Summer Breeze Makes Me Feel Fine

I came back from a trip to the Cape with the kids to find a pile of back-to-school catalogs on the counter, delivered while we were away. And store circulars are advertising Glade's new autumn scents (Fall Hayride, ewww), and summer clothes are about 75% off by now.

The end of summer is around the corner--on a cool day like today it's almost palpable--and it totally sucks. I am absolutely against it.

To all those people who love to trill, "Summer doesn't really end until late September and the weather that month is so glorious!" I say, "Bite me."

Summer ends when school begins. Period. The end.

I love summer. Yeah, I know everyone says how much they love it, but I really, really do. Like really. As in I despise winter with every particle of my being; I believe autumn is a mere prelude to certain agony and is only made bearable by Halloween; and while spring is often lovely (but just as often winter lite), it makes me antsy because I just want summer to hurry up and get here already.

So, yeah: REALLY.

I will miss this.

This summer in particular has been extra fun, probably because my kids are finally old enough to be real pals. There are no more potty issues, no more naps. Fewer meltdowns, fewer tantrums. They are my partners in crime (and by "crime" I mean spoiling our appetites with ice cream before dinner and tracking sand all over my parents' beach house).

By mid-August, it's true that many SAHMs are counting the minutes until they can pack their little (or not so little) ones onto the bus and finally BREATHE. Hear themselves think. Finish a cup of coffee while it's still hot.

I will super-duper miss this.

But not me. Especially not this year. Because this year, my baby is starting Kindergarten...and for the first time in over 7.5 years, I will have HOURS to myself. Which sounds like a good thing--a great thing, even--until I really think about. Then I realize: September is going to be super, horribly, terribly lonely.

Luckily, I have freelance work lined up. Otherwise the situation at our house would be Code Red by Columbus Day.

But there will still be times when I won't know what to do with myself.

I will be restless.

I will have time on my hands to ponder the reality that my kids growing older means so am I.

I will pine.

I will cry.

And then I will breathe deeply. I will listen to my thoughts as I finish my hot coffee.

And it will be okay.

I Couldn't Possibly Have Been This Annoying as a Child, Could I Have?

My son's elementary school is only K through Grade 2. I love that the school is specially geared to meet the needs of this young and impressionable age group, and also that he doesn't have to sit on the bus with rambunctious, huge (to him) fifth graders.

When the kids enter school they are five, and by the time they leave most have turned eight. Three years--no big deal, right? I didn't think so, but then the other day it was brought to my attention just how much older kids are at eight than they are at five.

Last Thursday the Kindergarteners didn't have school because it was orientation for next year's batch of K-ers, but it was a normal day for first- and second-graders. It was finally decent out after a few days of rain and gloom so we headed to the elementary school playground just as school was letting out.

We had the playground to ourselves for a few minutes, but before long the after-school club (kids whose parents work) joined us.

"Where are the Kindergarteners?" one girl asked.

"They didn't have school today. Isn't it soooo much better without them here?" answered a wise-ass boy (to whom I immediately gave the stink eye).

The boys broke off to play football with one of the apathetic high school kids who only do the job because their parents force them to supervisors, while a group of second-grade girls came over to the fire-engine structure where my kids were playing.

The girls climbed to the top, leaned against the bars in a tightly packed group, and began to sing as loudly as possible:

Baby, you light up my world like nobody else,

                            The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed,

But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell,

You don't know, 

Oh oh,

You don't know you're beautiful,

If only you saw what I can see,

You'll understand why I want you so desperately,

Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe,

You don't know,

Oh oh,

You don't know you're beautiful,

Oh oh,

That's what makes you beautiful

I was unfamiliar with the song, though I figured it might be a new tune by Katy Perry or Kelly Clarkson (though it didn't sound slutty enough to be Katy or angry enough to be Kelly). It was vapid and frothy and catchy...one of those new British boy bands, perhaps? So, yeah, I Googled it when I got home. It's "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction, for those of you who don't happen to live with a female between the ages of 8 and 18 and therefore have remained blissfully ignorant.

The adorable faces and Bieber-esque
hair of One Direction

Over and over and over and over they screamed sang those words. Never any other part of the song--just those lines. It was super annoying.

The supervisor stopped the football game. He came over and hollered, "Girls! Enough! Sing something else...anything else! PLEASE!" (Ha, not so apathetic now, are you dude?)

Did it work? Of course not. The howling-passing-for-singing continued.

The girls reminded me of myself when I was young, except in those days we sang "Da-Do-Ron-Ron" or tunes from Grease. And that wasn't until fourth or fifth grade. I didn't have any mad crushes on pop stars until I was at least ten.

But nowadays the girls start earlier. Call me crazy but eight just seems way too young to be singing love songs and giggling about boys. 

Now I know what to look forward to when my own Little Lady turns eight. Someone please help me. 

What to Do When Dr. Jekyll Jr. Becomes a Mini Mr. Hyde?

My son used to be the sweetest little boy you could ever meet. Oh, sure, lots of mothers say that, but it wasn't just me who thought so. Over the years, many people have complimented me on how compassionate, kind, even-tempered, and intelligent my son is. "Such a sweet boy!" is something I've heard often.

And then he started Kindergarten. Or maybe it's that he turned six. Not sure what the cause of his behavior change is, but it happened right around then. He has become demanding, short-tempered, and petulant. Oh, not all the time--no, of course not. Our sweet little boy is still in there but unfortunately, we don't see him quite as much as we used to.

Our son, during one of his
less-than-stellar moments

The transition to full-day Kindergarten has been tiring for him. The school bus gobbles my son up at 7:50 a.m. and spits him back out at 3:15 p.m. That is a long day for a six-year-old. But every other Kindergartener is dealing with this same schedule and I doubt all of them have undergone such personality changes. I'm sure the long days have something to do with the behavior changes, though. Our son absolutely adored preschool--he went three days a week and was usually bummed when it wasn't a school day. He loved the activities, teachers, and other kids. He was friends with everyone.

Well, he still loves his teachers and friends, and he enjoys school activities. But now every single morning goes something like this:

"It is a school day today?"

"Yes."

"Awwwwwww!!!! How many more days until the weekend?" (Imagine this uttered in the whiniest voice possible.)

Thankfully, all his bad behavior has (for now, at least) been restricted to when he's home. His school record is still blemish free; in fact, he's one of the only boys in his class whose status has never gone from Green ("Good") to Yellow ("Warning"). During parent/teacher conferences, his teacher raves about him--she literally has never said a less-than-glowing thing about him.

Which is why, when he gets home and rants and raves and orders me around, I'm dumbfounded. What the hell happened to the sweetest boy there ever was?

If this is a temporary thing, then fine, we can ride it out. I understand that kids go through phases and that each kid has his/her own way of dealing with change and stress.

But what if it's not temporary? If it continues, do we punish him for his outbursts? Right now, I'm reluctant to do so because he's in so much pain as it is in those moments, I hate to add to it. But on the other hand, we don't want him thinking he has free reign to be tyrannical whenever he feels like it.

If any of my faithful readers have experience with this, I'd love her hear how the situation panned out for you.

Because we are at a loss.

Sports Authority

This past Saturday marked the beginning of spring soccer here in our little Westchester town. Unfortunately, though our six-year-old son was signed up, he spent the morning reassembling his Hogwarts Lego instead.

My son played soccer last fall, and every Saturday morning my husband would beg, cajole, and bribe to get him to the field. It would go something like this:

"If you try really hard during practice before the game, then you only have to play half the game." ... "Okay, fine, you can skip the game but only if you try your best during practice, and no moaning."... "C'mon, just try, it'll be fun. We can get a doughnut afterwards."

My poor husband got worn down and gave up the fight. So this spring my kid is playing zero organized sports...with zero organized sports in his future.

Whenever we bring up the idea of my son trying something else--karate or T-ball, say--all we get back from him is, "NO, NO, I hate sports!"

Which isn't exactly true. He loves kicking the ball around with his dad and playing baseball in the backyard. But if he gets any whiff of real competition, forget it.

My husband is bummed. When we learned our firstborn would be a boy, visions of bringing his son to Mets games and bonding over shared love for the team floated through is head. Instead, the boy couldn't care less. Last summer the whole family went to a Mets game. My son enjoyed himself because he loves giant pretzels, cotton candy, and fun-to-climb stadium steps. End of story. Oh, there was a game going on? News to him.

The same goes with football. His favorite thing about it? The "football snacks" (i.e. normally-forbidden junk like Bugles, Doritos & Ruffles) we serve while watching playoff games. I'm sure if someone were to mention the word "Superbowl" to my son today, his mouth would water in anticipation of greasy, salty snacks.

When our son was four and showed little interest in organized sports, I told my husband to be patient. I was pretty sure school would peer-pressure him into caring. Well, Kindergarten is wrapping up in a couple months and there's been no change.

"Do kids in your class talk about the Giants?" my husband asked our son during playoff season.

"Yeah."

"Do they like the Giants? Do they watch games on TV and know about the players and stuff?"

"Uh-huh."

Hmmm, guess that's why the kid's best friends in school are girls.

Our son is athletic enough--you should see him bat, he sends the ball flying. His problem is mental: He's nervous he won't be good and therefore doesn't want to even try. We are reluctant to force him to play sports even though other parents have suggested that's the only way to get your child over his or her fear.

It's gotten so bad that my son doesn't even enjoy himself at sports-themed birthday parties. He's fine if the kids are allowed to roam the gym freely and experiment with the equipment as they choose. But once he hears, "Okay, let's all line up, this is what we're going to do" he's OUT.

I recently had to RSVP "no" to a party for one of his classmates because the party venue was the scary-sounding Sportime. My husband has had enough of my son complaining and not participating at sports parties so he just won't go anymore. The way I see it is no cake and gift bag for you if you don't play along. What kid doesn't want to go to a birthday party? That cannot be normal. It's very frustrating.

I don't know...he's only six. There's still time. Maybe it'll happen on its own.

Or maybe it won't. Which is okay, too.

Baby, Don't Go

I've touched on this topic before and I'm sure I will again. How could I not?

There is this thing lurking...I try to push it out of my mind before it takes hold but I can't always. And when I do think about it, it's so painful and sad: My kids are growing up. Duh, I know. It sounds lame and cheesy. Please don't laugh at me.

My kids are only six and three (actually she's almost four, gulp) so, sure, I have time before I need to face their loss of innocence, but everyone knows how quickly it goes by. So, yeah, I'm holding on for dear life (don't judge me).

Whenever a sweet old lady says to me at the grocery store, "Enjoy them while they're this age--it goes by so fast!" I want to punch her in the face. Way to rub salt in the wound, Grandma.

Every weekday afternoon I cannot wait for 3:20 p.m. because that's when the bus drops off my Kindergartener. I miss him so much when he's at school. We hold hands and talk about his day as we walk the block back to our house. And every single day I cherish the feel of his soft, warm, still-little (but not for long) hand in mine. Because how many more years of hand-holding can I look forward to? Three? Two? And how much longer will his chatter be about sweet stuff like the cool colored pencils they used in art class or which instruments they played in music? When he sings me bits of the songs they sung that day, his adorable falsetto melts my heart and I have to hold back the tears. 

These moments slay me. And they continually surprise me. Before having kids, you can never imagine stuff like this affecting you. But it does.

Or maybe it's my daughter crying in her bed after I've finished singing the lullabies we always sing and left her room. If she doesn't quickly settle down, I go up there and lie with her in bed for a little while. It's like magic how quickly her tears dry up. And it feels wonderful to have that effect on someone.

But how much longer will my mere presence stop the tears? How long before my very existence makes her want to scream instead (or at least roll her eyes). Oh, my little lady is going to be an expert eye-roller, I can tell already.

All this is why I find myself occasionally wanting a third baby. There, I said it. But even if I wasn't too old to easily and safely go about it, I doubt I'd actually begin pleading my case to my husband for baby #3. I've always wanted two kids. One boy, one girl; two kids, two parents: nice symmetry. But still, the urge is there.

That's because, as I stand by and watch my two babies grow and learn and begin to need me less and less, my heart aches. I miss the feeling of having a tiny helpless person rely on me for everything.

There's this song that comes on Pandora's toddler station sometimes: Frances England's "You and Me." It makes me cry. I love it. Google it and listen. Beautiful. The lyrics go:

You and me, reading books in bed,

Your head on my shoulder,

Your eyes on the pages ahead.

How did you grow so big overnight?

How did you get so smart and bright?

Yesterday you were asleep in my arms,

Today you're growing off the charts.

I'm so proud of you."

What the hell am I going to do with myself when my kids are grown?

Damn, someone needs to get a job. 

Just Call Me Kindergarten Cop

There is a girl in my son's Kindergarten class with whom he's become fast friends.

My husband and son ran into This Girl (I'll refer to her as "T.G." from now on) a few weeks ago, and she went on and on about how she wanted my son to come over her house for a playdate.

I had met T.G.'s mother only once before--at back-to-school-night--and, let's put it this way, she's not exactly the long-lost best friend I've been hoping to find. My first impression was that she was a little brash. I'm sure she's a perfectly decent person, but her scratchy smoker's voice and aloof manner turned me off.

However, my lovely boy wanted a playdate with his new friend, so I wasn't about to say no just because the mom was not my cup o' tea. Of course I had to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I knew T.G.'s last name so I tracked them down through whitepages.com (and felt pretty stalker-ish doing so), called, and her mom and I set something up for three days hence.

Kindergarten Halloween party

The day of the playdate, just as we were about to leave for their house, I noticed our machine was blinking; it was a message from elementary school. T.G.'s mom didn't have our number so she had the school call to cancel the playdate. No explanation, no apology, no nothin'.

Oh, how my sweet boy cried and cried! All I could do was hug him and tell him I was so, so sorry over and over again as his little body shook with giant sobs. The anger flooded my body--how I hated T.G.'s mother at that moment!

If I could've given my son a decent explanation--"Honey, T.G.'s little sister swallowed poison and was rushed to the emergency room"--I think it would've been easier for both of us to accept. But instead, we were left in the lurch.

The next time I saw her, at a class event, I avoided her because I didn't trust myself to make nice-nice after what had happened. And a Kindergarten classroom isn't exactly the ideal place for a confrontation.

It's been a month now, and she hasn't called to apologize or reschedule the playdate.

So everyday I grit my teeth while listening to my son go on and on about all the fun he and T.G. had during recess, or about how funny she is, or blahblahblah. Oh, sure, he may have forgotten all about his first heartbreak, but his mother sure hasn't. Grrrrrrr! I can't help it, but hearing that girl's dumb name instantly turns me into one of Sarah Palin's Mama Grizzlies.

So, guess what, T.G. and T.G.'s mom? Mama Grizzly is watching. Do NOT hurt my cub again if you know what's good for you. I will attack...and that's a promise.

I'm Not Ready to Say Goodbye to the Trucks, Dinosaurs, Skyscrapers & Dragons

I didn't think I was stressing too much about my son starting Kindergarten next week--okay, maybe a little about the bus picking him up at 7:49 a.m. (so early!), and also about having to pack him a lunch and snack everyday...but not about the idea of him going to Kindergarten. I've been handling that just fine, thank you. 

One of the Empire State Buildings I
found in the Ariel notebook

Or so I thought. But then I noticed something strange. Earlier this evening, I picked up a little Ariel notebook my daughter received as a favor from a birthday party--I wanted to jot something down--and when I opened it, there were pages and pages of sketches my son had made: multiple Chrysler Buildings, Empire State Buildings, and Eiffel Towers. Seeing them there so unexpectedly made me gasp, and I found it hard to breathe. I quickly flipped past the drawings to a blank page and cleared my head so I could jot down my note. 

My son loves to draw, so I'm used to finding his little masterpieces all over the place: on the back of the notepad meant for phone messages, on the pieces of cardboard that come inside new tights and socks, on the backs of receipts. In my nightstand drawer, crumpled up at the bottom of the Lego box, under the car's driver seat.

I've always adored coming across them. It's fun to figure out when they were drawn. A truck? Age two. Volcano? Three. Velociraptors and skyscrapers are from when he was four, and dragons are his current passion. 

But that seems to have changed. The drawings I found in the Ariel notebook tonight aren't the first ones that have left me short of breath. It's been happening for the past few weeks. I think it's because my son is growing up so fast, and whenever I find one of his drawings, it makes me wonder how much longer I'll have this pleasure. It's inevitable: The day will come when I no longer find his random sweet sketches all over the house. I can hardly bear to think about it...it makes me cry every time.

He's going to Kindergarten, he's getting older. My little boy is growing and changing, which means our relationship is going to change, too. And while I know that's a healthy thing, it also just happens to break my heart.

Goodbye, Summer, It's Been Nice

The past couple of weeks have felt like Autumn. The weather's been cooler, rainier, windier, and less humid--and that was even before the hurricane. This weekend, however (although it wasn't particularly cold), chilled me to the bone. That's because, while the main story this weekend was undoubtedly Hurricane Irene, the unspoken story was Summer's End. It's eight o'clock and pitch black out there. And that bums me out.

I've always been ambivalent about the end of summer. Summer is absolutely, without a doubt, my favorite season. Except for the bugs, I love everything about summer--even the humidity. You will never hear me complaining about the weather on a 105-degree day. Yet all good things must come to an end. Back when I was a kid, Autumn meant finally seeing my friends again, new school clothes, and getting back into a routine. I've always liked a certain amount of structure in my life--and I'm also about 50% nerd and loved school--so rather than be sad about saying good-bye to summer, I would happily welcome Autumn's imminent arrival.

That changed when I graduated from college and got a job, because the end of summer no longer represented an exciting transition. Fall's arrival just meant doing the same job day in and day out but with less exposure to sunlight, crappier weather, and no one willing to pay for a new fall wardrobe. That was the only period of my life when I'd get majorly depressed at summer's end. Every August 15th, I'd start stressing out: I hadn't been to the beach enough, or taken enough trips, or visited all the outdoor bars and restaurants I'd wanted to try, or perfected my tan, or, or, or....

But now that I have kids who go back to school each Autumn, my feelings about summer's end have changed once again. Once again I'm not completely unhappy to be saying hello to fall. Sure, I will miss the hot-n-hazy-n-lazy days, wearing flip-flops, relaxing by the pool, trips to the beach, sweet-n-juicy peaches, and having nowhere special to be. But yet the idea of having a few precious hours to myself during the week is utterly intoxicating. My son will be in Kindergarten and my daughter will be in preschool three mornings a week. That only comes to about eight hours of Me Time, but that will surely feel like a lot after the ZERO hours I've had this summer. I'm not complaining--I chose not to sign both my kids up for camp and I don't regret it--but it's been exhausting.

And it's not just me who needs Autumn to arrive. The kids are starting to get at each other's throats. They  are normally about as lovey-dovey as a brother and sister can be, but I've noticed more pushing and "Get away from me!"'s lately. They need space.

Sure, this week is going to be gorgeous--warm and sunny, no rain in sight--but that doesn't change anything. Fall is right around the corner...all the more reason to relish and savor this last week of freedom and unstructured days. I plan on enjoying it.

Elementary, My Dear Watson.

For the past few years, I've observed parents of soon-to-be Kindergarteners freaking out. What, I thought to myself every time, is the big freakin' deal?

Well, now I know. And, no, the big deal isn't that your "little man" or "baby girl" is embarking on a new phase of life or that his or her well-being will suddenly be in someone else's hands for most of the day. The big deal is the insane amount of forms to fill out, orientations to attend, and brochures to read.  

My five-year-old is starting Kindergarten in the Fall. And this past month alone, I've had three events to attend at the elementary school, plus numerous forms to sort through and complete. Registering your kid for K is practically a full-time job in and of itself. Medical forms, dental forms, tell-us-about-your-kid forms, please-join-the-PTA forms--it's never-ending. 

I'm pretty sure entering Kindergarten didn't require this much parental effort back in the olden days (the Seventies). Back then, K was just a half-day, and nap time was still a reality. Kindergarten then was more like how preschool is now. Play-Doh has been replaced with flash cards. Back in the Seventies, there was probably just a quick tour of the school and maybe a parents' night sometime in late August or early September.

But with four months to go before school even starts in the fall, I'm already stressed out. I know my son will do great--he's smart, friendly, kind, polite, and a voracious learner--so it's not him I'm worried about. No, I'm worried about ME. If this orientation process is any indication of the next 12 years to come, I'm going to have to start mentally preparing. 

And when I say "mentally preparing" I actually mean "stocking up on wine." It's going to be a long 12 years. Or maybe it'll go by in a flash. One or the other. Or both.