Letting go

Riley has been going to kindergarten for just over a month now. He adores his teacher, as do I. She is, in her own words, "fair but firm," which is a good combination. He has made new friends. As he strolls through the parking lot, it is common to hear him call out a casual greeting in a way that I, with my oh-crap-are-they-gonna-stop-and-make-small-talk-because-I-hate-small-talk mentality, cannot manage to pull off. And he is learning new things every day. I especially love to hear him rattle off words in Spanish.

Why, then, are there still days in which I have a fluttery feeling in my stomach as I drop him off in front of the school building? Sometimes I feel like chasing after him, scooping him up in my arms, and taking him back home with me just so I can be with him. Just so I can know what his day was like. Just because. But I don't (partially because it might look like a kidnapping, and schools are so safety-conscious these days, I'd be tied and tasered before I made it back to my vehicle). I feel like cornering his teacher in the hallway and demanding that she tell me every detail of every minute that I was apart from my son, and pleading with her to maybe be a little bit less of a great person so that I know he still loves me best. But I don't (again, because of safety issues - I'm sure the school board wouldn't be thrilled about me threatening an employee). I feel like sniffling on the ride home because things are going so fast; he's five already! Tomorrow he'll be getting a driver's license. He'll be able to vote by Thursday and I'll be a grandmother by next week. I want to shake Old Man Time until those stupid spectacles fall off of his over-large nose. But, obviously, I don't (shake Old Man Time, I mean; sometimes sniffling does occur).

Instead, I think I'll fit in all the hugs and kisses I can before he steps foot into the classroom. I'll grill him relentlessly about his day, until he finally sighs in exasperation and says, "I already told you that, Mom!" And I'll dance a little dance of joy when the district has a Professional Development day (whatever that is) because it means no school for the kids.

And I do.

Forward thinking

I'm curious about something. Am I really supposed to believe those messages that accompany sometimes touching, sometimes cheesy, but mostly downright obnoxious forwarded emails? You know the ones I mean - you can usually find them at the bottom of the text. (Though they're hard to miss in their huge, flashing, brightly-colored letters.) The ones that say I must, repeat, MUST forward the email to 5.8 other people in 10.3 seconds or horrible things will happen to me. And my family. And my next door neighbor's dog. And I'll also miss out on the chance to win a new car. Or an all-expense paid trip to Rome. Or a gazillion dollars. Personally, I'd prefer that the message get right down to the nitty gritty and simply tell me that unless I pass the email along, I'm a cold-hearted beast who will die bitter and alone.

Cuz I can live with that.

Favorites

When I was growing up, I was convinced that my mom loved my brother significantly more than she loved her other two kids. And though it probably shouldn't have surprised me (he was the youngest and the only boy, after all), I didn't exactly like it. To this day, she swears up and down that we were all treated the same and that my little bro didn't get away with more than my sister and I did and blah, blah, blah...

Here's the thing: parents who tell people that they love all their children exactly the same are great big liars. Go ahead and deny if it makes you feel better; everybody else knows it's still true. (At this point, I should mention that even though she loved me second, or possibly third best, my mom is my favorite mom. Out of all my moms. Of which there is one.) Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Parents play favorites. I know I do. The trick is to balance out whom I like best in which situation so that each child gets an equal time share. Take, for example, the following scenarios. In them, I obviously favor one child over the other. And I have a sneaking suspicion it won't be hard for you to guess which one.

Scenario 1 - Daybreak
Child A greets me in the morning with a huge smile and a hug, as though it has been days since he's seen me rather than hours. He is often fully dressed and has made his bed before breakfast. Child B, upon awaking and seeing my face, gives me her very best oh-it's-you look. She screams the entire time I attempt to dress her. And hits.

Scenario 2 - Mealtime
Child A likes to talk incessantly for the first fifteen minutes of each meal. He then takes two bites, pronounces the food inedible, and is sent to his room. He whines about being near dead with starvation for the next two-and-a-half hours. Child B, though messy, will eat anything that is put in front of her. This includes beans of all shapes and sizes, cucumbers, and artichokes.

Scenario 3 - Conversation
Child A has a firm grasp of the English language, for a five-year-old. He correctly uses words like actually, drowsy, and stabilized. When he's hungry, he tells me. When he's tired, he tells me. When he has to use the facilities, he bellows, "Oh, my gosh! I have to pee!!" and barrels down the hallway. Child B can string together enough words to get her point across. But can is not the same as will. When she's hungry, she screams. When she's tired, she wails. When something in her life isn't measuring up to her exact specifications, she emits a high-pitched shriek that only her immediate family and dogs can hear.

Scenario 4 - Chores
Child A has not yet developed a strong work ethic. Garbage, laundry, and homework are things to be avoided by any means necessary. Oddly enough, he has not made the connection that goofing off during work time results in tears, frustration, and ultimately, more work. For his mother. Child B thinks that getting to clean up toys or "help" with the dishes is the greatest thing since whipped cream in a can.

So, really, I have the perfect response when my children get old enough to ask, "Do you like him/her better than me?"

Yes. Yes, I do. But hang around for five minutes and then ask me again.

The sound of silence

Hello Blogger, my old friend,
I've come to type with you again,
Because the guilt has come a-creeping,
Instead of blogging I've been sleeping,
The post ideas that are planted in my brain
Still remain
While on my blog, there's silence.

In the mornings around ten
I take my kid to school and then,
There are errands that I need to run
And though blogging would be more fun,
There are meals and bills and a needy two-year old
That I must hold,
While from my blog, there's silence.

Somehow my days just disappear
Faster than chocolate, and I fear
When did I make my last comment?
I'll never again make a dent,
In the posts that I read and the blogs that I hold so dear,
Oh, please don't jeer
At recent sounds of silence.

"Drat" said I, "Did I not see?"
That life won't stand still just for me.
This lesson I should soon learn well:
To balance things so I can use my Dell,
But my goal like silent keystrokes fell,
And echoed
In my blog of silence


Is it funny that I think posting once a week means I'm a huge slacker? Probably. Oh, well - I always knew I was a nerd. I'm okay with it.

P.S. If you don't already know that I've blatantly stolen this song from people who are vastly more talented than I am, you're beyond any help that I can give you.

Kittens - a hazard to your health?

Last Saturday, I came very close to doing something really stupid: I almost became a cat owner.

Now this is not to say that owning cats is stupid in and of itself (unless you're a dog person, cuz then, yeah, it's stupid). I'm just saying that owning a cat would be stupid for me. I'm allergic. And even if I weren't, I don't want a cat. And even if I did, my daughter would probably sit on its head, and that's not fun for anybody. Yet as I passed the truck with the "Free Kittens" sign posted on the tailgate, I felt a curious pull to snatch a kitten, throw it in the backseat, and head for home. Why? Because I can. That's right, I'm a homeowner now and there's no pesky landlord breathing down my neck and telling me I can't have a cat or a dog or a fish or a zebra. I can do whatever I want. Actually, the zebra might not be legit, but whatev. The point is, I passed up a kitten. This time. See, sometimes in life, I run into figurative kittens batting their cute little kitten eyes at me and pitifully mewing my name. And I take one home. Even though it's not good for me. Even though I don't really want it. Even though my daughter will squash its figurative head. Because I can.

It's like those delicious Mr. Maple cookies from Canada that my in-laws sent me in the mail. Sure they're manufactured in a plant that doesn't process peanuts, which is awesome (not because I have a peanut allergy in addition to my cat allergy - I just think it's nice that Mr. Maples are available even for people who are allergic to peanuts). But does that make it a good idea to eat seven in one sitting? Do I like the sugar-induced coma that follows? No, and a little bit. You know why I do it? Because my husband is at work and I've got one kid at school and the other down for a nap. Because there's no one to watch me or judge me or make me share. Basically, because I can.

It's like doing forty-three things in the fifteen minutes before I take Riley to school. Would it be beneficial to my sanity to prioritize or spread things out or simply let some things go? Would my children appreciate a nice, loving mom instead of the shrill hag who is constantly saying, "Faster, faster!" Sure. But all too often, I save it for those fifteen minutes. Why? Ding, ding, ding! Because I've done it before and I can do it again.

Now I know that none of you who happen to be reading this have ever made stupid decisions before, but just in case there comes a day in which you are tempted to do something silly, please take heed: never, ever, ever get a cat. Oh, and don't do things just because you can.


P.S. Our church activity last week was making earrings. I happily created two pairs. Because, you know, I can. Sadly, I don't have pierced ears. If you'd like them, speak up. First person who calls dibs gets 'em. And if nobody wants them, well, I'll cry and cry and cry and lose faith in humanity and become a hermit and never shave my legs again and die within the year. So no pressure.