Schoolhouse Diaries 6

Listen, Target.

We’re going to need you to go ahead and open up the other entrance. 

You know…the good entrance. 

The entrance that greets you with Starbucks and the dollar section. 

The entrance that welcomes you with charming backpacks you feel overwhelmingly compelled to buy even though you can’t even remember the last time you used a backpack.

The entrance that blinds you with seasonal throw pillows that really make you contemplate your life choices. 

We know that you know why any of that crap sells.  We know that you know your main customers are moms who just want to get away from their families for an hour and forget about their lives. We know that you know that all we want is a coffee and a throw pillow with cheery lemons on it because that really does seem like the answer to eternal happiness at that moment. 

So now what we want to know is why you’ve kept the good entrance closed for an impossibly long eight months and instead have directed us to the entrance that leads us NOT to a cornucopia of cheap, colorful earrings and display of v-neck t-shirts I must have or I will die, but to a wall of garbage bags and Tupperware. 

Garbage bags.

And Tupperware.

Do you think that when I walk in to your store, Target, I want to remember that I’m out of garbage bags? 

No. 

Do you think that when I walk in to your store, Target, I want to remember that I don’t need Tupperware anymore because I don’t pack lunches anymore because MY CHILDREN DON’T GO TO SCHOOL ANYMORE? 

No. Absolutely not. 

When I walk in to your store, Target, all I want is to be ambushed with my god-given right to waste my money on four different flavors of La Croix and also that sweater that yes, I might only wear for one season and then completely forget about but that’s what makes me happy, Target. Sipping sparkling water in my new sweater I got for $20. 

So please, I beg of you, for the sake of weary mothers everywhere who have spent enough quality time with their children in the last eight months to last eight lifetimes….open the good entrance. Let us delay indefinitely the things we actually need in favor of wandering your Magnolia dreamscape and Nate Berkus linens. Confront us immediately with the useless crap that makes our lives feel worthy, if only until we get home and realize that the only thing that lemon printed throw pillow goes with is our secret fantasy life we’re living in Greece with our boyfriend Adonis. 

And lest we forget, Target…’tis the holiday season. Your time to shine. And if you still don’t open the good entrance and I forget to wander over to the fun part of the store because I’m busy being distracted with shelves filled with the banal needs of domesticated life and I don’t get a fucking Christmas door mat with a reindeer on it, you’re dead to me. 

Save Christmas, Target. 

Save 2020.

There’s still time. 

Schoolhouse Diaries 5

 Here’s the thing.

I know Son is in 8th grade. Which means next year he’ll be in 9th grade. Which is high school. Which is kind of a big deal. But it didn’t really occur to me until a recent dog walk around the local high school that next year HE’S GOING TO HIGH SCHOOL. 

Now I can physically see the high school from my house. I walk around it with my dog a dozen times a week, meandering through it’s parking lots streaming true crime and Conan. Yet…it never hit me…this whole high school thing.  I didn’t think about it. Until one day I did. For whatever reason this one time walking by I just stopped and stared at the school and it hit me with a jolt of reality. Oh SHIT. High school. Next year. 

Next year.

High school. 

And right after the inevitable tears clouded my vision, I just got pissed. At all the things for all the people. Stolen traditions. Stolen rights of passage. Hijacked dreams. Anticipation dulled. It’s not that I forgot that Son is shy just a year of entering high school, it’s that nothing feels real or valid anymore so it didn’t even cross my mind. I mean is he actually even IN 8th grade currently? Because as far as I can tell, he’s in his bedroom playing Minecraft on his four minute “breaks” after an 80 minute “class” while wearing his pajamas and counting down until “lunch” when “school” is “over.” 

Wow. I’m sorry. That was an excessive amount of quotations. I just couldn’t stop. 

Remember when we were all freshly locked up and many of us (me) had never even heard of Zoom? That was so cute. And then we all had our Zoom happy hours with friends and family and commiserated while keeping the the alcohol industry booming. And then we were all yeah…I don’t want to Zoom anymore. Like ever. Even if I get to drink and see my friends. I.Can’t.Zoom.Again. Please, take the Zoom away from me and put the Zoom in the trash. 

And yet-this is how our kids are learning every day. With Zoom. For hours. And they don’t even get to drink. And they barely get to see their friends. Our kids are Zoom Zombies, just staring at a screen with a desperate teacher trying so hard to do their job on the other side, maybe a little drool slipping down their chins before they perk up for a second and yell for a snack. And guess what? I just can’t care anymore if they eat during class. There’s no rules now. I mean if it’s okay for us to not prioritize education while we put spin bikes under tents in parking lots, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be okay if Daughter eats a banana during her zoom math class. 

These resilient kids, though. They keep finding ways to just be kids. The other night I stood in my driveway with the neighbors watching children swirl around us while they played hide and seek under a darkened sky and I couldn’t help but smile as I remembered my own childhood night games with my own childhood neighbors. It was a reminder that this period of life is simply a chapter in the whole book. A long, terribly repetitive chapter. At times a nightmare of a chapter; sometimes an apocalyptic chapter. But damn it. We have to keep reading. One page at a time until finally we reach the next chapter, a sigh of relief to put the last one behind us. It probably won’t be a fairy tale; I’m pretty sure it’ll still have a twisted plot. But what choice do we have? 

This is life, not book club. 

We have to finish it. 

And allegedly my next chapter includes high school, so I better keep reading. 

Schoolhouse Diaries 4

The other day a friend texted me that she forgot to pick her son up from practice. Because…you know…it’s been seven months since he had a practice and suddenly there’s practice and it might have slipped her mind that one has to be dropped off and picked up from practice so then there’s a text saying, um, Mom? You forgot me. I’m still at practice. 

Life lessons. Brought to you by Moms Who Forgot Stuff And Also Kids. 

I forgot that I live in a place where my dreams of sweaters and boots and jackets  and hats are never realized because it’s always too warm. Yet, all these retailers, they tempt me incessantly with these “seasonal” sweater displays and I’m not strong enough to say no. I’m weak. Weak with heat. It was 92 degrees last week and I bought three sweaters. It was too hot to even try them on, much less wear them out and about.

Oh shit. I forgot we don’t go out and about anymore.

Well, at least I can look cute when I pretend it’s cold enough to walk my dog in a sweater and promptly start sweating about two blocks in. 

We have forgotten how to wake up early. Without a pressing need to leave the house by 7:45 anymore, I languish with sleepy eyes until about 7:15 or so before slipping out of bed into another day of certain uncertainty. I fumble with the coffeemaker, displeased each and every morning that I forgot to prepare the coffee the night before. I flip on the news, attempt to digest whatever fire drill the world has set off overnight and begin to watch the clock so I can timely begin the process that is Waking Up Daughter. 

Because Daughter has forgotten that she used to leave the house for school. So she has really upped her waking game. She needs time to grunt, moan, roll around, proclaim the pure unfairness of her life, curse out COVID, ask me to scratch her back, punch her pillow and be generally unpleasant all while yelling at me that SHE FORGOT HOW TO GET OUT OF HER BED. 

Son has forgotten how to speak. I mean his lips are moving. Barely. I hear sounds coming out of his mouth but instead of concise words, it’s more like a collection of low, grunting noises with a splattering of coherency. Like an ancient Neanderthal discovering language for the first time. When I can’t make out what he is trying to communicate to me, I just hand him food and then he usually goes away.  

All these things we’ve forgotten; these habitual tasks of yesterday we now long for with increasing intensity even as world outside passes by each day, just as it’s always done, the sun and the moon rising and falling with their practiced predictability, not forgetting even once. March feels like a lifetime ago and I admit I do try to forget how those early days felt. Long and empty. I see photos of family and friends across the nation on social media doing things that seem normal. Friday night football games. Going to school. Pumpkin patches and sweater weather. I’m not here to say if it’s right or wrong, too soon or not soon enough. I’m just here to admit that I’m ready to stop forgetting. I’m ready to start remembering again. And I’m almost ready to wake up before 7 am. 

But, Children? If you’re standing in the parking lot ten minutes after practice has ended, better shoot me a quick text. 

In case I forgot. 

Schoolhouse Diaries 3

 I think maybe the best thing that happened to me the past week was when I was asked for my ID while purchasing life support, I mean wine, and the cashier laughed and said Wow…no way! Good for you.

I didn’t press him for details on what he meant exactly, because let’s face it; that could mean a number of things, but I chose to take it as complimentary because any jolt of positivity these days is a welcome one indeed. It was probably the mask and the fact I was freshly showered that really put me over the Is She 21? edge.  But I don’t care; I’ll wear a mask just to get carded. I have no shame. 

The Children had no school on Monday, which basically made it feel like…every other day but Daughter did really put her endurance to the test with a four hour marathon of The Office. I wanted to tell her that maybe she should stop but then I thought better of it and went to Target instead. Also, it brings a tear to my eye knowing I’ve done something right. You can’t teach good taste in television; you simply encourage and hope they spread their wings and make you proud. That’s what she said. 

Tuesday I was bored. I was so. so. bored. I even took my pulse a few times which served the duel purpose of having something to do while reassuring me that yes, I was still alive. I hate even saying I was bored because what a luxury to be bored. But that was my reality on that day and I tried really hard to sink into it; to try and appreciate it to make up for all the other days that are the opposite of bored. But it was terrible. I was so bored I couldn’t even fold the piles of laundry that were just sitting there, mocking me, saying-hey. We’re here for you. We’re always here for you. Take care of us. No. I’m not going to. I’m just going to do nothing but hate myself and wait for tomorrow so I can start over. I know-really healthy mentality. I hope you’re taking notes. 

So many days I find myself glancing at the clock and take myself back to a pre-COVID existence. I imagine all the things I should be doing, instead of the things I’m actually doing. I should be picking up my kids from school, running them to a practice, complaining about 8 am baseball on a Sunday morning. I should be squeezing in a lunch with a friend before the bell rings. I should be thinking days or weeks ahead and planning and organizing for what’s to come. But instead I sit and stare at the laundry, dreaming of the magical mundaneness of a busy parent with rising adolescents. 

And yet I don’t want to waste this time, wishing for it to be gone. Because as badly as I want a return to our old routine, I also have a teenage son who undoubtedly spends more time at home then he would otherwise and a preteen daughter who’s individuality and independence are growing stronger even in isolation. I get a few more hugs, a lot more eye rolls, and the sound of a french horn wafting through the house. And as much I want to resist, as many things that I hate about this chapter of our lives, I have to remember that with the speedy intensity at which children grow, all this extra time spent with them is actually a gift. 

A gift wrapped in caution tape, broken glass and super glue, but a gift nonetheless. Proceed cautiously. 

That’s what she said. 

Schoolhouse Diaries 2

Well, it took a full eight days, but on the ninth, Daughter concluded she hates school. She even wrote it forcefully on a sticker on her wall. With a sharpie. 

Son received an F on a math assignment, along with most of his classmates, because the Khan link they were using was glitching and their work wouldn’t turn in. When I asked Son about it, he laughed and said he didn’t care. It was only one point. His teacher didn’t believe he did the work anyway, so why bother? 

I got two migraines in three days, which hasn’t happened to me in years. And one of them began while I was in the holy land of Target. That’s just cruel.

So things are going great. 

It’s great that Daughter has always loved school and now she cries every day. I mean at least in the good old in-person school days, I knew that throwing her math workbook across the room was a habit she saved just for me, just for home, never at school. At least in the good old days, her teacher could stand next to her and help ensure she doesn’t slip behind and now we just get to guess. Is she struggling? Who knows! Keeping us on our toes.

And while Son has always been one of those frustrating humans who doesn’t seem to have to work very hard to make good grades, he has always cared about making good grades and completing his work. So I am also really happy that he’s finally okay with an F! Yes, Son! Way to lower expectations! I knew you could do it. All you needed was a little encouragement from your teacher and a bad wifi connection. 

How strange that migraines popped back into my life. What a great  f*ing surprise. At least it was an excuse to close my bedroom door and lie in silence. The only sound the throbbing of my head; the only sight the flashing in my eyes. 

I feel grateful that my kids are old enough to manage their schooling for the most part on their own. I can’t imagine how hard and frustrating it must be for younger kids, their short attention spans a challenge enough. And I feel grateful that as 6th and 8th graders, my kids will have some time and years to make up for this lost period in their childhood and schooling. But at what cost? 

And when is this going to end? Somedays I feel like they’ll go back soon, they have to go back soon….right?  And other days…other days I just feel so defeated. And does anyone else feel like their kids have been awake since March and they just won’t go to bed? Like these last six months have been one long day and all you want….all you want…is a glass of wine, a quiet house and a new season of the Real Housewives but all you get is Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom. A relentless need for things and stuff and food and attention and cruise directing; the demand of these needs no longer broken by thirty hours of school each week. 

And under no illusion am I that my kids aren’t sick of me. How many glasses do you need to use each day? Why is the bathroom floor a flood? Did we forget how to open the dishwasher? Can you use a napkin for christ’s sake? Give me your phone. Stop staring at your iPad. Go outside. Oh I don’t know you can….play basketball, ride bikes, skateboard, color, draw, practice your instruments, do a puzzle, play cards, bake something, or just stab my ears out with a pencil and leave me alone to suffer.  Oh and did we forget I GOT THIS DOG FOR YOU SO WHY DON’T YOU TAKE HER ON A WALK? 

Okay so maaaayyybeeee I’m feeling a little on edge today. 
But I’m willing to bet you can relate. 

Still…there are moments like last night when Daughter was really pushing for Most Likely To Keep Mom Awake As Long As Possible. Her toe hurt, her tummy hurt, her shoulder felt funny. She was having scary thoughts. She can’t sleep. So at last, near midnight, in search of sleep for us both, I relented and climbed the ladder to her loft bed to sleep beside her. And as were drifting, she grabbed my hand and said-thanks, Mama. All I really need is you. And a baby brother. 

Well, one out of two ain’t bad. 

But thanks, kid, for the reminder that while each day will bring it’s own fresh set of challenges and a roller coaster of emotions, we can always hold hands and know it’s going to be okay. 

Now please go back to school. 

Schoolhouse Diaries 1

 How is this okay? 

Remember last March when we all looked around to one another, anxious for acknowledgement that surely after a few weeks, we would move back to “normal?” The angsty plea in our eyes, searching for validation from whomever would give it to us? Who can forget, as much as we try, those long, long, looooonnnnnggg first few weeks, the days dripping by slower than molasses? One endless afternoon merging into the next, after we proclaimed each morning…that’s it? You’re already done with school? It’s 9:30. In the morning. 

Remember how we went from…okay…three weeks. I can handle three weeks. We’ve got Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime for god sakes. And then it slipped into…okay…maybe May? That feels far away. Maybe I should buy some more board games to make everyone hate me just a little more.  And then it was…oh…okay. So we’re not going back to school. So I just gotta get through the summer. We can make it through the summer.

And all along…September was just in the wings, waiting for his light, to deliver his message: Here. Hold my beer. 

And now here I am, sitting in my house, listening to Son in band class and Daughter in gym class, the musical scales pairing nicely with the thud thud thud of jumping jacks I’m guessing. I would go look, but I don’t want to. Why purposely place myself in a position where surely I’ll either be yelled at or dismissed with an eye roll? I’m supposed to be doing the yelling and the eye rolling but instead here I am, tip-toeing around my house so as not to disturb The Zooms, dreaming about the days I used to be able to just plop down at the bookstore with a coffee and my computer and my headphones and not be bothered while I try and tap out a few thoughts. Instead here I am, hiding in my bedroom, drinking water because I already drained the coffeepot, taking a defiant stance against my chores in favor of trying to tap out a few thoughts, only to be interrupted by Daughter, who wants lunch and when I question her Zoom whereabouts she simply confesses that her teacher is babbling on and on about earthquakes and she’s not missing anything. 

Except she’s missing everything. 

We’re failing our kids. 

I don’t know why this is okay.

It’s as if we’ve wrapped our kids in red tape, concerned less about their mental health and education and more about if we get to watch Monday Night Football. We’ve figured out a way to dine outside, but not educate outside. These young humans are the future leaders of our nation and we can’t be bothered to figure out a way to keep them in school? I know most educators every where are busting their asses but if every other industry can find a way to think outside the box why can’t our schools? You can go to a f*ing soul cycle class! YOU CAN GO TO A F*ING SOUL CYLCE CLASS. 

How is this okay?

Corona Diaries: Week 9 and 10

Week 9

Also 10.

Because whoops. I ran away last week. And it was glorious. 

I wasn’t sure if we should leave, given the way of the Corona these days. But we ran away to the countryside of wine vines and closed tasting rooms so it seemed like a safe bet. I packed up the bathing suits and the dog bed and the school supplies and off we went, up the 101 and into the magical valley of Santa Ynez. 

I can’t count the number of times I’ve been up there, just inland of Santa Barbara, up and around a mountain pass, for those not in the know. It has always brought me such peace to take the 154 exit and begin the curvy ascent towards picturesque bliss. Once upon a long time ago, I got married up in that land and I remember wondering after I got divorced if the place would feel the same or if it had been poisoned by memories past. It took but just one trip to be reminded that although the valley is the holder of all those memories, the land is so vast it leaves you begging to give it more. So give it more I have done. 

Having been sheltering in place for ten weeks, I had almost forgotten what it felt like to pack a suitcase (exhilarating), fill the car with gas (exciting because it was so cheap) ((well, cheap for California)), and yell at the kids to make sure they don’t forget shoes. (Because they quite literally never wear shoes anymore.) I was filled with joy simply at the prospect of driving on the open road for two hours that it mattered none if there was traffic. (There wasn’t.) 

I have to say it was a strange feeling to be away from home in the middle of what’s supposed to be a school week. While it was a huge relief to have a change of scenery, especially such a comforting, beautiful one, it was also a stark reminder of the times. Each morning as the kids logged on to school, I’d think-oh yeah; they’re supposed to be at school right now. Oh yeah; they’re supposed to be playing a baseball game tonight. Oh yeah; this still sucks. We’re all supposed to be doing so many other things. And instead, this strange time has brought me to this vast land, holder of memories past and present, on a Monday afternoon on a week in which we had so many other plans, so many other memories we were supposed to be creating. I fluctuated between gratitude and anger; frustration and contentment. Even now, hot tears fill my eyes as I mourn all the things that were missed, that will be missed, that may always be missed. 

I came home to a city that is desperate to trickle back into normalcy. With the beaches finally open, we’ve already been a handful of times. We flock there because it lets us feel that sense of normalcy. We flock there because it comforts us. We flock there so we can sit six feet apart and share a cocktail and a laugh and forget for just a little bit about all that we are missing. Our vast beach, holder of memories, always waiting to help soften our fall; the tide pulling our eyes and our ears and our feet to it’s shore, clinging to the only thing that feels familiar in this unfamiliar experience. 

We have a few more weeks of school left and then I suppose it’s summer. Whatever that means. I, like so many, had to cancel a pretty special trip I’ve been saving for for a pretty long time so summer suddenly seems pretty wide open. Hours upon days upon weeks upon months of wide open time. But who knows? Maybe we’ll pack up our suitcases, gas up the car, grab our shoes and drive down a new road to some vast land somewhere that is simply waiting for us so it can hold our memories.

Maybe…just maybe…we’ll get to run away again. 

And once again, it shall be glorious.