The First Day

Yesterday was my last day as a 39-year-old. So, as the order of things goes, today I am 40. That's a big number and it makes everyone take stock. Why we do this is a mystery to me. But sure enough, I sat at the kitchen counter with my hubby last night and pondered the state of things.

I'm not melancholy about having missed out on something. Nor do I think I failed to capture my dreams or follow my passions. I've had an incredible career -- in fact many of them. Through the generosity of my dear husband I've pursued crazy, impulsive pastimes. I've hopped from occupational interest to occupational interest as I saw fit and prudent. So I'm not exactly sure why on that very last day I felt unfinished.

My kiddos are two of the most amazing boys to rule the suburbs. Really. Like all young men they are learning to learn, learning to lead, learning how they want to be loved. They are champions and scholars and I couldn't ask for better behavior. Considering who is raising them -- we are tickled pink at their stature. But they are growing up so fast. As they grow up, I know that soon they will step out. Step right out on their own and perhaps leave me behind.

So on this first day of the next decade I thought I would be a wreck. I'm not. I'm going about my day doing my usual. And I guess that is where the inventory of your life is. The importance. That which I cannot let go.

I walked my children to school in the gorgeous Colorado sun.

I watched from a safe distance as they settled into their own friend groups and giggled with their peers.

I sipped my coffee. Oh I love well-made coffee.

I answered the door to one of my favorite people of all time. A true gem of a friend.

I golfed with old friends and new friends.

I ate no less than 3 cookies before I ate anything else.

I raced to pick up the supplies for another creative project and saw the shining face of someone I really appreciate having in my life. Someone whose whereabouts on April 15, 2013, left me very concerned for her safety and well-being. I'm so grateful she's alive.

I walked my children home from school, encountering some of our favorite neighbors along the way.

I was carpool mom on the way to LAX, where I then sat high on a hill and watched my oldest son play a game I know nothing about.

I ran my car completely out of gas. Which only served to show me how loved I am. My oldest son sat with me and waited for the other half of our family to save us. It was actually really incredible.

I ate an incredible dinner, prepared by my husband and sons. The wine was good, the food was great, and the men at the table were good to me.

I wrote a little and I'll read a lot. My book and my bed are calling to me as I close this day -- this first day of the decade.

You know how you look back at pictures of your kids and you half smile? Your eyes get a little wet, and you stare in awe at the way their hair was so soft and their cheeks were so chubby. You may even point to the picture and say to them, "Gosh remember when you did that?" The zip of the years in front of you is staggering and you wish you could pause. At 40 -- this beautiful marker of a life well-started -- I realize the people who touch my life are looking back at their pictures and memories of our times together and grasping at the same passage of time. I have been fun. I have been fit. I've had long hair, short hair, gray hair (!). There was the pregnant belly, vacation sunburns, eyes glassy with drink, and a mouth wide with laughter. Not uncommon a heart broken with sorrow and a soul lifted up in good times. So yes, happy tears today because I remember when I did all that.

Wish There Was a Costume For That

I have hesitated to talk about Mason’s birthday. But now it’s been about a month and the sadness of it is either all dried up or just dammed up and about ready to overflow all over the place. He’s 8. Eight is great, unless you are the momma of said giant 8-year-old. Then it’s heartache on heartache as you try to pick him up one last time, fiddle around to find a comfy spot on the couch where you both can take a Sunday nap, or even when you realize though he still reaches for your hand on the way to school you feel like you’re holding a man’s hand.  He’s totally grown up.

His “friend” birthday party was a bit of a disaster. Though in late September, Colorado had record temps and our planned mini golf outing turned into a sun-baked whinefest where one boy scaled a porta-john and another one even barfed. His “family” birthday party got upstaged by a golf tournament. And then there were the costumes.

My children have always had a thing for dressing up. Mason especially loved costumes that uniformed him for his imaginary travels to space. While Coop was content in ninja digs and an occasional Power Ranger, Mason always looked for shiny suits and oxygen packs. If his costumes failed him, he’d just build some box armor from cardboard waiting for the recycle bin. After a short break from dressing up – so short I didn’t even realize we were on a break – the boys asked to dress up.

They were sitting in the back of my dad’s pick-up truck – a classic gas-guzzling vehicle meant to pull boats and snowmobiles, and climb mountains and stuff. My boys were fascinated. Not the type of thing that a lot of people around here own. The truck’s tailgate gave them access to the stars and they started dreaming. Next thing I knew they were trying to squeeze themselves into costumes that fit just a month or so ago.

I can’t overstate the squeezing. The costumes were REALLY small. My boys were REALLY big. And all I could do was stare at them, slack-jawed, and unabashedly shocked. But I was not sad.

Following their night flying through the cosmos on the wings of their creativity, I picked up the costumes, helmets, space packs, even a dinosaur suit and stuffed them in a box. I can’t overstate the stuffing. With not a single melancholy thought I drove them to the post office, slapped an address label on them and sent them on their way to Oregon.

Oh those costumes are so happy now.

But I am thinking about a boy with big blue eyes, feathery soft blonde wisps of hair, pink cheeks, and the sweetest, most inquisitive look ever possessed by a 2-year-old.  The baby who took himself so seriously, right from the start. The boy who consoled his big brother during time outs administered for being mean to little brother. And I’m thinking about how much he loved those costumes.

Last year at this time, I had all but given up on writing. I haven’t explained myself, really. But someone hurt my baby. In a moment of maladaptive behavior another student found a way to destroy my Mason’s spirit, his confidence. When I would try to sit down and write, all I could think about were sad things, sometimes hurtful things, things I wished I could say to bullies – imagined and otherwise. It’s unfortunate because as a result, I don’t have a very good record of sweet Mason’s 7^th birthday, nor our family’s recovery during 2013.

Mason wrote us a letter during that time. It started, “I need your help. I have some very big problems.” Then in great detail he recounted the ways in which he’d been tortured by a classmate. What I know now, with it all behind us is this: Mason helped us. He has grown so much this year and shown us the value of courage, kindness, and rising to the challenge. Per our tradition, on the eve of his 8^th birthday I tucked him in and said good-bye to 7-year-old Mason. As it turns out, it was the most gut-wrenching good-bye I’ve said as a parent.

The following morning I left before anyone else woke up. But first I stopped in and looked in on my beast of a boy – the 8-year-old who is head and shoulders above all the rest. I have so much comfort in my heart as I think about the changes in him. Well, that and a video of a new space explorer taking the costumes for a spin. 

  

Summer Wrap Up, For Tomorrow We Go To School

No summer wrap-up would be complete without explaining the growth I have seen in my youngest, quietest boy. I spend entire afternoons thinking to myself what it is like to be him in our world. Not the world like the planet. But our home and the atmosphere the four of us create. 

He is a special star in our orbiting system of chaos. By him I guide many of my decisions. Because he is not loud and he does not complain I wonder if he suffers. And then sometimes he does something that rocks us back to our heels. 

One such day happened in the blaze of too much sunshine in the middle of the fabulous holiday we call summer break. In fact, it was July and we were enjoying our carefully planned family vacation to one of Colorado's small, beautiful towns. Atop a mountain sits the  Glenwood Springs Adventure Park. My husband researched this trip and this particular day. He was certain that our boys would love the roller coasters, an alpine slide, the zip line, the "swing". 

I was pretty sure that Cooper would, and that Mason and I would sit on the sidelines taking pictures. But I really do try not to control everything. Really. 

We started the morning with all the Amish, who were also visiting the park, on a gondola ride from the base to the top of the mountain. The gondola had Mason grasping for safe ledges to hang on to. I worried that this was a pretty clear sign that he had no interest in riding the roller coaster and began silently to devise plan B.

First, we went on a cave tour. As luck would have it, the cave tour drops tourists out on a ledge looking down into the canyon and at the most terrifying ride of the park. Down below us we could see what the tour guide described as a 210-degree swing on the edge of a cliff that could pull more Gs than most astronauts experience in training. I thought to myself, "Honey bunches of no, this girl ain't got time for that." 

That's exactly when our family started walking toward the swing. Hubby nonchalantly asked, "Who's ready for the swing?" Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, "I'll do it." 

What?!?!!? 

If you could only know the details of the past year. Of the trials. Of the fears. All the crying and failed attempts at courageous feats. 

Not going to lie, I just started crying. I frankly thought it was too much for a child to do. I wouldn't do it. Way too scary. Cooper and Mason marched up to the ride attendant, got themselves strapped in, and off they went. 

Well, after that both boys raced to the roller coaster -- touted as being at higher altitude than any other. A few times on that and they decided it was time for the alpine slide, the zip line, the [insert yawn] laser tag. Everything, they tried everything. 

I learned: today could be the day. We try and we try. We learn a little. We fail a lot. We get beat. Come in second. Whatever. But one day, it is the day. The day we win. The day we can. The day that courage comes to play.

Shutterbabies

As our children mature around us there are times when I take a step back and feel confused. It's like I realize they've gotten to a place that's a bit more grown up and I know that they have reached the next stage but I didn't really feel it go by. Well, we're there, again.

This past week has been Spring Break in these parts. You might imagine that we would escape to warmer climes. So did we. But in reality we stayed really close to home and had a great time. One of our adventures was entering a photocontest that the kids noticed in a flyer that came home from school.

It honored Ansel Adams' 111th birthday. 

When I explained to the boys what good 'ol Ansel was famous for and the images that really set him apart from other nature photographers they actually understood. And that is how I found myself hiking one of my favorite running trails with both boys and a camera. 

They were both excited to use my camera. But they approached the project completely differently. Mason had remembered the trail from a hike we took about one year ago. He was determined to get to the view he was remembering and he would have none of the "views exploration" which Cooper and I were doing. 

Meanwhile, as I said, Cooper was stopping every 30 steps saying, "Oh this is a great view Mom." Until finally I had to crush his artistic heart and say, "NO, no it is not." This is how we stopped and started up the hill to find our artistic voice. 

Someone took this one of me, not sure which one. Not my best side. But hey, can't take yourself too seriously at my age. 

And here are their entries:

MASON, age 6

COOPER, age 8

Science Is Fun

Do you know what makes science fun? Vinegar. 

That's a little known fact. With enough eggs and vinegar you can pull together enough pictures and observation notes to create an excellent science fair project. You can also make your house smell really ... really ... really like a second grader's basketball uniform after it's been worn for both a practice and game on the same weekend without washing it. Also, if you stuff a dirty washcloth in the bottom of a laundry basket and forget about it for 5-7 days, it kinda smells like that, too. Anyway, they don't call it the smell fair.

Should you think the discomfort of preparation for this event was limited to an odiferous acid, let me also describe for you the contents of a birds' nest that we found in our yard and preserved for 8 months. Did you know, for instance, that baby birds actually crap all over the inside of the nest for approximately 30 days? As it turns out, 8 months in a sealed plastic bag turned that little bowl of sticks into a scientific marvel all its own replete with spiders. That my friends IS science.

I myself have never been a presenter or contestant in a science fair. That is why I am so particularly proud of these two. They had to go head-to-head with the judges. No mommies standing in the wings, no daddies helping with answers. Frankly, they really did know the concept of the scientific method and explained their hypothesis and conclusion on their own. The boys did it. They loved it. And they did great.  

I love this picture. Also, did I mention we tried to set fire to eggs? Mason wrote in his notes, "Burned Eggs Stink!" 

Here is Mason explaining his experiment to a friend. Read into his body language anything you want.  You are probably spot on.

The morning of science fair.

All I did was finance the poster boards, binders, folders, picture reprints, about a dozen eggs, two gallons of vinegar, and button-down shirts. Well, as long as we're patting ourselves on the back, I did a pretty good job as Mrs. Moneybags. Where's my medal? 

Phew, Oh and That Other Funny Story

Congrats to our orange belt! (That's a Shotokan Karate orange belt, to those of you who know the difference.) Huge sigh of relief! The Sensei is really quite rigid. The students test one week and don't find out the results until the following week. And really, there is no way of knowing if you past the test. Real nail biter. So, tonight, when we showed up we didn't know what would happen. For reals. Then just as I could tell Cooper had given up hope that he had passed the test his Sensei called out his name. Visible ton of bricks fell off Coop's shoulders. 

These pictures are from the night he tested -- that's why he's still wearing his yellow belt. 

I've been waiting to tell a funny story until I had a good karate photo of him. While these aren't the best, please note the hands of one of his Senseis on his shoulders. This is not the main man in the dojo. It's his helper -- who is something ridiculous like 86 years old. 

One day, after lesson Cooper said, "Oh mom you know that Sensei that's missing an ear?" I was like, "Yeah, I know the guy with no ear." Now, let's pause and reflect for a little bit. This in of itself is not something you hear everyday. 

 "Well, he has a wooden foot." 

"Cooper, he doesn't have a wooden foot. I can see his bare feet."

"Seriously mama! It's wooden."

"Why do you say that?"

"He touched my foot with his foot and it was wooden, I could tell."

This is what we have to look forward to in our old age. This man, though spry as a ninja, had such dry, crusty old feet that my child thought they were made of wood. 

The lesson we should learn is this: put lotion on your feet -- just not between the toes. Have a good Thanksgiving, also. 

All The First Days of School

As we come to the close of our second week in school, I’d like to write a few words about the first week of school. I am absolutely finished with the defining “first” moment of school. That’s too much pressure for this nutcase. I took the machine gun approach to celebrating the return to class.

There was not one single moment of reflection and melancholy, but a whole blob of them coming at me fast and furious. So many of my friends and family have asked about Mason’s first-first day. Did he cry? How did you do? Yada yada and all that.

Well, here’s the thing. No one cried. Well, no one from our family cried as they walked into class on the first day that attendance was taken. But there were some tears. Since everyone is looking for a sob story, I'll piece it together here.

On New School Year’s Eve the kindergarten teacher hosted an ice cream social. Brilliant. There was ice cream, no tears. Well, except from me when I watched her love on another person’s kid that I didn’t even know. She was so amazing that I teared up with awe at her ability to love small, grubby, children who were for all intents and purposes strangers to her. I also breathed a major, and I do mean major sigh of relief.

Then there was the meet-and-greet. This is a new tradition at our school. It’s like freshmen orientation for everyone, all grades, all students, plus parents. It’s also the day you haul all your school supplies to school. They take attendance, which is to say they check to see who brought 4 reams of paper, 120 paper plates, 100 gallon-sized ziplocks, 48 sharpened pencils, 24 glue sticks, etc. I know for a fact that when I started school back in 1980 all of my school supplies fit nicely in my backpack. Someone needs to teach the district about supply-chain management and the power of buying in bulk. Wait, that’s another post for another day.

No one cries at the meet-and-greet. We had some nerves. Namely Mason absolutely could not bring himself to eat breakfast. But Cooper was delighted to see his buddies and settled into his seat in the middle of his very favorite people. Cooper’s teacher has previously taught 6^th graders. I believe that 2^nd graders will try her patience, but could not be happier with her level of expectation.

As we walked the halls of school we bumped into our friendly principal several times. He’s a greeter and a small-talker. So, he spoke to us at least 3 times in the 2 hours we were on campus. Mason yanked on my skirt and asked, “Who’s that strange guy? He’s everywhere.”

Following a very busy but mostly positive day we drove to Mason’s swimming lesson. Guess who was sitting in the lobby of our swim school?!?!!? Our principal! Mason stood still in his flip-flops but did not say a word. He went into his lesson and I proceeded to explain to the principal why it was a special treat to see him outside of school. When Mason was done with his lesson he leaned in and whispered to me, “See, I told you he. Is. EVERYWHERE.”

Please note Coop's choice of socks.

By Tuesday we were all photographed to pieces. But this was the real first-day of school. The boys elected – independently – to wear matching, highlighter-yellow shirts. (Jenn Webinaci you better find this reference amazing.) Then, we were late. We were late to the FIRST day of school! Yes, we’re those parents. So, Cooper ran to his line all by himself and barely waved goodbye. Steve and I walked with Mason to his.

Again, the amazing kindergarten teacher led the kids in a cheer about having no fear and being brave. This cheer was for the parents. Then she posed with each child for a picture. Then they went into class. Mason did not cry. I did not cry. Steve did not cry (well, maybe he did but he wears really dark sunglasses). Then my bestie came up to me and gave my arm a squeeze and I wanted to cry, but I did not. The corner of one eye got a little wet, but it could have been allergies.

Kisses all around and parting of ways and I was off to start my new life as mother with things to do without two in tow. I didn’t miss them until 2:30 when I would normally be picking up Mason from preschool. Then I basically drummed my fingers for an hour before I picked them up.

No one cried. Well, not until Thursday evening in the car. All good questions come while driving in the car. Mason blurted, “Hey mom, when is my half day?”

“Oh buddy. You don’t have half days anymore. You’re all grown up.” Then I looked back to see his response.

His chin actually quivered, he sniffed. Then he bravely blinked away a tear and a half, and stated, “OK, I can handle it.”

Kindergarten, II

See this picture?

On a campus far, far away in a decade long, long ago.

I’m the one in the ever-so-striking pleated shorts, too much make up, and earrings that are large enough to pick up AM/FM radio. It’s significant, however, because that short imp in second row sent it to me via text message just a few days ago. And guess why she had it? Because our university was going to throw it away. Apparently our legacy is obsolete. We’re old. They took our picture out of the frame and probably put new “kids” in – ones that definitely are not wearing pleated shorts – and threatened to throw it away if no one claimed it.

This blow to the ego was the horse pulling the dreaded cart of a new stage in life. My Masaroni is growing up and stuff. That’s right, the littlest starts kindergarten in less than 48 hours.

Oh yeah, he's that cute.

I’ve been worrying more about how I feel about this. But then, in a quiet voice Mason asked me, “How long until I go to my new school?” There was obvious uncertainty fluttering in his eyelashes. The kind that makes a mother gasp in her heart of hearts and choose her next words very, very carefully. At the time it was a mere two sleeps. In fact, it was this afternoon and he is to report to class on Monday morning. Explaining this time period brought a silence in him that was more silent than usual.

With hesitation I asked him if he was nervous. Pregnant pause. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

“Well, you know," I started, “The Coop will be just down the hall; you can ask your teacher to go and get him.” Mason nodded, thoughtfully.

“You are going to rock kindergarten! They will love you!” I said with just a touch of desperation in my voice.

I knew I should be asking him what he was afraid of, but I also knew if I asked I would cry when I, a) admitted to myself that he was afraid, and b) heard why he was afraid. Also, I am afraid. I am afraid that if my kindergartener leaves the home campus, I’ll step even closer to the “old” that my alma matter has labeled me.

This isn’t my first kindergartener. You’d think I was an old pro at this talk. But, Coop was… I mean is a different type of student. He can’t wait for school to start. He, frankly, thought very little of the first day of school that first year, or this year. He shooed us away when we tried to take pictures and make a big deal of it. Then he walked into class. Didn’t even look back, or hug us, or cry.

Darn it.

I felt cheated that year. Wasn’t nostalgia supposed to drip off the day? Isn’t the first day of kindergarten for the first child you send the very reason Jackie-O sunglasses have never gone out of fashion? I had no running mascara to hide that day. But this year, I suspect this year will be – wetter. Crying-er. Maybe down right pathetic-er.

And Hooorah! Right?

If I missed out on something last time, should I be happy I’ll definitely get it this time? This very last time. Sigh. Nope. I think I’m wishing for some courage for the both of us. Which feels better? That your child hang onto your leg, shed some tears, and hesitate as he crosses the threshold of the classroom? Or should we all wish that our kids bound in, take a seat, and excitedly breathe in the scent of freshly sharpened pencils? I’ll report back once I’ve had a taste of both.

For now, good luck to my two favorite students. Both of you. You have each other. You will be liked at school. And you will be missed here at home. Got any suggestions what I should do with myself?