Tomorrow morning The First Grader will become The Second Grader.
*gulp*
I will rise earlier than usual tomorrow. I will check the camera batteries one more time, and I will begin the First Day Of School Breakfast Extravaganza.
[which really isn't at all extravagant, but ssshhhh don't tell the Boy]
I'll coax him out of bed with the wafting smell of sizzling bacon that will make its way into his room. We'll hurry through a nervous breakfast and afterwards, with bellies full and moods elevated, I will make him pose for the obligatory First Day pictures.
If I'm lucky he will feign a smile. Just for me.
We'll drive to the bus stop because we'll be running late (as we will be for the next 185 days).
At the bus stop, he and his friends will grumble about having to go back to school. They'll toss a tennis ball around as we mothers call out to be careful! And to stay to the side of the road!
A few minutes later the bus will come rolling around the corner, lights flashing, cars stopping. Our kids will throw their backpacks over their shoulders and climb onto the bright yellow monstrosity that will carry them to their waiting lockers and shiny new desk supplies.
As the bus doors close, I will wave goodbye even though the windows are tinted and The Second Grader will move to the back of the bus, oblivious to anything happening beyond the seat he occupies.
I will not have dry eyes on this morning.
And as I watch the school bus pull away, I will have that same ugly feeling I have every year on The First Day.
That aching feeling that I am slowly working myself out of a job.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Working On A Dream
I've been down this path so many times before that I know every curve, bump, pothole and speed trap along the way.
I know when to fasten my seat belt and get into crash position, and I know when to ease up on the brakes and give myself up to the road.
Today I wait, again, for the gears to shift into motion. For the slow churning and twisting that will inevitably come. For the cautionary tell-tale yield signs to slowly fade away, out of sight, out of body. And for the dark, hollow tunnel that will eventually bring me back home.
The Universe is trying to tell me something. This is obvious. But no matter how many times it whispers into my deaf ears, its voice always feels harsh, slapping me out of my dreamy future. Why do I allow myself, after all these years, to imagine a time that is so far out of reach, impossible even?
At what point do you start to listen?
At what point do you throw up your arms in defeat and surrender to the Universe because you know, in your gut, that it's all out of your control anyway?
At what point do you Stop, locate the nearest Exit sign and Move On?
Because today I'm about ready to open up the window, climb down the fire escape, hold my kids close and enter a world that is only here and now. To breathe only one moment at a time.
And to call myself Lucky.
I know when to fasten my seat belt and get into crash position, and I know when to ease up on the brakes and give myself up to the road.
Today I wait, again, for the gears to shift into motion. For the slow churning and twisting that will inevitably come. For the cautionary tell-tale yield signs to slowly fade away, out of sight, out of body. And for the dark, hollow tunnel that will eventually bring me back home.
The Universe is trying to tell me something. This is obvious. But no matter how many times it whispers into my deaf ears, its voice always feels harsh, slapping me out of my dreamy future. Why do I allow myself, after all these years, to imagine a time that is so far out of reach, impossible even?
At what point do you start to listen?
At what point do you throw up your arms in defeat and surrender to the Universe because you know, in your gut, that it's all out of your control anyway?
At what point do you Stop, locate the nearest Exit sign and Move On?
Because today I'm about ready to open up the window, climb down the fire escape, hold my kids close and enter a world that is only here and now. To breathe only one moment at a time.
And to call myself Lucky.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Time To Renew My AARP Subscription
I have a history of dating older men, it's true.
I suppose you could put on your Professor Freudian thinking cap and theorize all sorts of reasons why the aging male species appealed to my 20-something self.
Did she want to be taken care of?
Did she crave financial security?
Did she have a thing for gray hair?
No, maybe, and so what if I do?
But none of that crap matters.
What matters is that the man I have beenobsessed with admiring in a sane and unstalker-like way for the last 25 years?
HE just ended up on the cover of AARP.
And That. Feels like a big old botox-injected punch in the gut.
But damn, he still looks good.
**I should note that The Husband is (slightly) older than me, has a touch of gray, and the best decision I ever made.
The Husband, after all these years, still likes to remind me of the more mature gentlemen callers whose company I kept before he and I got together for reals.
There was the Miata driving mid-life crisis guy.
There was the balding, artsy free-spirited guy.
There was the receding hairline ready-to-settle-down guy.
I even had a secret crush on Tom Brokaw back then.There was the Miata driving mid-life crisis guy.
There was the balding, artsy free-spirited guy.
There was the receding hairline ready-to-settle-down guy.
I suppose you could put on your Professor Freudian thinking cap and theorize all sorts of reasons why the aging male species appealed to my 20-something self.
Did she want to be taken care of?
Did she crave financial security?
Did she have a thing for gray hair?
No, maybe, and so what if I do?
But none of that crap matters.
What matters is that the man I have been
HE just ended up on the cover of AARP.
And That. Feels like a big old botox-injected punch in the gut.
But damn, he still looks good.
**I should note that The Husband is (slightly) older than me, has a touch of gray, and the best decision I ever made.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Believing In The Garden
I am not a Believer.
I don't believe in organized religion. I've never attended church. My kids aren't baptized, and the Husband and I were married by a Justice of the Peace found on the Internet. I tend to believe that religion is just another way to segregate ourselves from each other. I don't know that I would call myself anything other than maybe "on the fence", and that's only because I like to play things safe.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Husband's grandmother, Gigi as she was known, died last week. It was not unexpected. She had been ill, and her body weary. She simply -and peacefully we like to think- closed her eyes and went to sleep. A good way to go.
She and The Husband's grandfather moved to England in 1976. Visits, I am told, were infrequent. Maybe annual. Maybe less. I don't know how often she saw her grandchildren, but I do know how much she meant to The Husband by the way he spoke of her, with a sparkle in his eyes.
When the First Grader was two, we hopped a flight to Heathrow with The Husband's parents. The five of us spent a week with Gigi touring Scotland, drinking scotch (and tea, but mostly scotch), and lamenting on the demise of the family castle that we spent hours trying to find as we weaved up and down countryside roads, dodging herds of cattle in our rented American-made minivan that surely screamed TOURIST to passersby. She didn't seem to mind going along for the ride, playing the role of out-of-towner with her American family (or maybe it was the tour of the local distillery that made that afternoon sufferable).
We cajoled her into telling stories of her family's past, some happy, some heroic, some difficult to recall. We videotaped her as she spoke and laughed, and a few times asked for the camera to be paused. What a gift to us, to The Husband and our children, to have history recorded.
She was a pretty amazing 80-something travel companion, stopping willingly with us at pubs for fisherman pies and well earned Pints. And, even more admirable, putting up with a grouchy, food deprived and jet-lagged 2 1/2 year old.
For the ten days spent across the pond, The First Grader lived exclusively on cheerios (thank you General Mills). Apparently, the British style grilled cheese was not to his liking and the local markets were inadequately stocked. He. Just. Ate. Cheerios. He came home a few pounds lighter. I came home with a few more furrowed brow lines.
The First Grader says he remembers the trip. I hope he does. I doubt he knows how fortunate he was to be able to spend time with his great grandmother. How many of us can say that?
When we returned home- and the First Grader resumed eating- Gigi let us know that she thought of him, the wee one, every morning as she ate her bowl of cheerios.
She said, years later, that she remembered the trip. I hope she did. I think she knew how fortunate she was to be able to spend time with a great grandchild. How many of us will get to say that?
It was the last time The Husband saw his grandmother. But what a time it was. I know he remembers.
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I was weeding our garden last week, a few days after we heard the news of Gigi, when I noticed a flower I'd never before seen. It wasn't there the previous week. We hadn't planted it, and there were no others like it that could have seeded themselves into the soil.
But there it was. One stem shooting out of the ground. One bloom. One mysteriously beautiful pink bloom.
My first thought?
My very first thought was There she is saying hello. And waving goodbye.
But I'm conflicted, you see. Because how can I let my head believe something so abstract when I'm not a Believer?
How can I make such a long jump of faith without my legs crumbling beneath me?
Are we really everywhere and everything? Dust in the wind and all that jazz?
I don't know.
And I don't think Gigi would want us to contemplate it too much. You see, she loved her gardens. I have seen pictures of her beautiful plants and blooms and the care and attention that must have gone into nurturing something so alive. How many hours over a lifetime had she spent tending to her gardens?
But you can only do so much for your plants, she told us during a visit to a Scottish botanical garden. At some point, she said, you just have to let them be. Stop fussing over them and let them show you what they are.
And so we will.
We'll eat our morning bowl of cheerios. We'll pour another scotch. We'll tend to our gardens the best we can and we'll let them show us what they are.
I don't believe in organized religion. I've never attended church. My kids aren't baptized, and the Husband and I were married by a Justice of the Peace found on the Internet. I tend to believe that religion is just another way to segregate ourselves from each other. I don't know that I would call myself anything other than maybe "on the fence", and that's only because I like to play things safe.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Husband's grandmother, Gigi as she was known, died last week. It was not unexpected. She had been ill, and her body weary. She simply -and peacefully we like to think- closed her eyes and went to sleep. A good way to go.
She and The Husband's grandfather moved to England in 1976. Visits, I am told, were infrequent. Maybe annual. Maybe less. I don't know how often she saw her grandchildren, but I do know how much she meant to The Husband by the way he spoke of her, with a sparkle in his eyes.
When the First Grader was two, we hopped a flight to Heathrow with The Husband's parents. The five of us spent a week with Gigi touring Scotland, drinking scotch (and tea, but mostly scotch), and lamenting on the demise of the family castle that we spent hours trying to find as we weaved up and down countryside roads, dodging herds of cattle in our rented American-made minivan that surely screamed TOURIST to passersby. She didn't seem to mind going along for the ride, playing the role of out-of-towner with her American family (or maybe it was the tour of the local distillery that made that afternoon sufferable).
We cajoled her into telling stories of her family's past, some happy, some heroic, some difficult to recall. We videotaped her as she spoke and laughed, and a few times asked for the camera to be paused. What a gift to us, to The Husband and our children, to have history recorded.
She was a pretty amazing 80-something travel companion, stopping willingly with us at pubs for fisherman pies and well earned Pints. And, even more admirable, putting up with a grouchy, food deprived and jet-lagged 2 1/2 year old.
For the ten days spent across the pond, The First Grader lived exclusively on cheerios (thank you General Mills). Apparently, the British style grilled cheese was not to his liking and the local markets were inadequately stocked. He. Just. Ate. Cheerios. He came home a few pounds lighter. I came home with a few more furrowed brow lines.
The First Grader says he remembers the trip. I hope he does. I doubt he knows how fortunate he was to be able to spend time with his great grandmother. How many of us can say that?
When we returned home- and the First Grader resumed eating- Gigi let us know that she thought of him, the wee one, every morning as she ate her bowl of cheerios.
She said, years later, that she remembered the trip. I hope she did. I think she knew how fortunate she was to be able to spend time with a great grandchild. How many of us will get to say that?
It was the last time The Husband saw his grandmother. But what a time it was. I know he remembers.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was weeding our garden last week, a few days after we heard the news of Gigi, when I noticed a flower I'd never before seen. It wasn't there the previous week. We hadn't planted it, and there were no others like it that could have seeded themselves into the soil.
But there it was. One stem shooting out of the ground. One bloom. One mysteriously beautiful pink bloom.
My first thought?
My very first thought was There she is saying hello. And waving goodbye.
But I'm conflicted, you see. Because how can I let my head believe something so abstract when I'm not a Believer?
How can I make such a long jump of faith without my legs crumbling beneath me?
Are we really everywhere and everything? Dust in the wind and all that jazz?
I don't know.
And I don't think Gigi would want us to contemplate it too much. You see, she loved her gardens. I have seen pictures of her beautiful plants and blooms and the care and attention that must have gone into nurturing something so alive. How many hours over a lifetime had she spent tending to her gardens?
But you can only do so much for your plants, she told us during a visit to a Scottish botanical garden. At some point, she said, you just have to let them be. Stop fussing over them and let them show you what they are.
And so we will.
We'll eat our morning bowl of cheerios. We'll pour another scotch. We'll tend to our gardens the best we can and we'll let them show us what they are.
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