Tag Archives: memories

August 23, 2010 · 1:17 pm

The Learning Curve

Of course, the days of kindergarten are no more. My wily charges are soon-to-be fourth graders, bigger fish in the proverbial pond. But I remember well their grand entry into the Land of Books and Pencils…

Well, we made it through those first crucial weeks of kindergarten. Ten days. Two hours. And sixteen minutes. But who’s counting? No one was abandoned on the bus, abducted by aliens, locked in a closet or swallowed by a third grader. By all accounts, the transition proceeded quite smoothly (aside from our collective exhaustion). Although it could just be that their tiny bodies are still in a state of shock and their brains haven’t fully processed the information. Had the proper processing occurred, they might then realize that THEY SHOULD BE MISSING MOMMY MORE. Way more. Instead, they’re off each day merrily making friends, kibitzing in the hallways and doing all sorts of fun stuff with scissors, glue and “smelling-good markers”—three things I’d have banished from the curriculum till Jr. High if it were up to me.

In essence, I’m the one who has an array of adjustment issues. At times, I’m a pitiful creature who suffers needlessly and miserably with the pangs of separation—the I-miss-my-kids-even-though-they-make-me-crazy sort of malady. But I expected as much. At least in the beginning. I worry about this and that and the other stupid thing, driving myself batty in the process. My husband can readily attest. “Hey, don’t pack that hot dog in her lunch! Don’t you know one of her friends will make her laugh and she’ll choke to death!?” Like I said, he can attest to the ridiculous nature of my concerns.

Maybe the term ridiculous doesn’t quite cover it. I watch the clock more than I’d care to admit, flip through the television channels pausing wistfully on their favorite programs and wonder what they’re doing at noon and at one o’clock and again at two-thirty. Okay, I wonder what my little urchins are doing from the instant the bus rounds the bend and fades from view in the morning until it reappears in the afternoon with dozens of tiny faces pressed against the glass, wordlessly revealing what the day had brought to each and every rider.

Quite frankly, my curiosity gets the best of me. More than once I have fought the urge to stuff myself inside a backpack and tag along for the day. Safely tucked away, I could spy without ever being discovered—shamelessly satisfying my desire to know what really goes on in the life of a kindergartener. Oh, to eavesdrop on their conversations over the course of a day…. I can’t imagine anything more telling—or delicious. Of course, imagining is about all I can do at this point—because thus far they’ve been less than cooperative in the information sharing arena.

Maybe it’s because I’m viewed as an outsider now—a meddlesome mommy with a hidden agenda. Or maybe it’s because they’re veritable zombies when they first get home, stunned by the tsunami-sized day they probably had. “Mommy, you ask too many questions. I just don’t want to talk right now.” So we empty backpacks in the middle of the kitchen floor, together sifting through the day’s artifacts—my only clues as to what went on there in the Land of Kindergarten. And from what I can gather, most of it is good—which makes me feel good.

There are half-eaten lunches and prized drawings, books and crafty things galore “…that we made all by ourselves!” and strange-looking tidbits of memorabilia stashed away for keeps—like the pebble “…I tucked inside my sock so I could add it to my collection, Mommy” and “…the penny I found on the floor today!”

But there are tears, too, in the telling of “Mommy, I missed you so I cried a little bit,” and the bumps and bruises and behemoth-sized band-aids with which skinned knees were patched—lovingly, I might add. “The nurse is really nice and she gave me this be-U-tiful brown band-aid! I’m leaving it on for-EVER!” Three days certainly came close.

And there are warm remembrances too. “I love my bus driver…and the girl in the yellow shirt with blonde hair helped me find the nurse’s office…and the tall girl with purple butterflies on her shirt hugged me so I’d stop missing you at lunchtime…and my teacher always makes me feel all better, Mommy.”

Maybe this transition thing is going even better than I thought. As for me, I’m still on the learning curve wagon, trying to figure it all out and get over myself besides. What a sissy.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under "N" is for Nostalgia, Kid-Speak, Love and Loss, Me Myself and I, Mushy Stuff, School Schmool

Tagged as adjustment to school, family, guilt, humor, kids, kindergarten, little things, loss, love, memories, moms, parenting, school, special

August 1, 2010 · 11:48 pm

Seize the Summer!

It’s summertime. A scrumptious slice of the calendar devoted to kicking back and drinking in all the goodness a slower pace has to offer. A time to reflect upon what has transpired in this harried life since the days of early September. A time to consume shameful quantities of sweet corn, to ogle tan lines and to permanently etch upon our minds the abundance of produce, the warmth of the sun and the sea of green now present at our doorstep. Come January, we’ll doubt it will ever return.

Aah, dear summer—for you I have waited so long. And I shall savor every drop of laid-back-ness you exude. And yet, there is more—your season represents a grand and glorious opportunity for getting things done. Things we wouldn’t normally pencil into a maxed out schedule. Throughout the year we gather and garner a host of hopeful projects, solemnly promising to paint this, sell that, visit here, organize and clean there—banking on the completion of virtually everything we set out to do. In a word, we’ll get it done. This summer.

As a kid, I remember thinking that the delicious months of June, July and August were roughly equivalent to the Paleozoic Era, generously supplying my cronies and me with a wealth of endless days for building forts, orchestrating baseball games and designing rafts for numerous (and sadly, futile) attempts at creek crossings. September seemed so very far away.

Since then, decades have come and gone. I now recognize that summer is, indeed, a finite chunk of time capable of slipping through one’s fingers like grains of sand. Occasions for doing and seeing that which I deem worthy (to include lazy afternoons spent in the sandbox with my kids) are perhaps not quite as plentiful as I once thought. That said, I’ve endeavored to seize what is left of summer by compiling a list of the ordinary and not so ordinary things I’d like to accomplish on or before September 1^st.

1) Finally, FINALLY take my heathens to Knoebels at least once before they head back to school (inspired, of course, by the incessant whining to which I’ve been subjected since the first week of June). “Mom, my ENTIRE CLASS has already been to Knoebels—that’s 22 families, you know!” Note to self: Guilt is an extremely effective motivator.

2) Learn a new language—more specifically, Pokemon. The driving force behind this particular goal is so that I might communicate with my Pokemon-obsessed children. “Mom, I got Zigzagoon, Pidgeotto, Zubat and Voltorb and all I had to do was trade my Grimer! Isn’t that entirely AWESOME?!!” Sadly, I don’t get it. But I’m hopeful that by September, I will.

3) Convince my brood that certain things in life are of vital importance (especially as it relates to living with me)—like remembering to flush the toilet, to brush that shock of hair once in a great while and to fight the urge to litter the earth (or my floors and furniture) with wet suits and towels. Ugh.

4) Actually FINISH something I’ve started—like a book, any number of projects, a purging mission from hell (i.e. an enormously cathartic event in which I chuck various items with wild abandon—most efficiently completed sans children).

5) Arrive somewhere ON TIME—parties, picnics, assorted camps and swimming lessons, church—you name it. Admittedly, I am severely deficient in the realm of time management. Even my kids know the score. “Daddy always gets us places early, Mom. Why can’t you?”

6) Train my brood to at least tolerate the ritualistic slathering-of-sunscreen (i.e. to stop hiding behind the couch and screaming, “I HATE sunscreen and I HATE how it tastes! Do you want me to eat it and DIE?!”). Likewise, it would be a welcome change if one or both progenies could perhaps consider said lotions and sprays as something other than pure and unadulterated horribleness in a can.

It’s summertime! Be sure to seize what remains!

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under "N" is for Nostalgia, Daily Chaos, Kid-Speak

Tagged as family, humor, kids, little things, love, memories, moms, parenting, projects, summertime

July 15, 2010 · 11:28 pm

Rock Star

My kids have a new hero in my friend, John (Pete) Cokefair; however, the man possesses no superpowers to speak of. He wears not a flowing, red cape or a clever mask to obscure his true identity. Nor is he capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound or even turning the slightest shade of green whilst morphing into a rage-driven, beast-of-a-thing with meaty thighs and arms of steel. And (I am overjoyed to report) he would never dream of donning square-ish pants or living anywhere near a pineapple under the sea.

And yet, in my children’s eyes, he is revered above all else. Revered for having created a symphony of earthen matter, for having masterminded a labyrinth worthy of critical acclaim, for having erected a shrine to one of their most beloved possessions on God’s green earth—rocks. Mountains of rocks. More rocks than I have ever seen amassed in one place by one set of hands in one lifetime. Forget the Man of Steel. Pete’s the Man of Stone. The Keeper of Boulderish Things.

A rock star.

Since the dawn of time my wily rock-picker-uppers have worshiped and glorified all-that-is-igneous-or-sedimentary in nature, hunting and gathering everything from wee grains of sandstone in the Deep South to massive hunks of granite in the Adirondacks. No matter where our travels have taken us, stony mementos have followed—into our pockets, into our cars, into our lives, ad nauseam. Eternally, it seems, we’ve griped about the gravel. We’ve sighed over the shale. We’ve protested the pea-sized pebbles lurking about. Our rock-strewn garage floor is no exception.

Craggy, old fossils and sleek-looking skippers alike adorn the tops of dressers and fill boxes and buckets galore, pervading the nooks and crannies of our insanely cluttered existence. Each of those ageless treasures apparently possessed a certain charm and appeal, even before being plucked so abruptly from its hollow in the dirt. Each begged to be adopted. Each extolled its many virtues, functionality and versatility chief among them (i.e. “I’m quiet and I’d make a great paperweight!”). Like fools, my husband and I fed the obsession, allowing said prized pearls to be hauled home—to be loved and nurtured as part of the family—to forever festoon my windowsills—to live beneath my every footfall. Grok!

Even the newest addition (a sandstone-hued Jeep) was scrutinized unmercifully for its rock-storing capabilities. Ned at Alexander Nissan made doubly sure the vehicle of my dreams passed muster, having personally verified its wealth of perfectly-sized and ruggedly-constructed cubbyholes—ideal for the mounds of stones sure to be squirreled away there for many moons to come. Needless to say, my charges are a tad bit passionate (read: downright fanatical) about their darling little collections.

So when given the opportunity to experience something as magnificent as Pete’s Serenity Garden (to which his stony creation is affectionately referred), my rock-loving crew jumped at the chance—practically drooling over the notion of treading upon what they believed to be hallowed ground. I assured them it would be like witnessing something sacred. Something extraordinary. Something profoundly enigmatic. In a word, it would rock their world. To be sure, they weren’t disappointed.

“Mom! Mr. Cokefair has enough rocks to make a real castle or something!”

“Yeah, and they probably weigh as much as 50 elephants! Or maybe a whole Argentinosaurus dinosaur!”

For the record, their estimates are close if not dead-on. And as expected, after devouring such a wondrous sight and running amuck along the walls and winding paths of stone, they begged for a souvenir to remind them of the grand event. “It’s a memory, Mom. Everywhere we go, we have to take something to help us remember.”

Thankfully, Pete obliged, doling out a couple of freshly washed sandstone orbs for the road. It was better than the alternative—which was tolerating the hideous clump of dog fur one of my dandies had smuggled into the car, ostensibly harvested from Daisy or Teddy, the golden retrievers with whom we had shared the day. “At least the rocks won’t make me sneeze,” I rationalized. Naturally, Pete autographed each precious keepsake, humoring the troops for my sake and salvation.

It was a fitting end to a phenomenal day, I suppose—and what any true hero, friend (or rock star) would do.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under A Tree is Nice, Daily Chaos, Lovers of All Things Rockish, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as humor, kids, memories, nature lover, parenting, rock collectors, rocks, stones, summertime

June 20, 2010 · 6:00 am

The Truth about Dads

On the outside, dads are like steel. Anodized steel to be exact. But way down, deep inside, they’re all mush. Every last one of them. Show me any cantankerous, tough as nails, testosterone-driven Neanderthal, and I’ll show you his softer side—and we needn’t even be near a Sears Department Store.

For some unknown reason, back when the rules of life were written, people got the harebrained idea that men, and little boys who would eventually grow to become men, weren’t supposed to show any signs of sensitivity. Period. They were expected to go through life as no-nonsense, rough-and-tumble, insensitive, emotionless creatures capable only of fathering children, providing for and protecting their families, fighting wars, shoveling snow and fixing whatever happened to be broken around the house. Most of them could also be counted on for lugging heavy stuff here and there—which isn’t such a bad thing.

Any man worth his salt developed a callous exterior by the time he could vote, which was sure to shield him from whatever touchy-feely stuff life threw his way. This protective shell served not only to keep things from getting in, but also to prevent seepage of emotions to the world outside. Surely the sky would have fallen if anyone had ever discovered that men had feelings. Look out, Chicken Little!

Unfortunately, as I look around even today, a lot of men still play by these silly unwritten rules. They obsess over what others may think of them and worry about appearing weak or unmanly if a mere smidgeon of sensitivity spills out. They refuse to allow themselves to blubber during movies, to whimper at weddings, to sob over sprained ankles or to bawl over breakups. Even crying over spilled milk is deemed unacceptable. Furthermore, should any man under any circumstances ever admit to “needing a good cry,” immediate banishment from the He-man Woman Haters Club would undoubtedly result. I just don’t get it. It must be “a guy thing.” At least women have enough sense to cry it out once in a while—or to gorge on chocolate.

Of course, all the real men (lovers and haters of quiche alike), who have adopted these impossible societal standards as their own, can’t fool me. I know the real score. Those hardened exteriors, seemingly impervious to anything and everything, are capable of melting away, layer by layer.

Watch closely as men become fathers. Their stone-like barriers soften as they

provide comfort and support for their wives during pregnancy and childbirth, as they hold their wriggly newborns, kiss their boo-boos and sweep monsters from beneath their beds. As they teach their children to cross streets, throw a ball and balance a two-wheeler dads often beam with pride. They give so much of themselves as they read to them, listen to them and answer their endless questions. They rarely refuse a requested piggy-back or horsie ride and they know no bounds when it comes to making faces, singing silly songs or holding tea parties with imaginary guests. Eventually, their true colors come out whether or not they want the world to see.

Even as their children progress through adolescence and it seems as though nothing but frustration is felt, hidden deep inside are compassion and sensitivity. Dads, too, instinctively worry—about the driving, about the dating, about the decisions that face their delicate and inexperienced charges. They hope and pray and dream for their children, like any parent should. Graduations, engagements and weddings serve only to peel more buffers away, revealing the tenderness inside. Personally, there is little else I find more appealing in a man.

Happy Father’s Day to all those who understand what it means to be a real man—and a good dad. You know what your youngest child likes for breakfast, that your middle child is afraid of the dark and that your oldest hates to be embarrassed in front of his friends. You realize that parenting calls for teamwork in order to be successful; so you do your part. You’re tuned in. And sensitive. And, like it or not, mushy inside. But it’s okay. Your secret is safe with me.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

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Filed under Holiday Hokum, Mushy Stuff

Tagged as dads, family, Father's Day, husbands, kids, little things, love, memories, parenting

May 17, 2010 · 6:00 am

A Horse of a Different Color

I have this delicious little fantasy—one in which I get to relive the year 1975, that interminable chunk of time during which everything revolved around the horribleness of wearing braces (or so it seemed). More specifically, I’d like to revisit life as a seventh grader, but as one who is fortunate enough to be fitted with today’s orthodontic wonders (i.e. the multi-colored bits of wonderfulness that kids ACTUALLY ENJOY WEARING—or so I’ve been informed by a certain giddified nine-year-old).

“Mom, my braces are SO COOL! Look-at-em! Look-at-em! Look-at-em! They’re PINK and GREEN and ORANGE and BLUE! Like little pieces of candy!”

Who wouldn’t be thrilled to have a Skittles-inspired smile, a rainbow-esque set of teeth, a made-to-order mouth full of cheer—as opposed to the lifeless hunks of steely gray with which I was damned? How perfectly dull and exceedingly ordinary they were. That said, I am a resentful creature—one who laments having missed out on the joys of modern day orthodonture and who waves the woe-is-me flag now and again just to remind everyone how completely unfair life is.

And let us not forget how decidedly intolerable the wretched things were way back when. That irksome hodgepodge of puny rubber bands that no one on earth should be expected to handle…those hideous-looking metal bands twisted unmercifully around each tiny tooth…and those sharpish wires—the ones that reveled in our misery, poking and jabbing our fleshy cheeks at will, causing undue pain and suffering as we (band geeks and athletes alike) caked on gobs of wax in the name of protecting our dear lips from trumpets and whatnot. Indeed, the braces of yesteryear were instruments of pure evil, likely designed by a sadist with some sort of oral fixation.

But aside from the gamut of physical adversities, I remember well the torrent of humiliation suffered, too. Getting braces in the junior high was a truly mortifying experience. It meant transforming instantaneously into a target for ridicule. “Brace Face!” “Metal Mouth!” “Tinsel Teeth!” and whatever else the non-wearers decided we ought to be called echoed throughout the crowed hallways as we snaked our way from classroom to classroom. It meant shamefully displaying that walnut-sized slab of repulsiveness (read: a pink retainer) on our cafeteria tray each day and living in fear that we might inadvertently dispose of it in the trash. It meant hiding our faces behind notebooks and jamming our heads inside lockers in a perfectly futile attempt to conceal the horrible truth—the wearing of braces. We murmured this and mumbled that, cupping a hand to our mouths almost without thinking. As if shame had become second nature. Heaven forbid we smile.

Nowadays the grand event is cause for celebration. Calendars are marked with sparkly stickers and giant “Hoorays!” in anticipation of the special day. Text messages are sent to one and all upon leaving the orthodontist’s office—
sharing the happy news the very instant those prized specks of joy are cemented to one’s pearly whites. Great masses gather ’round to catch a glimpse and to ooh and aah in amazement, the medley of specific hues that were chosen (after much deliberation) is applauded with great enthusiasm and the wearers of braces are warmly embraced by both populations: the non-wearers as well as the welcoming committee of the Bedazzled Teeth Club.