Saturday, August 31, 2013

First


Zachary tucks his small hand in mine as we walk towards his elementary school for orientation. He stands with his back against me; waits patiently in the alcove with dozens of other incoming first graders and their nervous parents. He allows me to encircle his shoulders with my arms. He plays with the thin jade bracelet on my left wrist. He lays the back of his dark head on my chest.

He is quiet; he chews on the neck of the soft gray t-shirt he is wearing.

His exuberance and curiosity resurface as we explore his colorful classroom. He exclaims and smiles when he discovers old favorite books in the class library. He hugs his teacher. Tests his chair.

The following morning, I beat my alarm by at least 20 minutes. In just over 2 hours Zachary is to board the bus for first grade for the first time.

I wash my face and brush my teeth.
I shrug on a dress and sweep my hair back into a ponytail.

I walk downstairs to the silent kitchen and pour a mug of coffee. I turn on some quiet piano solos and make Zachary’s lunch. I pack items I know he enjoys. I focus on things that will fill him up, but that he can eat quickly and while distracted. Pretzels. Hummus. Cheese. Soft Bread. A ripe peach.

I hear his bare feet on the hardwoods at twenty past six. I scoop him up (he lets me) and we snuggle on the couch. He holds Puppy 1 (his favorite worn stuffed animal) and I reach under his pajama shirt and tickle his back. I can smell his morning breath. I talk to him a bit as he wakes.

I share with him a secret that I happen to know: teachers get nervous, too.

I turn my head away and push down powerful tears and emotions. I find my steadiest voice and assure him that he will be in his special room in my heart’s heart all day. That if he feels unsure, he can turn thoughts to me and know, with unwavering confidence, that I am standing tall and holding him close.

He asks if I have butterflies in my stomach.
I tell him I do.
He tells me he does, too.

I purposely end our time a few moments after that; set my sights on bucking him up and getting him ready. I send him upstairs to pee and brush teeth and get dressed. I toast him a waffle. Cut it into three strips. Give him permission to zone on the couch as he eats.

He is bouncing and smiling and ready by 7:30 (his bus comes at 7:58). I suggest a photo shoot in the front hallway. He complies. Zoe, and her prize winning bed-head, joins us. We walk out the front door. My boy, wearing a backpack twice the width of his little back, sprints ahead of me down the front path. We start towards the end of the driveway.

The sun is out. I step off of the porch and see three hot air balloons flying overhead. I point them out to everyone. The children excitedly reach their hands to try and catch them (a tradition of ours).

By the time we reach the end of the driveway, Zachary’s friend is walking towards the bus stop as well. Zachary has not a sliver of nervousness.

His feet dance in navy crocs.
His knees twist and shake in crooked circles.
He is movement and joy and life.

We wait.

Then, it comes. In slow motion. The image I have seen in my head since I realized my boy would one day grow up: The yellow school bus turns onto the street.

It is the sound of children.
It is the rumble of motor.
It is a moving container of most precious cargo.

The bus rounds the corner. Slows. Stops.

Zachary and his friend walk up the stairs with not a moment’s hesitation. I quickly introduce myself to the bus driver. I tell her to take good care of my son. To be safe.

She smiles.
Tells me it will get easier.
I wave to Zachary as the bus drives away.

And.
Like that.
He is no longer a baby.
He is no longer under my watch. I am no longer holding him safely in my gaze.

He is responsible for learning. For self advocacy. For making friends and fighting battles.

Finding a seat.
Finding a friend.
Finding his way.

I cry, of course.
I walk towards the house.
I look up at the sky and send a powerful thought his way.
I know he feels my love.

Later that afternoon when the bus returns and the doors open, Zachary leaps down the stairs and deftly avoids my arms. He tells me: grown ups don’t need hugs!  

Zach has come back a bit more self assured.

I sling his backpack over my shoulder and follow his little frame down the driveway.

I smile.
It is a day of firsts.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Faith

When I was pregnant with Zoe, I had to explain conception to Zach. He was 3.

Zachary is intelligent. More than that though, he is fiercely curious about how things work and will push forward with questions until he understands the concept.

Not only was he speaking in full paragraphs at age 3, he was also forming highly complex thoughts and concerns. I would frequently remind myself of his age.

The inquisition came one morning in the car. I was about 8 months along. He was snacking on goldfish and a sippy cup of milk when he asked how the baby was going to come out of my body.

I stalled.
Stammered.

I realized that what was keeping me from answering was my concern he would be frightened for my well-being coupled with a fear of choosing the right words.

I decided it was best to simply tell the truth.

I told him.

I watched his shocked reaction in the rearview mirror.
For a few minutes he sat, silently reflecting, in his car seat.

Then, he hit me with the follow-up question (those are always the tough ones):

Ok mommy, if the baby comes out of your vagina, how does it get in there?

Oh man.

He wasn’t willing to let it go and I wasn’t willing to lie.
So, I told him.

I gave a bare bones explanation of man and woman and marriage. Leveraged the schema he already had of planting seeds and expanded on it. Used words like “egg” and “fertilizer” and “growth”.

He seemed satisfied.
A little embarrassed.
I felt good about my explanation.

At that point in time, I thought I had answered the hardest question he would ever ask of me. When I am dealing with explaining something difficult to my children, I think I will never be faced with breaking down anything more challenging.

Now, I know better.

Zachary has been educated on the concept of G-d. He attends synagogue. Knows that G-d is omnipotent and everywhere at the same time. Understands G-d as an all-knowing. Accepts that he can not see G-d, but knows He exists.  Like my love for him, Zachary knows that G-d demonstrates himself in ways that make the intangible, tangible.

The other day, during a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Zach “threw” G-d.

I was shocked.
Occasionally, he will “throw” dynamite or a volcano, but never G-d.
I asked him why he had made his choice.

Because, he answered, nothing can beat Him.

Zachary is a science-head. He understands polarity and evaporation. He gets that there are things that exist in our physical world that are too small to see with our eyes.

Atoms.
Cells.
Viruses.
Molecules.

He loves the evolutionary chart and was hard pressed to leave the fossil room at The Museum of Natural History.

Today, again in the car, Zachary hit me with another crusher. He asked me who the first humans were and how they came to be.

I told him that I would enlighten him when we got home. I then spent the remainder of the drive trying to figure out how to explain to a 6 year old the juxtaposition of faith and reality.

I struggled with when to reference the first chapters of Genesis. Which of the two creation narratives to explain. Wrestled with if I should yet communicate the concept of Original Sin (even though it is a belief not shared in Judaism).

How could I clarify the theory of man and woman being created by G-d, in G-d’s image, and in the same breath illustrate the facts of evolution?

I decided that the best thing to do was to describe it all. I watered down the concept of sin in an effort to make it more palatable to a 6 year old; used phrases like “making choices that weren’t so great”. I peppered that explanation with the caveat that we are just human.

I took him through the whole story with my own theory beating steady as an undercurrent.

Before I launched into my lesson, I reasoned with myself: my son wants faith in G-d but also needs a firm understanding of how things work.

When I consider faith, I think also of confidence.
Of complete trust in something.
Someone.

Merging the concepts of faith and reality is a challenge.

Reality is the state of things as they actually exist-rather than how they might be perceived. This reality gives a quality of substance.

I think belief, faith, is a sky-dive jump with an invisible rip cord.
It is the steeled knowledge that you will be caught before you hit the ground.

The best thing to do, then, is acknowledge what you know in your heart to be reality before you leap into the sky with a faithfully packed parachute.

These are the concepts of enormity that clamor in my brain as I explain the origin of man to my son.

Sure, I could have used a carefully illustrated children’s book about the original love story as a learning tool. I could have handed over a well-preserved fossil, revisited the evolutionary chart, and called it a day.

But then, I return to the marriage of reality and belief and know that I want to teach my son that it’s not always easy to understand.

Living an honest life requires thought and difficult explanations.

I hope Zachary will remember that.

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Crazy Town

You guys. Seriously. I’ve got a problem over here.

My children are certifiable.
Nutso.
Crazy like a moose running down a highway the wrong way wearing rain-boots and a diaper.

Zoe is The Gremlin. A gremlin with a cute face and huge hair. With a voice that sounds like an old woman who has taken one too many shots of Jack while smoking a pack of Reds. And sucked a helium balloon. Upside down. While eating cookies. Naked.

Zach is The Director. He sits in the corner in a motorized chair made of legos, dirt and hummus. He barks orders while thumbing through the latest issue of Scientific American and skimming the article on electronic conductivity. He holds a megaphone and a moral compass. Periodically he twitches. Shrieks. Twiddles his thumbs. Studies The Gremlin. Sneaks her treats under the table.

There is no gradual wake up period in this house. The Gremlin and The Director go from asleep to “where the hell is my waffle” in under 3 seconds. By the time I get to the evening I am ready to commit myself.

Today, the following exchanges with The Gremlin and The Director took place between 6:17 and 6:41 PM.
No words have been changed.
Punctuation is ignored because Gremlins and Directors think punctuation is stupid.

Actually, mommy, this pop is not my favorite color… Twinkle twinkle little star, how I know my ABC’s... In the rainbow in the skyyyyy….”

The Gremlin stubs her toe while uttering the above stream of consciousness and heading towards the staircase. She collapses. Screams. Stands. Looks up at me.

“Mommy, I see a little bone sticking out of my leg. Can you get me a sip of wat…”

She smacks her lips. Goes catatonic; comes to a moment later.

“Butt-pop! I be glad to go night night. Can you read me a stor…”

She removes her pants and underwear.

“You can’t get me. Na na na Mickey Mouse”

She sprints up the stairs.

Meanwhile, The Director is downstairs with a tin can telephone made of old yogurt drink containers and hemp rope. He calls me.

“Mom. MOM. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommy. MOOOOOM. Mom.”

I don’t answer because I am upstairs wrestling with The Gremlin. Trying to get her to stop dancing. Trying to get her to keep her hands out of my shirt. The Director bangs on the door of The Gremlin’s room.

MOM! I have been calling YOU. I need you to talk to me on my yogurt phone. I have a very important phone call I need to make to put my Death-Star on Ebay. I need something with a motor. I need to take a bath. Mom, if I take a bath can I bring my green boat in the bath? And my scuba mask. Where is my snorkel? But don’t put bubbles in my water this time. MOM! I am talking to you. Can you help me right now?”

I tell The Director to chill out and wait a minute. He retreats. I have time to take half of a half of a breath. My hair has frizzed out to the size of a small planet. He is back. This time wearing a hat and dragging a red wagon in which he has placed a popped balloon.

“MOM! This balloon clearly is not full. I will bring it to Home Depot and glue it together with Gorilla Glue. Mom. Mom. Can we go to Home Depot right now?”

I tell him no. Not at this exact moment. He sulks off. Clearly, there is no worse mother than me. I hear him chase the cat. He returns with her in his arms. He has ditched the wagon and is holding both the cat and a half of a banana.

“Mom. Mommy. Mom? Something is wrong with Cleo. She smells like a Bologna sandwich.”

This is the point in the evening where I flirt precariously with losing the ability to function. I have fantasies of quiet white rooms and soft beds and soothing music.

Fine.
Whatever.

I have fantasies of shots of Tequila. If I shoot Gran Patron, I won’t know if I’m in a soft bed or curled up with cheerios stuck to my knees and an old piƱata as a pillow.

It won’t matter though.
They will find me.
They always do.

My children are crazy.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

40

Dedication:

This is my 40th blog.
My 120th page.
This piece will take my online writing to over 31,000 words.

My first entry, Pantene Pro-Me, is about my oldest child (then 3 years old) and the struggle I had with putting him to bed.
This conflict with my son turned into an epiphany of self.

A revelation.

Zachary was my initial drive towards writing. When, at bedtime, he wrapped himself around me to breathe in my hair--his body entwined in mine—he ignited an ongoing and personal quest towards emotional slow down.

I write this 40th blog in honor of my current 3 year old and her bedtime ritual.
I write in honor of my children.
I write in celebration of the gifts they have given me.


Zoe doesn’t walk. She bounces.
Zoe doesn’t dance. She gets down.
Zoe sees no reason to talk if she can yell.
No reason to hug if she can squeeze.
No reason to hum if she can sing.

Zoe does everything 100%.
She’s my all-the-way girl.

It strikes me as odd, then, that her bedtime is so calm. Don’t get me wrong, because she is my second child, I appreciate any bit of ease I am awarded. But her willingness to go to bed doesn’t jive with her fireball of a personality.

It starts with a bath.

She is naked before we get to the stairs. She’d be naked all the time if I allowed it. And if we are home, generally, I do.

I walk up the stairs behind her chubby white tush and threaten to eat her.
She screams.
She laughs.
I pounce.

I carry her wiggling body into the bathroom. As I run the water, she helps herself onto the toilet to pee. Every night it’s the same decibel heavy exclamation, “Mommy! I peeing!”

“That’s fabulous Zoe,” I say.

She squiggles off of the toilet and into the warm water.
She demands more bubbles.
More toys.
More bath crayons.
A bouncy ball.
A cookie!

I would never give her a cookie in the bath. That would defeat the purpose.
Ok. Maybe I gave her a cookie once.

She plays for a while and then I wash her hair with sweet smelling strawberry shampoo. She tilts her head back into my hands and closes her eyes. I pour warm water. She smiles a coy smile.

“All done?” she asks.

I wipe her face and help her into her butterfly towel.

“Flap my wings!” she insists.

I scoop her into a basket carry and flop her legs up-and-down-up-and-down in the mirror.

I place her on the floor of the bathroom; dry her off. She discards the towel and runs into my bedroom. She selects a toy from the basket I keep (just for her) next to my dresser. I attempt to calm her curls with spray conditioner. She sits naked and sings. I dry her hair.

I powder her. I lotion her face.
I help her into her pajamas.

My Zoe stands before me. Clean and beaming. I can not help but kiss her. She presses her nose against mine and utters my current favorite phrase, “Actually, mommy, my face is on your face.”

She kisses me back.

We head into her bedroom and she climbs into her bed.
I choose a book and join her under the covers.

Sometimes we read Goodnight Moon. Sometimes it’s Llama Llama.

When the book is finished, I smack the top of her head with it.
I do this every night.
She loves it.

As I return the selection to her bookshelf, Zoe snuggles down under her covers.

She tells me to “Sing over da’ rainbow and scratch my back.”

I lean down very close and tickle her back. Place my face against her warm cheek. Sing the song into her ear.

When I finish, she asks for a drink of water.
I supply it.

She asks to give me a kiss and a hug.
Every night.
Every. Night.

As I give her her bedtime hug she rubs my back. She takes her tiny dimpled hand and runs it back and forth between my shoulder blades. She does this in such a way that I feel I am being comforted by someone 20 times her age. She is deliberate. She is caring. She is conscious.

As I stand up, I kiss her tiny little lips.

“Good night mommy,” she says “you go to sleep now, too?”

I assure her that, yes, soon I will.

I close her door.

I do not know how long this will last. I do not know if it will stay easy and blissful.

I do, however, know this: I appreciate it every time it happens.

I appreciate her smell.
I appreciate her size.
I appreciate her curls and her skin and her laughter.

Zachary taught me to slow down and take stock.
Zoe taught me that if I tolerate the noise, eventually I will find the quiet.


Happy anniversary.
Thank you for coming along for the journey.
I hope you will join me as I continue to write.

Monday, August 5, 2013

New Beginning


Sunrise over the ocean.
Golden light by the lake.
In a pinch, my steaming driveway after a recent rain.

There is something about being by the water that speaks to my heart.

I walk along the Vineyard shore searching for the tiny bubbles Quahogs send up to breathe. I plunge my hand into the sand to see if I can beat their descent. Sometimes I capture one to plunk in an old orange bucket. Sometimes I hold a handful of nothing.

It all works just fine for me.

I like to dive into the ocean and close my eyes and listen to the plink-plonk of shells rubbing against one another. I like to squinch my toes in the cold mud of a lake. To comb my fingers through the grass that blows in the current from the dark of the watery floor.

The journey to anywhere by the water takes me to my calm place, too.

Bright blue barn doors
Organized rows of wildflowers
A funnel of white seagulls
Tiny pop-able blueberries
Sudsy broken-down wash-N-go
Quilt stand
Old green hulled boat
Sweet corn

The warm breeze on my bare arm out the window.

I work hard to bring myself to the water. I choose to live in locations as close to it as I can possibly afford. I routinely load my children into the car for drives to the sand; even if we just spend an hour or two.

It’s medicinal to me.
Oxygen.
Breath.

Recently I got away for the weekend with my college girlfriends. A few of us were missing due to understandable life-conflicts. Having a baby. Landing a new job.

Most of us were there though. We carpooled. We told stories of boyfriends and girl-fights. We arrived first thing in the morning, laughing already. We gave thanks to our hostess for being so welcoming with her home on the Cape; her hospitality gave all of us the opportunity to revel in the company of one another.

I notice that as we have grown we’ve become more accepting of circumstance and idiosyncrasy. There are no evaluations. No stress.

Instead, there are overflowing cups of champagne and orange juice.
Coolers full of sandwiches and fresh fruit.
Beach chairs.
Bathroom breaks.
Laughter so hard my stomach cramps.

For 24 hours we reminisce.
We talk about decisions we made that we never would have made again.
We laugh at how glad we are to have made bad choices. To have taken risks that we pray our own daughters won’t. (That we secretly hope they will.)

We review stumble home evenings from bars.
Old boyfriends.
Current husbands.
Children.
Anxiety.

We tell jokes and eat too much. We pile into one car to drive to town. We strap our smallest friend into a baby seat and load a few of us into the rear of an SUV.

For 24 hours we slough off reality and bask in the ocean. The sand. The comfort of girlfriends.

I pause as I write to give thanks for friends who love one another.

The water is an old friend to me as well.
I accept its gifts every time I visit.

There is the old green sign I found during one beach walk that now hangs above a special door in my home; a door to an area that I rarely share.

It reads: There is a sense of forever in the sound of the sea.

It is the sound of foreverness that comforts me.
The hush and forth of the waves that will never stop; their drum beat lend perspective to my petty problems.

There is the barky piece of tree my brother used as a flag on top of a fort he built for my son one afternoon in New Castle. My brother inscribed a black Z in a choppy circle in the center of the souvenir. When Zoe was born, Zachary added a smaller silver circle with a baby z inside. I keep the memory on a faded wooden stool in my dining room.

There are shells and old coins in a pile on my dresser.

There are rocks from particularly important trips; smooth and white or striped or claw shaped.

I write the name of the beach and the date of the visit on the rock in thin, neat permanent marker. Two of the most important stones sit in an old silver candle holder on my night table.

When I hear the water, it is more than a feeling of friendship.
It is love and permanence and dependability.

Beach hair
Dances in the wind
Salt-lick ocean skin

Sensibility and chipped paint
Sparklers in the hands of laughing children

A mish-mosh of weathered perfection.