Sunday, July 24, 2016

moving the plot forward

I am back.
I just spent the last eight days sequestered away in a lodge, attending lectures and writing workshops. It was my dream.

Except for the missing of the kids and the husband, of course.
In some regards, it would have been better if I had done this right after my undergrad: before all these responsibilities piled on.

But on the other hand, I am more determined now.
I've done enough things that I didn't like to know for sure this is what I do.
I am less apt to give up when it gets hard.

So maybe it wouldn't have been better, it just would have been easier. 

Sometimes, I think that the last ten years of my life has been wasted, because I never moved forward toward my goal. I think that, because I think in terms of stories and plots.

But this past week, I realized none of it was a waste. We have built a home and a family. I worked jobs necessary because of life's demands. I have acquired interview skills and empathy. I have made mistakes worth writing about. And I have been writing this whole time.

Now, I will work on writing more, and for publication. But that doesn't mean the writing that preceded it was for naught. It wasn't.

And I'm glad that old writing wasn't workshoppped, because this whole time-word by word, line by line-I have been molding my craft.

My mentor compared writing to molding clay in a potter's wheel. That's what I've been doing. And now, after figuring out on my own what does and doesn't become me, I'm doing it with direction.





Monday, July 11, 2016

the moment

I have been focusing on finding balance in my life. I am a person of extremes. I keep myself so busy with a handful of things that I neglect the rest of my responsibilities. Like running, for example. That consumed my life for six months. Or with the boys: I am great at taking them places and giving them field trips. But then, we don't spend enough time reading books or painting or playing games. And my house is never as clean as it should be.

So now, I am making a conscious effort to spend some time reading, some time doing yoga, some time walking, some time cleaning and playing with the boys. I am editing a book, but haven't spent enough time on that. And on Friday, my ten-day residency for grad school starts. So I have put in my notice at the coffee shop. Shortly after residency comes our 10-year-anniversery vacation in NYC. And then, I am going to spend a month without a job, editing this book and writing. And Brandon will start preschool. I need a few weeks off for that. 

I am going to re-calibrate. I am going to find what I can do and what pushes me too far. I am going to rediscover what I love and stop losing myself in what I don't. I am going to be myself again, but without any extremes. I am not going to obsess about exercising or going places or documenting our lives as it is happening. I am going to be. Not be still, because that is impossible for me, but just work on being. I am good at obsessing over becoming, but I'd like to find myself in the moment instead.

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

enduring

It's been over a decade that Steve and I have been together. And I'm not one of those types to post a bunch of mushy stuff on social media about us, because that's not really who we are a lot of times. Much of our time is spent independently - him working and me taking care of our family and home.

We are still in love, but not in the daily-kissing-pictures kind of way. We have a commitment to each other and are still passionate about each other, but we also have roles we play now beyond "boyfriend" and "girlfriend." Our lives have become more complicated and bigger, with more responsibilities and decisions.

I watch "The Bachelorette" and I'm not even going to say as a guilty pleasure. I don't feel guilty about it at all. I watch it for the drama and maybe a little bit to watch the beginning stages of love, or something that is a lot like love. Last week, the bachelorette went on a date with a guy that is much like my husband. He is a realist. She is not. So she decided they were not compatible, because he didn't believe in the fairy-tale type of love. But I knew what that guy was saying. And then I finished this book which explained in words what I couldn't:

I closed my eyes, and it was Hugh I saw. His hands, the hair on his fingers, the Band-Aids on his thumbs. How real all of that was. How ordinary. How achingly beautiful. I wanted what came after the passion had blown through: flawed, married love...What I want is the enduring. The beautiful enduring. ~ an excerpt from The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd

I love the way she puts it. In marriage, it is not all passion all the time. There are fights about chores and money and parenting. There is matching up socks and mowing the lawn and endless loads of dishes. There are budgets and spreadsheets and texts about dinner. It is not the stuff that movies are made of. But it is the stuff that life is made of.

Steve and I chose each other one day a decade ago, and each day, we choose each other again. We choose to endure through our arguments and come out the other side, hopefully a more compromising person. The hardest part of love is the "unconditional" part, but isn't that what makes it love, after all? Loving for flaws and all. The beautiful enduring. 

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

head in the clouds, dreaming

Brandon wants to be a pilot. So far, he has wanted to be a daddy and a scuba diver. There could've been more. I'm not the best at recording his ever-changing ambitions. I saw an idea once to write what they aspire to be on their growth charts, next to their height. I should do that, I thought. But clearly I didn't. But I want to remember this pilot one.

It was two weeks ago that I was in an airplane, in a blessed window seat. The sun was setting as we neared Minneapolis. I laid my head against the window pane, my eyes glued to the view. It was a sea of clouds - perfectly puffy, white clouds. I felt at that moment that I could jump on them and they would never drop me. At first glance, it looked like a vast ocean at sunset. But instead, it was this beautiful sky.

I thought of how on earth, everything can be explored by everyone. But up there in the clouds, only a few people get to fly around and see the world from a distance. I thought at that moment that Brandon's ambition to become a pilot was the best choice in the world. For I could think of nothing better than flying in the clouds each day, my head and body in the same place for once.

When I was a little girl, my dad obtained his pilot license. He flew me in this little four-seater plane. I had on headphones and a mouthpiece. I remember speaking into the mouthpiece, marveling at how the cars looked like Micro Machines. I was seeing the same world, but from a different perspective.

And the writer in me -- that person who loves to see ideas wrapped up nicely with a little bow, ending with a nostalgic nod to the way they started -- would love to have my son one day fly me in a little four-seater. I would love to tell him through the mouthpiece that he used to sit in the cockpit for hours at the Air and Space Museum and I bought a much-too-expensive pass to that place because I was hoping this dream would stick. Selfishly, because I want to belong in the clouds, too. 

Monday, June 27, 2016

life after running

I am learning to live like a normal person again, not a person training for a marathon.

I went to yoga class a few weeks ago, on a day that I had completed a long run. One of my classmates was impressed at my long distance feat.
"Runners are usually in the worst shape," my yoga instructor told him.
He was flabbergasted, of course. But I knew what she was saying.
Running uses the same muscles, forgetting the others.
I can no longer touch my toes. I was eating like Michael Phelps. This was not a normal life.

I knew that if I continued to act like a runner without running, I would get fat, immediately. I have a voracious appetite, which was fine when I was burning an extra thousand calories a day. But now, I must make better choices.

I have started juicing again, because truthfully I do feel better when I eat better. I am trying to think of nutrition. I read a quote once that I can't remember precisely, but it was something like, "taste is temporary, nutrition is forever."

I have stopped drinking coffee milkshakes at the coffee shop. I work a shift and just drink coffee now, or an almond milk latte. It's very dull, sure, but I don't feel terrible after finishing it. Sometimes my heart races, and I've noticed that it's always after eating sugar. So I can still have donuts, but only once a week. Moderation. A hard word for a person of excess, like me. I was excessively exercising, excessively eating. Now I must tame myself, live like the reasonable person I am becoming, rather than the savage beast I once was.

I am reteaching myself to touch my toes. I tried to do a chin up at the park the other day and couldn't even get close. I am going to start lifting weights again. It's time to diversify and try new things. It's time to rebrand.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

hop in my step

This is so unlike me -- in fact, I even made fun of Chad for buying the marathon photos from his first marathon -- but here we are. I purchased the photos. I am usually a frugal person, but I told myself this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I will never do it again. "Buy souvenir photos or run a marathon?" You ask. Either. But I'm glad I did both. 
  
Here we are, before the race, happy as can be.  
 
 I like this girl next to me with the thumbs up. This is clearly near the beginning of the race.  No one's thumbs were up after mile 16.
Here's the guy in the orange shirt we were keeping pace with. He knew it, too. We were constantly talking about it. I don't know if he was flattered or creeped out, but he was pleasant all the same. 
This one was also from before the race. The photographer thought Chad was some random photo bomber so she took the top picture once she found out he really was with us.
 
I like this picture because I look like a serious runner. You can't hear me singing along to Meghan Trainor, so that helps me keep up my image. 
 
The fact that everyone in this picture is clearly running is proof we were nearing the finish line.  
And here is where Chad and I locked hands, proud of finishing together. 
You can see from the hop in my step that I had energy left. Like I just ran a marathon for the hell of it. Like this was nothing to a bad ass like me. 
I assure you, it wasn't nothing. 

Monday, June 20, 2016

marathon rundown

It is finished. Six months of training, seemingly endless hours of running all added up to something on Saturday. Because on Saturday, I completed a marathon. I ran a fucking marathon. Just a little history, for those of you who don't know:

The name Marathon comes from the legend of Pheidippides, the Greek messenger. The legend states that he was sent from the battlefield of Marathon to Athens to announce that the Persians had been defeated in the Battle of Marathon (490 B.C.). It is said that he ran the entire distance without stopping and burst into the assembly, exclaiming "Nenikekamen!" ("we have won!"), before collapsing and dying.
- Wikipedia

To be able to accomplish a feat of such magnitude--yet without dying, preferably--excited me. It became a bucket list item last year. And last October, when my sister did one, I decided I could too. So in January, I signed up, as did my brother Chad. And Amber signed up for it too, this now her third marathon.

I have spent what very little free time I have running. I have cajoled the boys into the basement so I could keep an eye on them while running on the treadmill. I have pushed them around the lake in a double jogger in crazy winds. I have put them to sleep and ran in the pitch dark. I have risen before the family to run before breakfast. I have got my runs in, however necessary. I ran 500 miles this year, before the marathon in preparation for these 26.2 miles.

So there is the background. On to Saturday. It was an overcast day with a chance of rain showers. That is pretty much always the forecast in Seattle, which makes it the perfect place to run a marathon. I had left 104 degrees and found myself shivering once I stepped foot outside the SeaTac airport. I had brought shorts and a tank top, because that's all I've worn for the past three months here in Nebraska. It was a bit cold before the race. My arms were definitely enlisted to cover my nipples.
The race started near the Space Needle. We got there quite early: a full hour and a half before the race started. The race was delayed 15 minutes, and then, we had to wait to cross the starting line until our corral was called. Chad joined Amber and I in the 19th corral, even though his estimated finishing time put him in the third corral (riiiight. Puh-lease). So our 7 a.m. start time had actually become a 7:49 start time. I had made a goal to finish by noon, so I had to adjust my goal a bit.
I don't know how I didn't start my Nike app on time. I am obsessed with stats. I keep trivial spreadsheets, for Chrissakes. There is no excuse for someone like me to neglect a tracking opportunity. I had even watched my brother start his Garmin and had brought my iPhone and jerry-rigged a Ziploc bag over its face to prevent it getting ruined from the rain. Oh well.  

Things I would do differently next time: 1. Start my tracking at the start. 

Finally, the race started. Chad and I have talked on the phone every week since January, and every week the topic of the marathon has come up. We both agree we like to start off strong because everyone is going to peter out at the end, might as well get some good miles in before the inevitable. So we started off quickly - weaving in and out of this sea of people, surging forward. A little before the second mile marker, I remembered my Nike app and started tracking my run. We found a man in an orange shirt and kept pace with him. We were doing 8-something-paced miles. The first eight miles flew by in a breeze.

We lost Orange Shirt at mile eight, because that is where the half marathoners veered their way and us full marathoners went ours. That is also the first time I stopped - at a port-a-potty, then also grabbed some of those energy jelly things. Stopping is not ideal. Your body quickly re-calibrates to not running and cries out to you to stay stopped. I got a side ache, but whatever. It's just a side ache. I just kept running, bitching only a little.

Luckily, at this point, the route became scenic. Instead of running through rundown Seattle streets, we were running next to Lake Washington. I admired the beautiful houses. We ran through Seward Park, which is basically a forest peninsula on Lake Washington. A slight drizzle started. It was picturesque. The pace was still pretty good: for the first 14 miles, mine and Chad's pace was never over 10 minutes/mile. I was proud. I was hauling ass.
Mile 17, however, was a real bitch. From back around mile 10, I had seen the I-90 bridge. I thought I had read that we would be running over it, but once I saw it, I thought, nah, that couldn't be right. It's so far off. I'm almost halfway done, no way we can be running all the way to there, over it, and back and have that be only 26 miles.

Turns out, I was wrong. 26 miles is a long fucking way. That was exactly what we would be doing. Mile 17 was the mile entering the I-90 bridge. It had a short yet sharply inclined hill to climb onto it. So, like everyone in front of me, I stopped to walk up it. Remember what I had learned at mile eight? Stopping is not ideal. Oops.

Things I would do differently next time: 2. Don't stop running until absolutely necessary.

So that little hill gave Chad and I that feeling of what it would be like to not run, and we were hooked. Stopping makes you notice the aches and pains. We were both cramping up. Chad was legitimately injured prior to this race, and I didn't want to leave him behind. And let's be honest, I didn't want to run at that exact moment, either. We stretched. We tried in vain to relieve our pains. Then we kept going, but walking.

I will say, in our defense, Chad's walk is really a slow jog. He walks 13 minute miles. I thought this view would save me. I love the water and the breeze that comes off of it. But there was the humming sounds of traffic on either side of us and the sight of other runners cramping up or limping or slowing to walks all around us was anything but encouraging. These weren't out-of-shape bucket list runners, either. They looked like real athletes, and they were in pain. So who were we to think we could keep going if even they couldn't?

We kept going, but our 18th mile took 11 minutes, 9 seconds. So much for our good pace. At this point, I estimated what my time would be if I just walked the rest. Could I still finish in under five hours if I walked all the way to the finish line? Not quite. Probably not, at least. And I was going to finish in under five hours. I wanted that finish line because I wanted to stop moving. And five hours would have been finishing by noon, my original goal.

Chad and I stopped to stretch again in the tunnel. The route was pretty good and I have no complaints about it except the I-90 part: You are running where there can be no cheerleaders or spectators and you spend an ungodly amount of time in a dingy tunnel. But at least in the tunnel, the stretch Chad recommended relieved some of my calf pain. So we kept hobbling along - walking, then jogging slowly when it felt right. We were both surprised that the only thing slowing us was leg pain. We had thought we would be winded, out of breath and energy. We were fine waists up - it was just the waists down that were painful.

The last mile I thought would be all glorious downhill, but it teased us. After we ran down, there was this hill to run up. Now we were all trying to run up the hill, unlike mile 17. Now, we could taste the finish, feel it in our cottonmouths. I thought Chad would sprint by me at the finish line, then tease me about being so slow for the rest of my life because he had beat me, but he didn't. He turned around, grabbed my hand, and we raised them over our heads as we crossed the finish line. 

We had lost Amber in the first couple miles, while we were zigging and zagging through people. But sure enough, she crossed the finish line, too. We had all done it. Bitching, injured, under-prepared and everything. We had finished. A half of 1% of people complete a marathon. We are in that tiny sliver of the population. 
Here is my official race chip time. I know, it's not great.

Things I would do differently next time: 3. Do the best I can. 

I know I could have finished sooner had I not walked so much in the end. I know I could have pushed myself harder.


Here are my Nike tracking stats, but of course they don't include the first nearly two miles, the quickest two.

I have said many times while training that this will be my first and only marathon. But the three things I would do over, my desire to PR, to prove how well I can do if I do my best nag at me. But I have to remember: I have two young children at home. My time is precious. My body does not need any more deterioration. I have completed one marathon, which is more than most people will ever do. I was over 200 pounds two years ago, I have birthed three children. What I did was impressive. I have nothing to prove. That was a feat, in and of itself. Not everything has to be one-upped and outdone. Sometimes, we can let things be. Sometimes, we can just finish a marathon, then just sit back with a good book. I've proven I can go, now it's time to stop.

Sunday, June 12, 2016

childhood play-by-play

When I blogged the other day, I wrote, "if childhood was a play-by-play, so much of it would be mundane, monotonous." So then, I thought of what it would sound like, as a play-by-play. I imagined two broadcasters, in their fifties with fat Windsor knots over pastel patterned shirts, announcing every move around our house over the airwaves.

"Whoaaaa! Holden just dropped the entire bottle of ketchup onto the kitchen floor!"
"Let's rewind that, I'd like to see it in slow motion."
"It's everywhere! I mean, everywhere. Ketchup on the chair legs, the refrigerator. Brandon is laughing, Holden is frozen, surprised."
"My question is, what is Holly going to do here? Is she going to blow up? Or will she find it funny and laugh hysterically?"
"That's a tough call, Herm. She can go either way. Today she has been uncharacteristically optimistic, so I'm going to go with 'shake it off,' in the words of the great Tay Tay."
"That's optimistic of you, Eric. Stats show that in 78% of unexpected surprises, Holly defaults to anger. Clearly that is more than all other emotions combined."
"Yes, Herm. But keep in mind, many of those instances have involved lost items, like searching for keys or sunglasses. Lost items are her anger trigger. In this case, I think she will find the humor in it."

*Holly enters the kitchen, sees ketchup everywhere, thinks it's blood and promptly loses her shit*

"You got me there, Herm. You can't argue with stats."
"Well, you can, but you'll be wrong."
"Touche." 

Thursday, June 9, 2016

swish swish

I watched them in their swings, Holden in the bucket one Brandon used to sit in, Brandon in the bigger one. I watched each time they passed each other: swish, swish. I was watching them grow older, second by second. If childhood was a play-by-play, so much of it would be mundane, monotonous.

It is exciting only to us who care about every nuance, each new word and phrase. Every new physical challenge they hurdle and every rite of passage they pass through. Too anyone but us, these are dull, boring moments. But to us, they are clues into who they are becoming, reminders of who they once were. Us parents invest everything we have into these little ones so we see things not as they are, but magnified.

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. 

Parents should have a warning like that, but different. Skinned knees and bumped heads are not as big of a deal as we're making them out to be. Just because Brandon read "zoo" as "O-O-Z" doesn't mean he's dyslexic. We are closer to these situations than other people, so we make them into ordeals. Mountains out of molehills. 

I didn't think of any of that, though, as I watched them swing. I just thought about how one day we won't even have a swing set anymore and how they'll say, "those are for babies" and how I will have so much of that quiet time I've been wishing and hoping for. I will have too much of it and it will beat in my head like this endless drum the way the boys' shrieking does now.

I thought about the other big swing in the basement, how we'll have to pull it out soon. How Brandon is ready for a big boy bike. I thought about all the nexts. Then they got out of their babyish swings and took turns draping their bodies over the big swing. And I thought, my god, I really am watching them get bigger, second by second.

Swish, swish.

Saturday, June 4, 2016

fighting the hoard

Today, in the last day of my garage sale, I realized how people become hoarders. I had everything marked down 50%, and I found myself bringing some of it in. I was OK to part with it yesterday, when I was going to make at least a bit of money on it. But now that I'm basically giving it away, everything has a sentimental value.

No one else will know the history of this stuff! How did I lose the drawstring to those running shorts? The new owner will never know. Holden learned to walk with that walker. It all means something! Not to you, you are just a customer. But to me, it is important! To me it meant something.

Yesterday Steve tightened up the bolts on my puzzle table for a customer (ah, the things we do for other people. We will clean our house because guests are coming over, or tighten loose bolts to sell a piece of furniture, but when it is just us, our property doesn't get the kind of attention it deserves). Afterwards, when the table was like new, I found myself wanting to keep it.

I will find a new place for it in this house, I have a new appreciation for it, now that I was this close to losing it.

But I did let it go. Most of it, I let go without giving it too much thought. But I did keep a pile of baby clothes for nostalgia, or because "just in case," or because I am a mom and that is what moms do. I remember the garage sale I got my favorite shirt of Holden's at: the mom nearly shed tears selling it to me. It was one of her favorites, too. "I have pictures," she said to me, "I keep reminding myself of that." And it was her I thought of when I put aside my pile of baby clothes. Her and my mom and my aunt, who have both also kept baby things for sentimental reasons.

And yes, I have the pictures, but I can one-up that lady at the garage sale last year. I kept the shirt, too.


P.S. I did sell my puzzle table. I'm trying not to think about it.

Sunday, May 29, 2016

baby hair

I think it is the baby hair that gets me the most.

When they are born, it is oh so fine. It is small and delicate, just like the baby himself. Parents spend hours bathing their baby and lathering tearless shampoo into that hair. Then we brush it, either into a mohawk or a combover and take pictures and ooh and aww over how adorable they are with their hair combed. I remember taking many a hit of that baby hair, scented with Johnson's shampoo.

I watched my babies grow by watching the tops of their heads.

Because as baby's grow, their hair turns coarser, thicker. Their hair toughens up as they do. It adapts to its surroundings. Too long in the sun and the hair lightens. Too long in a hat and it flattens. Soon you can gel it, mold it. You are giving endless haircuts. I swear I cut hair every three weeks. It grows quickly along with those little babes. Soon there is no more fuzzy, fine hair and your once-baby heads are covered in regular boy hair. The kind of hair that gets covered in mud, that gets sweaty. Washing their hair is no longer a careful task. Soon, I'm just making sure to spray the hose in that direction every now and again.

I have a theory that the more hair a kid has, the more vivid his personality is. Both my kids were born with full heads of dark hair, and they both are very extreme. Brandon with his emotions, Holden with his reactions. They both love to dance and are full of energy and life. Neither one is passive in any direction. They go hard in their own ways. Every time I've seen a bald baby, it has, in contrast, seemed compliant. Almost like part of a background, rather than the starring act.

Tonight while I rocked Holden to sleep, I just kept fingering his hair. I get now why people used to save a lock of baby hair. It's because hair is a metaphor for growing people. I thought of Holden's fine and delicate hair while I touched his coarse and unruly new hair. He has shed is baby skin and is ready for what comes next. And just like with their haircuts, I find I am lagging behind, not ready to catch up to them quite yet.

I might have to take up huffing Johnson's baby shampoo.

Thursday, May 19, 2016

this time

Just last night, I tweeted:

I'm going to sell all my corporate clothes to make sure I never consider becoming someone's lackey ever again.

And then, I shit you not: this morning--not even 12 hours later--a coffee shop customer of mine told me about this job opening at her company that she thought I should apply for. And just like that, I thought about it. 

But then, I dismissed it, shaming myself for even considering it. I have been there, done that and I hated it, I reminded myself. I have little boys at home who I want to spend their final before-school years with. And I have a dream of becoming a writer, or at least a Creative Writing professor. 

It is so easy to get sucked into the vacuum of conformity. Of being a responsible adult with a steady paycheck who looks forward to the weekend, when you can once again pursue your passion. It's easy to become what people expect of you rather than who you want to become.

But this time, I'm doing it right. 

I am one of the few people who gets a second shot at adulthood. I got my undergraduate degree and did lackey work. I had steady paychecks and did a good job at work I loathed. But now, I am going to get my graduate degree and do what I really want to do.

I am a dreamer. But this time, I will also be a doer. And that "doing" does not include org charts. I am done being sidetracked. This time, I am laser-focused.

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

crop tops, spanx, and panic button necklaces

I used to think the world existed for the young. And certainly, there is plenty for the young, plenty that us older people are slightly jealous of. But now, as I age, I am seeing that the world does not revolve around the young. The young people only think it revolves around them. The rest of us coexist in this world with them, something for everyone. There are jokes in kids' movies just for us adults, almost like a subtle reminder that we matter too. Because we've all got our things.

The young people have:
Snapchat, miniskirts, crop tops. Wet and Wild makeup. Bikinis and whipped cream vodka. Bikinis made out of whipped cream. Vodka. YouTube channels. Perky tits. Elastic skin. Tanning without worrying. Eating french fries without getting fat. Hundreds of texts a day, but zero emails that aren't spam.

Us in middle age have:
Spanx, Pinterest, coupons. I think my generation will be the last one that ever gets really excited about office supplies. We have our VH1 list shows that remind us of when we were young. Buzzfeed is all us. We drive cars that are neither sexy nor ugly, but unabashedly practical. We remember planning dates with phone calls rather than a right swipe. We are a bit more personable than our younger counterparts, although admittedly not as technology-savvy. We talk about "the good ol' days" as if we know anything about that, thinking that the 80s were the beginning of American history.

And the elderly have theirs:
Tea, buttons you push on strings in case of a fall. Spending time at donut and coffee shops without asking about the wifi password. Money stashed away in retirement accounts. Memories of some really great music, movies, and books that most grandchildren will never know of. They have worked jobs without computers and used their hands for something other than texting and driving. Pictures were sacred and scarce. Working hard was admirable. And they actually do know a thing or two about some good ol' days - before screens ruled our world.

In youth we learn; in age we understand. ~Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach

As I grow older, I learn that the world never really did revolve around me, I just thought it did. My perspective shifts as I see the same things in different lights. I have learned to appreciate the history that shaped the world for me as just as I am learning to adapt to the inventions that come from the generations after me.

The world does not belong to me or to the Millennials or to my children's generation. It belongs to us each, whichever place we find ourselves in it. There is a niche for each of us. Or for us non-conformists, we can always carve our own.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

preschool

Yesterday, we went and visited a preschool for Brandon. "The Berenstain Bears' 'Go To School'" kept running through my mind. Brandon took it all in: the lego table, the playdoh, the blocks, the artwork. He found a book and sat down in their reading chair as if he belonged there.

I've been asking him if he wanted to go to school for awhile now and his answer had always been, "no mom, I want to stay home with you and Holdy."
Until recently.
Now, he says, "when I'm a little bit bigger, I can go to school, right mom?" And when I ask what he would possibly want to do at school, away from mom and Holdy, he replies, "play with other kids and learn my letters," with complete conviction.

I wasn't against preschool before, but I didn't see any necessity for it. I am a stay-at-home mom so why send him away for a couple hours a week and pay someone to watch him when I am completely capable myself? But I learned yesterday that preschool is to prepare us for school; the parents just as much as the children. If we can let our kids go for a couple hours a day, a couple days a week, then maybe we can fathom a whole day at school.

We loosen our leashes a little at a time as these tiny babes of ours turn into boys, then teenagers, then adults. One day they bite off their collars and run wild and free, only to return when we call them back for dinner.

I swallowed my tears as I watched my babe seamlessly fold into the preschool life for an hour. I imagined him seamlessly learning to drive, to get a job, to buy his own house. He will handle it all with his usual aplomb, and I will handle it all with my usual exaggerated emotional breakdowns.

Then this morning, Brandon recited his letters perfectly and asked me if he could go to school today.
"Not today, but in September," I replied.
He looked at me for just a moment, then resumed reading his alphabet book.
It was as if he was checking on me, making sure I am ready to let him grow up.
So I didn't cry in front of him. Let him think he got his aplomb from me, until he learns otherwise.