.  Just a thought.  

I realize that one day I will no longer have the option of using Santa as a way to control my children and will instead have to like, parent them, but...I think I have a few good years left and I intend to use them to my advantage.  After all, I waited almost 20 years for the chance to believe in Santa again and you know what?  He’s still worth the wait.

Falling back...

I must confess, I like the benefits of daylight savings.  I like to wake up when the sun is out.  When it’s still dark at 7 am, my body protests the very IDEA that it must depart the cozy bed, face Offspring’s Morning Meltdowns, whip up Trash-Free, Organic, Tasty, Creative Lunches, try not to throw evil dart eyes at Husband as he sits at the edge of the counter READING THE PAPER WHILE THE WORLD IS APPARENTLY ENDING IN THE PLAYROOM, repeat myself maayybeee 700 times and eventually make it out the door, with Children, lunches, snacks, backpacks, shoes on, hair possibly brushed, teeth hopefully brushed and oh crap I forgot to put sunscreen on you again.  

So, the sun being out by 6 am...it puts a little pep in my step.  It makes me happy.  And the evenings falling darker earlier...I don’t really mind that, either.  It makes me feel cozy.  It’s really the only thing that is the equivalent to snow at Christmas around here.  I’m just a girl from Iowa, and although it’s been many years since I’ve lived there, the rhythm of the seasons changing have never quite left my body clock.  The dark park at 5 pm reminds me that Fall is here and it’s comforting.  

When I was young, oh so young, and child free, Fall Back simply meant an extra hour of sleep and that was pretty great.  But now that I’m a parent, the day of Fall Back is simply known as The Longest Day of the Year.  Where I was once a care-free ladida extra hour of sleep person, I am now a parent, looking at my watch in disbelief, unable to comprehend that IT’S NOT EVEN 8 AM YET?  How is that even possible?  How did this one hour of ‘extra sleep’ (HHAHAHAHA!  That’s hilarious!!) somehow add at least 6 hours to my morning?  Why can’t The Offspring obey the natural laws of Fall Back?  Why must they wake up and demand pancakes at 5:25 am?  And here we are, a week later, and Fall Back is still kiinnddd of kicking my ass.  6 am is still the new 7 am and each afternoon as I think it must be time to start winding this day down...I should probably make dinner...let me see...what time is it?  3:30?  3 F*@^*@G 30??  Am I being punked?  Where’s Ashton Kutcher?  

Come springtime though, I’ll get my revenge.  Where, as a young, care free, ladida child- free person, spring forward meant an hour less sleep; but as a parent, we laugh in the face of sleep and, I’m sorry, we’re going to spring this day FORWARD?  Why, YES!  Please DO!  Not only does bedtime come an hour earlier, but so does cocktail hour.  

Win.  Win. 

Count Your Blessings...

So, in case you didn’t know, I have two Children: Son, who is almost 6 and Daughter, who is 3 and a half.  (Going on 13.  She’s totally getting her period.  I’m sure of it.  That would explain so much.)   Having two healthy, happy children is a blessing.  A huge blessing.  Some days I have to remind myself of this as my two little blessings are toying with my mental sanity....and I just repeat to myself...Blessing.  Blessing.  Blessing.  But that being said, they are getting to an age where the light at the end of the tunnel starts to burn your eyes just a teeny tiny little bit.  They’re more independent.  They can get their own snack.  Play by themselves.  Brush their own teeth.  It’s these little things that make a huge difference in a parent’s life.  To not be so needed all the time; not that being needed by a child is a bad thing...it’s just all consuming...and until you start to eek out of those first few years of a child’s life...you don’t realize how needed you were.  

This being needed thing has been on my mind lately because it’s no secret to those who know me that I kinda sorta maybe think I possibly maybe kinda want another baby.  Maayyybbeee.  But, maybe not.  Ohhh....babies.  They are so sweet. And little.  And fresh.  Sure, they wake you up a lot, but it’s usually not too complicated to get them to settle down.  Feed them.  Hold them.  Love them.  They haven’t learned to use their armpit and hand as a farting machine.  In fact, they don’t even think that farts are funny, only that they feel better once they do fart.  They haven’t yet learned the sassier side of the English language; don’t know how to talk back; don’t know how to use a black sharpie as a weapon.  When a baby cries out, nobody stares at you in judgement; they simply keep oohing and ahhing and, oh, isn’t that baby so cute when he cries?  Babies.  Are.  Wonderful.

But when I think of having another baby, I have such mixed emotions.  Of course, I would never regret having a child, but, the third time around, you go in with eyes wide open.  The pregnancy.  The diapers.  The sleep schedule.  The breastfeeding.  That phase where your back is in constant pain from the hunch of holding little hands as they learn to walk.  (But, what a sweet pain it is.)  Just thinking about it is kind of exhausting. Do I want to do that again?  I think I do.  No.  I don’t.  I’m not sure.  Which means the door is open.  Unless it’s closed.  But there is a crack.  Do I slip through the crack or do I just keep peeking in?  I mean, The Offspring are doing nothing but getting older, same as their Mama.  What would it be like to have two in school and a newborn?  Would it be lovely?  Would it be more difficult?  Do I jump back in?  Do I want to do it All.Over.Again?  Yes.No.Yes.No.Yes.No.Yes.  

Clearly, I’m a very decisive person.

As I look at women with newborn babies, I try to remember that eventually that tiny, little, sweet, babbling baby will learn how to speak.  Loudly.  And scream NO! while snot and tears collect in a puddle on your freshly laundered shirt.  And those first few years of being so needed...they are hard.  But they are magical.  Most importantly I must remember that watching a child grow is a gift.  A privilege.  So for now...my two blessings keep me feeling very busy...very tired...but extremely lucky.  

And let’s be honest; sometimes I still really...need...my mom.  I guess that never really goes away.

Blessing.

Can I Get A Volunteer?

I may have once or twice mentioned the following facts:

1.) Walking into a room of strangers causes me great discomfort.
2.) This discomfort often causes me to swear while telling inappropriate stories.
3.) Moms scare me.

So imagine my level of anxiety as I walked into a room overrun with moms, most of them strangers, all of them appearing waaayyyy more savvy and smart and put together than me. I’m pretty sure the moment I walked into the room, I dropped an F bomb.  To myself, of course.  Nobody was talking to me.  (Because I was hiding in the corner like a scared little kitten.)  What was the purpose of this gathering, you may ask?  Well, here’s something that if you don’t have kids you may not know: the pressure to volunteer at your kids’ school, especially if you’re a Stay At Home Mom Who Clearly Has Nothing To Do But Work Out, is overwhelming.  I understand the need for the volunteers.  There’s no money, there’s not enough teachers, there’s too many kids, but sometimes it feels like a competition of Who Can Be The BEST Mom?  Who Has Their Shit TOGETHER?  And I often feel like I do not have my shit together...that everyone is in on something that I’m missing out on.  (It’s a lot like those awkward middle school years, come to think of it.)  But I’ve gone...light...on the volunteering in the past years, so I decided that I needed to step it up this year.  First year of kindergarten and all.  Can’t just spend all my time at the gym in Lululemon for goodness sake.  So, I took that number 2 pencil and I put my name down on that list and then there I was...at an Enrichment workshop with a couple hundred other moms where we were to be taught how to teach art to kids.  (Because, you know, kids don’t get art.  Or music.  Or gym.  Or anything that is fun and extremely beneficial to the rest of their lives.)

Walking into that room felt like the first day at a new school where everyone knows each other and you feel invisible.  I had to give myself a pep talk and man up.  Or Mom up, rather.  I strolled around, grabbed a cup of coffee, found my table.  I sat down, introduced myself to the woman sitting across from me and immediately began lamenting to her my insecurities in a curse-riddled monologue.  Lucky for me, she did not seem offended, she laughed, and caught me up on what exactly it was I was volunteering for.  As the table filled, it was obvious that most of these women were familiar with each other; they had older kids; they had been around the block; but I fell into an easy conversation with them because, as I had to remind myself, this is MY TRIBE.  This is not scary. These Moms are not scary.  I can volunteer.  I will figure out where that “shed” is with all my “supplies” are and I will teach the kids art.  I WILL BE OKAY.   

And while I will again experience anxiety as I walk into a room full of strange five year olds (I will do my very very best not to curse), I’ll just look to my own personal tribe, my Son, beaming with joy that his mom is there.

Volunteering.

Kindergarten Blues

Kindergarten.  A milestone event for any child; a not to be missed photo opportunity.  A day where parents stand proudly, with tears in their eyes, strapping crisp backpacks on to small backs.  Children stand nervously, not quite knowing what is about to hit them. A patient teacher tells you it’s time to leave and 5 year old sweaty hands release their grip and walk bravely into the unknown.  Mom and Dad watch, swallowing the lump in their throats, until the door is closed and then slowly shuffle away, hand in hand, marveling at how fast the time goes and secretly fearing the homework packet that will surely take over their lives. 

Unless your My Son. 

If you’re my Son, you prefer to temporarily go insane and cling yourself to my body, or perhaps try to climb back into it, only to peeled off by a nice lady who’s very job it is to deal with these...special...cases, and scream out MAMA! with your arm out, as if it will be a lifetime, and not just a few hours, until those little eyes are reconnected with mine.  Husband slowly backs away with Daughter, for surely she is taking notes on How To Act On The First Day Of Kindergarten, but she would do it louder and with more...flair and the very thought sends shivers down my spine.  Parents stood around me, nodding their heads, feeling badly for us, yes, but also thinking, Holy Crap I’m So Happy That’s Not Me.  There was no picture.  There was no walk off with a trickle of tears.  There was only chaos, screaming, and psychologists standing by.  (For me or Son, I’m not sure.)

When it was over, I felt like someone had beat the crap out of me.  I cried.  A lot.  I felt helpless.  And then I felt an arm around me.  A mother who I did not know, comforting me.  Familiar and strange faces alike gathered round me, their eyes filled with genuine concern and kindness; their words encouraging and asking me how can they help?  My phone rang and beeped all day, mothers and friends calling me, giving support, advice. A playdate was arranged with a new classmate for that very night, in hopes that the next day would be easier.  These women, these Mothers, may think that their gestures were small and insignificant, but they inspired me.  They made me realize that it really does take a village.  We stumble along this motherhood thing, trying to figure it out and make the right decisions along the way, but we need each other. We need to lift each other up and lend a hand.  To be strong for one when another is weak.  Because being a Mother is hard, hard work.  Joyfully hard.  And we don’t need to do it alone.  We just need to look to our left or to our right and realize a tribe surrounds us. A Mom Tribe.  

It’s been over a week now since that First Day and I’m happy to say that Son skipped off to school this morning, right alongside his new friends.  I watched him disappear into the classroom, the door closing as tears filled my eyes and I sauntered slowly off...marveling at just how fast the time has gone.  I may not have a photo of him smiling nervously on the first day of school, but what I got is better than that.  

I got a Tribe.