mom

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Dear Children: First Day Of School 2014

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I was informed over the summer that I do not know what junior high school boy’s fashion looks like. This might surprise you, but I am going to take that as a compliment. For many reasons.

I also learned this summer that I love sleep. Okay. This is not new. But gosh, I am going to miss late summer mornings. On the first day of school, I sobbed all of the way home after dropping you off and then crawled into bed and took a nap with your daddy. Just so you know this has continued for the last two days. It is my new favorite thing. A nap after waking. Although is that a nap? Or was my brief awake time merely a walking snooze?

Let us recount the first day of school for those of us not in our household:

I had thought the morning was going well. One child was out the door. I only had one to go. I thought it was the easy one. My daughter had needed me to flat iron her hair, help with her make-up and scrutinize her clothing skin exposure earlier in the morning. Okay, the last one was unwanted. But I cannot help it. I am a mom.

So, I thought I could cruise through the remainder of the morning with my son. All he had to do was put on a t-shirt and pants. Easy.

Except.

Well, the kid has been living in his pajamas and swim trunks for the last week. He went to put on his new first day of school shorts.

They would not button.

Not only would they not button. The button-hole and the button were so far apart it was The Grand Canyon Of Skin between them. What to do?

He unexpectedly had had a huge growth spurt and all of his pants suddenly did not fit. It was ten minutes before we had to leave.

Well, no big deal, I thought. I always purchase the next size up in pants on huge discounts when I see them. I pulled out a larger size replica of the shorts he had outgrown. They had been $6 at The Gap last year and still had the tags attached to them. They also surprisingly sported a large crusty yellow stain across the lower thigh when I went to take the tags off. This probably explains the low price and definitely explains the scream you heard from my house on Wednesday morning. There was no time to wash them. I hastily, and with great stress, found another pair in a drawer.

Note to self: next year have all of the first day of school outfits inspected and tried on before you have ten minutes to get to the school.

So, let us skip the remainder of the day (Nap. Eat. Nap. Worry) and get to the part where my children recounted their day to me over dinner:

Me to my son: “What was the best part of your day today?”

My son: “I really like my computer teacher.”

Me: “What do you like best about him?”

My son: “I love the chairs in his classroom.”

Me: “What?”

My son: “The chairs in his classroom. They swivel.”

Me: “The thing you like best about your teacher is his swivel chairs?”

My son: “Well, yea, and he has a cool classroom.”

And by cool classroom, he means a room filled with computers and swivel chairs. He lucked into his perfect elective. And hopefully not a swivel-chair-concussion.

I turned to my daughter and asked her the same question I had just asked my son, “What was the best part of your day today?”

My daughter: “Definitely the professional hugger at the pep rally.”

Me: “What the heck is a professional hugger?”

My daughter: “I don’t know but he made me cry.”

Me: “Because he hugged you?”

My daughter: “No, ugh, Mom! Because he gave the best speech.”

Me: “Did he hug anybody?”

My daughter: “No. Mom! There were hundreds of people there.”

Me: “Well, I would expect nothing less from a professional hugger. Hmmmm. I want to be hugged by a professional hugger. Maybe I am a professional hugger, only I don’t even know it because I can’t hug myself. Hug me. Let me know how I measure up.”

My daughter: “Mom! He didn’t hug me!”

Me: “Yes, I know. But as a professional hugger he must have looked very huggable so I bet you could imagine how he hugs. So just compare that to this.”

My daughter running away: “Mom!…”

That about sums it up. Swivel chairs and professional huggers. The first day of school is always full of surprises. I had started to cry that morning and my son had stopped me and said, “Mom. Don’t be that mom.”

He doesn’t know that I am always that mom.

This is a tough transitional year for me. I no longer have children in elementary school. And I never will again. No hallways decorated with sunshine faces. No noodle plates. Or Mother’s Day Teas. I have had to splinter my heart with a leftover noodle when a hole burst open from the dried-out Elmer’s glue that had been holding it together.

To my children:

Last year was an amazing school year.

You daughter, found your footing in high school and I trust in your growing maturity to continue to thrive. I am amazed at your generous spirit. Your ability to speak to anyone without fear. You surpassed me with your efficient order many years ago. Of papers. Plans. Life. You never judge and are always fair. I strive for your morals. I worry that you take on too much. An imperfectionist raising a perfectionist is my greatest challenge on my journey as your mother. You are inspiring.

You son, ended your early-childhood schooling with amazing grades and a vocabulary that I envy. You started a brand new school this year. With deodorant. Growth spurts. And a wise acceptance of change. I worry about your organizational skills that you unfortunately earned from your parents. But I have faith that you will do what you always do and breeze through your education as you gather every leaf on the tree of knowledge without ever seeming to need the wind to help you soar.

Good luck, my children. I am proud of you. Work hard. And may the Air of Wisdom be always a presence at your back and an easy whisper in your ear.

Love,

Mommy (sorry. Forgot. It is probably just Mom now)

That Mom

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Dear Children: Being A Stick-In-The-Mud,

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Call it a fuddy duddy. Stick-in-the-mud (which by the way sounds better than being mud, doesn’t it?). A party pooper.

These are all society’s acceptable names that seem to be okay to call someone who does not give into peer pressure.

Guess what?

Your mommy is proud to have been called all of them.

Because sometimes, well sometimes, it’s important to stand up for something you believe in.

And people are going to feel threatened that you might not agree with their actions.

By you refusing to do an action with them, it calls into question their own morality.

People don’t like that.

But you should “stick to your guns anyway.”

This will probably lead them to result to name calling. Those words will hurt. Don’t think they won’t. But not as much as your soul will hurt if you go against it. The names they will call you may cut deeper than a “stick in the mud.” And as hard as this will be, you must ignore them.

When I was a child there was a nonsense little saying that went like this:

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me.”

That saying is ridiculous. Words are the most powerful thing in the world.

You might also notice that in Mommy’s time people were kind of obsessed with sticks.

I can’t explain this.

There must have been more trees back then.

This probably explains the many leaf idioms, as well.

But even back then, people fought the word, “no.”

Maybe they never learned differently. Maybe they just want to make their own choices. And that is okay. As long as you get to, too.

Because you should respect the use of someone else using that word, too.

Otherwise, we might as well all be made of sticks and leaves. And even stones.

Being human is more than that.

At least, it should be.

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If your friends or adversaries still will not understand your decision to not conform to their decision, well, I guess they “got the short end of the stick.”
Maybe you could, “Help them turn over a new leaf.”
If not, have more confidence than one can “shake a stick at.”

In today’s terms:

IOW, JTLYK, YOLO.

YKWYCD?

JSN!

ILY,

Mommy

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It’s The Little Things: Pie Crust Cookies

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I have been really sick. How sick? Well, I have not had a glass of wine since Christmas. That’s how sick. I know. Who knew it was possible? It has been thirteen days of a cold with a fever and I am now beginning to think it is time to see a doctor.

Or not.

We’ll see.

It makes for interesting dreams.

But in the meantime, my sweet mother brought me over the nicest gift in the world. It was a container of pie crust cookies.

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Pie crust cookies happen to be my most favorite thing in the whole wide world. My mother and grandmother used to make them all through my childhood. They start with homemade pie crust dough (which is why I never make them). The pie crust dough is rolled out then generously sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Then cut into long irregular shapes, punched with a fork, and put into the oven to bake. Hence the clever name, “pie crust cookies.” I don’t know where or how they came up with that.

When she delivered these, I almost cried in my delirious state.

They have been what has kept me going these last few days.

Well, that and a glorious little product called heaven Sudafed.

Have you ever had these delightful little treats? And why does everything taste so much better when your mom makes it? What’s your favorite thing to have when you are sick? Spaghetti for some reason also always makes me feel better. It is what we are having for dinner tonight.

It’s the little things: anything that makes you feel better when you are sick.

Thanks Mom.

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Dear Children: Hating Me

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Okay. So, you say you hate me. I know. I can hear it in your muttered breaths. The secret whispers to your friends. The dramatic outbursts to your sibling.

And that is okay.

Yes, of course it hurts. Thankfully, you have yet to say it to my face. Because then I would be forced to punish you. Please, keep that in mind. I do not want to have to do that. Because…

I know you are going to hate me.

However, I still need you to respect me.

I have hated my mother. And so on… It is a tradition older than the moon.

It is an act of growing up. The frustration of thinking you have grown into your full being, only to find that you still cannot make all of your own decisions.

I get it.

I make decisions on your behalf that you do not agree with. I am not backing down. My job is to steer you in the right direction. To watch you stumble. To watch you fall. To lend you a hand up.

Sometimes the wheel of your life is steered away from a choice you would have made.

And you hate me for it.

My only hope for us, will be, you will love me more than you hate me. That one day, you will realize that while you were hating me, I was busy loving you.

Because I do.

Always.

I will never hate you.

But it is okay for you to hate me.

Sometimes.

For now.

In a few short years, the wheel will be all yours. You will look back in the rearview mirror. You will see the lane behind you. The tracks sharply winding around the rubble of bad choices and maybe even missed opportunities.

And you will see me.

Blisters on my hands. The callouses a reminder of the years spent maneuvering through obstacles. You will grip the wheel. It might be grooved with the imprint of my hands. You begin to veer away. The road will be vast. There will be many turns and forks in the horizon. The possibilities of each path will be of your own choosing.

“Be careful.” You see my mouth move in the mirror. “The wheel can be tricky.”

You realize this is true as you make your first turn on your own.

I hope then you will understand.

I love you.

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* I have recently learned my children are googling my blog. Which is sweet. Very sweet. But I also want to know that they are learning something from me besides simple recipes and pretty clothing. These letters are real letters to my children. From their mother. You might not agree with my message, but please respect my sentiment.