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. 

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. 

Bus Stop Mamas

I was preoccupied all day--my mind wandering while driving, barely hearing my daughter prattle on, etc.--and it was because of something so totally insignificant and stupid. There are days when I'm amazed at how pathetic I am, and today was one of them.

First, a little background: I am way too insecure for someone my age. Seriously, aren't we supposed to "come into ourselves" in our 30's, and then by our 40's be effortlessly self-confident and radiating inner beauty? That's what Eileen Fisher would have us believe, but for me, unfortunately, it hasn't quite happened that way. Oh, sure, I'm less insecure about my appearance nowadays, but that's mainly because I'm old enough to realize that's a battle I'm not going to win.

Nor am I still insecure about what the hell I'm doing with my life, because I ended up getting married, having kids, and quitting my job to raise them--and I'm good with that. Sure, there are days I wonder what it would be like to go to an office everyday and contribute creatively and intellectually to society while a full-time nanny takes care of my kids, but it's not something I actually want. I don't regret the path I've chosen.

I am, however, insecure about my friends--or rather, lack thereof. And it's confusing to me because for most of my life, having and making friends came naturally and easily. Growing up, I didn't even think about it--friends just popped up wherever I went. I used to consider myself something of an Alpha Female--I was usually a leader amongst my various groups of friends.

But as I got older, things changed. Throughout my 20's and 30's, my number of female friends dwindled--people married, moved away, got jobs that left little time for socializing, etc. And because I was no longer making new friends left and right, pretty soon I was down to a precious few. Then I had my own kids and moved to the suburbs where I knew almost no one.

I've been trying to make new friends since we moved here five years ago, but because I've never had to actively pursue friendships before, I am pathetic at it. I've become good friends with about four mothers (in five years--sad), but then two of them moved away. The other two don't even live in our town.

Which is why my current best friend is my 3-year-old daughter.

So, yes, I'm a little fragile when it comes to friends.

For the past two weeks, I've been waiting at the bus stop with a few neighborhood moms. Two of them seem like they could be potential friends but I'm just so clueless when it comes to taking it to the next level. After the bus has come and gone, instead of staying to chat I just say goodbye and head home.

Well, shortly after the bus had picked up my son this morning, I was back at home reading my daughter a book. I looked out the window and saw the two moms I like pushing strollers down the street (they both have young kids) and taking a walk together. They were chatting like old friends, though I know they pretty much met at the bus stop, too.

I instantly felt like the biggest loser. Why not me? Don't they like me? Is it because they both have two boys and both their second sons are still young enough to be taken for a walk in a stroller? If my daughter were still stroller age would I have been included as well? 

I spent all morning wallowing in self-pity and feeling like the greasy-haired, zit-faced girl at the junior prom that no one will ask to dance.

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.

I know I'll Miss This Someday, but Right Now....

Our neighborhood's annual block party was last night. It's always a fun day (and night) filled with live music, food, drinks, and good conversation. Well, at least for most people there's good conversation. Me? Not so much.

I was too busy dragging around an extra appendage (that looked an awful lot like my three-year-old daughter) to talk to anyone at length. I began a few conversations, but before long, my demanding, wants-me-all-to-herself little girl would start tugging on my hand, trying to pull me away. It was very distracting. And annoying.

I spent a good part of the day frustrated with her. I did understand that she was freaked out by all the people around and wanted me close by for security, but that didn't make her any less of a buzz-kill.

My girl during what was pretty much her only social
moment of the whole day (with her brother & a friend)

I was envious of my husband, who kept himself busy drinking beers and chatting with neighbors. Our five-year-old son spent the day happily playing with friends and riding his bike up and down the closed-off street, so my husband was free to drink and be merry. He attempted Daughter Duty a couple of times, but after just a a few minutes, darling girl would want her mama again.

And now that she's getting older, little princess has begun playing me. I'd ask if she needed to use the potty and she'd say yes. Then once back at the house, she'd sit on the pot for ages and ages pretending to try, when really she was just stalling. This happened a couple of times.

"C'mon hon, let's go back to the block party," I'd suggest.

"I no like block parties," she'd announce, as if she's been to so many and they are just so tiresome.

I struggled with her all day, and it put me in a bad mood. I was pissed off with her for ruining my block party. Bedtime was not pretty.

A couple of hours later, I looked in on her. She was facing the door, fast asleep, and as I opened the door wider, the light from the hallway fell upon her, illuminating her sweet and innocent little face. Tears sprung into my eyes as it hit me how stupid I'd been.

My daughter adores me and wants to be with me every second. I'm her best friend. This precious time I have with her will be so, so short-lived. God, I know that, yet last night I was dying to be unencumbered and free from her grabby little hands and whiny little voice. For what? So I could easily and breezily chat with my neighbors and have a few drinks? What the hell was I thinking?

Because I know...in what will feel like a mere instant, poof, it'll be gone. I'll blink and she'll be starting kindergarten, then I'll blink again and she'll be rolling her eyes over something stupid I said.

One morning I'll wake up, and this time will be over. And then I'll be pining to have it back, to have my baby back. My extra appendage. My shadow. My echo.

My best friend.

The Natural History of Growing Up

There was another blog-worthy episode of How I Met Your Mother last night (maybe I should turn this into a HIMYM blog!).

As you may or may not know, Marshall and Lily met in college, back when they were anti-establishment idealists bent on making a difference. Marshall became a lawyer, with the intention of working for the NRDC (Natural Resource Defense Council) so he could "save the world" as Lily says. But instead, he ended up a corporate lawyer for Goliath National Bank. He defends his position: "Remember, no one's the same as they were in college." But Lily doesn't like it and she won't accept it.

Later on in the episode, Marshall tells Lily that he's been offered a five-year contract with Goliath; Lily assumes he's not going to accept, because working at a bank was supposed to be just a temporary thing. She still views her husband as the not-for-profit, idealistic guy he was in college. But people change, and he's not that dude anymore. Lily is devastated: "I want you to be the person I fell in love with."

In a brilliant scene, Lily is sadly wandering around the Natural History Museum (the gang is at a formal gala, sponsored by Goliath), pondering the news that Marshall is determined to accept the GNB contract, thereby putting an end to her dream of him saving the world. She enters a room with various animal dioramas. Next to a "DALL'S SHEEP" one is this: "COLLEGE MARSHALL (EXTINCT)." Behind the glass is College Marshall in his dorm room. He has the munchies and is eating a huge sub.

"I want you, as opposed to who you've become," says Lily. "You've changed so much."

"You can't have me," replies Marshall. "Look at the sign; I'm extinct."

It got me thinking about the extinct me: the girl who marched on Washington in a pro-choice rally and stayed up half the night arguing about the latest cause. The girl who dreamed of a career as a documentarian, or maybe a spy. The girl who was going to travel the world...learn to speak Russian...climb the highest mountains...help bring global injustices to light.

Where is this girl now? She's a married woman, living in middle-class suburbia, driving a mini-van, cooking dinner every night, folding laundry, and wiping poopy bums. Sigh....

But yet she's also raising two incredible little people: nurturing, teaching, feeding, clothing, playing, singing, dancing, laughing, tickling, kissing, hugging, and loving, loving, loving, loving.

There is so much more love in my life today than I ever could have imagined. The present-day me has so much more going for her than the college me. I'll take my current life, thank you very much.

It beats climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro any day of the week.