I got back in the car and shut the door just before the first few pitiful squeaks escaped from my mouth. You know, the kind that attempt to prevent but only precede uncontrollable sobbing? I expected to be teary eyed, sad and proud at the same time. Maybe have a little lip quiver going. But I wasn't exactly prepared for the wash of sheer emotion on my little boy's first day of kindergarten. The tears that started last Friday and have yet to stop. Over the weekend I thought "Oh, good. I'll get it out now and will be just fine for Monday morning drop-off."
Nope. Didn't work like that. Outwardly, I'm not a hyper-emotional being with raw, exposed edges and a super sensitive tear faucet. But this was unlike anything I have ever experienced. And I wouldn't change any of it.
I took the day off work, just to be there to walk him into the cafeteria to meet his class. And to walk slowly back to the car. To enjoy the hours of the day as they ticked by. To look at the clock and check his schedule and know what he was doing each and every minute.
Those minutes seemed to creep. At one point I thought he must be getting ready for lunch, only to look at the clock and see that it wasn't even out of the neighborhood of 9:00 a.m. How could this big day be going so slowly?
I resisted the urge to drive past the school multiple times throughout the day. I'm not really "that" mom...except that I sort of am....at least on the inside. I want so much to shepherd him through his day, just to be there and know that he's okay and he's not nervous like his mama is. I don't want to do everything for him....I really don't. I just can't stand the thought of him being lost or confused or nervous or afraid to ask questions. Afraid to use the restroom by himself because the door is difficult to open and he might get stuck.
After school on the first day, he asked me if I had cried. (Once I cry, my face does not go back to normal for at least 12 hours....I bring literal meaning to the term "ugly cry"....so it's not surprising that he asked.) I told him I did and asked him if he did, too. He said "No, but my heart was beating like I missed you." The way he held his little hand against his chest and pounded it with thumping demonstration made the still lingering lump in my throat ache all over again. I must have sobbed in the bathroom five times that night.
Yesterday, I walked him to meet his class in the cafeteria and again began my slow but deliberate trudge back to the car. I prayed for his day, for his safekeeping, for his little heart to be just fine this day. I prayed for good friends for him and for no one to mock him because he wears glasses and is colorblind. "Lord, help me..." The words "to let him grow up" stuck in my throat. I couldn't yet speak them. So I just nodded my head and He knew what I meant.
Today I'm wearing a Cars band-aid across my forearm that my little man stuck there to protect me from the flu. He takes care of his mama. And I will pull myself together and take care of him. In front of him I remain enthusiastic, celebrating each red star he earns on his take-home folder. While he sleeps I whisper prayers of love and protection over him, pleading for extra help as we make this childhood transition together.
Nothing could have prepared me for this rush of emotions this week. I know I'm hormonal, but still. He's my baby. My miracle. And we will get through this first week of kindergarten. I will find the right schedule that allows each of us to bathe, eat, enjoy clean clothes and sheets, do homework, fill out forms, check calendars, get to school, get to work, get back home and get into bed at a semi-decent hour. But this week is about survival. And if he can do it, I know I can. The band-aid helps.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Me & My Big House
I love my new house. Love it. And I'm so glad God didn't allow us to settle for the several that we liked but didn't love. To us, this house is HUGE. I didn't think I would miss our little house, but I did....at first. I was comfortable there. Small houses have always been my thing. I like the cozy feel of having everyone close by, the comfort of knowing that if a window breaks during the dark of night, I will hear it. In the new house? Not so much....
Moving from 1,292 square feet of cozy to nearly 2,600 square feet of sprawling was a shock to me. I don't have enough furniture to fill all of this space. Not that I'm complaining....this is really starting to feel like home. We're still living out of boxes. Still trying to figure out the best way to cool the upstairs. Still replacing light fixtures and installing ceiling fans. How this house went so long without ceiling fans is beyond me....
I'm still cursing the stairs every time I have to haul my pregnant self up them. Turns out that bear crawling is a rather efficient way of traveling upward, especially if you're currently top-heavy. I will one day love these stairs for the awesome legs they will give me (aided of course by a return to CrossFit). But for now, I reserve the right to mutter bad words to myself each and every time we meet.
The dog has also had a difficult time with the stairs. I should give him more of a break. He's 10 years old, after all. And large. And spoiled. And I so should have known not to leave him alone with an all access pass to the house just hours after he was first introduced, and not all that properly. I decided to make a grocery run and truly didn't think anything of leaving him alone in a strange house. He's trained, well-behaved, a member of the family....Yeah. Bad, bad move.
Wes and I returned home to find that Gunther had climbed the stairs, panicked about getting back down, and then SHAT.ALL.OVER.BABY'S.ROOM....ALL.OVER. I don't mean a nice little pile of good, solid poo. I mean nasty, runny, nervous as all get out, my family has left me and I'm stuck upstairs poo. ALL.OVER.THE.ROOM.
I stood in the doorway and just cried. Jason came home and I went downstairs to greet him....and stood in the doorway and just cried. Bless that man for knowing his way around a full bottle of Folex and a powerful shop vac.
We now know to block the stairs when we leave. I love my house. Now I just need a good steam cleaner....
Moving from 1,292 square feet of cozy to nearly 2,600 square feet of sprawling was a shock to me. I don't have enough furniture to fill all of this space. Not that I'm complaining....this is really starting to feel like home. We're still living out of boxes. Still trying to figure out the best way to cool the upstairs. Still replacing light fixtures and installing ceiling fans. How this house went so long without ceiling fans is beyond me....
I'm still cursing the stairs every time I have to haul my pregnant self up them. Turns out that bear crawling is a rather efficient way of traveling upward, especially if you're currently top-heavy. I will one day love these stairs for the awesome legs they will give me (aided of course by a return to CrossFit). But for now, I reserve the right to mutter bad words to myself each and every time we meet.
The dog has also had a difficult time with the stairs. I should give him more of a break. He's 10 years old, after all. And large. And spoiled. And I so should have known not to leave him alone with an all access pass to the house just hours after he was first introduced, and not all that properly. I decided to make a grocery run and truly didn't think anything of leaving him alone in a strange house. He's trained, well-behaved, a member of the family....Yeah. Bad, bad move.
Wes and I returned home to find that Gunther had climbed the stairs, panicked about getting back down, and then SHAT.ALL.OVER.BABY'S.ROOM....ALL.OVER. I don't mean a nice little pile of good, solid poo. I mean nasty, runny, nervous as all get out, my family has left me and I'm stuck upstairs poo. ALL.OVER.THE.ROOM.
I stood in the doorway and just cried. Jason came home and I went downstairs to greet him....and stood in the doorway and just cried. Bless that man for knowing his way around a full bottle of Folex and a powerful shop vac.
We now know to block the stairs when we leave. I love my house. Now I just need a good steam cleaner....
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Ink Stains & Permanent Regrets
I think a common misconception about depression is that it doesn't actually hurt. Oh contraire...It hurts a lot. It's not just tears and sadness. It's pain. Pain that no medication can truly touch. Dull the edges, maybe. But make it "better"? No way.
I'm fortunate that I can consider myself a survivor of depression. A casualty that didn't stay down. For a very long time, too long, I let that demon have me.
"Normal" people (that's what I like to call them) seem to think that one can walk away from depression bearing no physical scars or signs of wear. I beg to differ. Wounds glossed over, un-stitched, hidden, covered, unspoken. The remains of your life, unmatched and scattered. Maybe it's not what the illness does to us so much as what it causes us to do to ourselves.
I don't usually show people my scar....the one I commissioned and paid for and had placed over my left shoulder....on the same side as my heart but behind me thinking no one would see. I'm not proud of it.
When your heart and mind are clouded, sometimes you don't think about what may lie ahead. If there even is anything ahead. Something better. Anything better. If you will ever be better.
The tattoo that served as her burial ground....the one I thought would make me feel better....or make me feel pain....or something, anything....will have to be seen on my sister's wedding day. That beautiful dress, a berry shade of wine, so pretty by itself, doesn't hide that painful scar. I hate it now. It's no longer a symbol of love or remembrance for me. It's a symbol of sickness and self-hatred. Punishment for something I couldn't prevent. An internal struggle that seeps through my skin.
It's a scar. The remnants of a battle fought unwillingly. It's just ink to some. Red and black, purple, green, and blue. But to me it's a bruise that won't fade. A reminder not of the baby I thought it represented, but of the subsequent sickness that nearly took me down.
In a way, I guess it can also be a reminder of grace. A reminder that once you're down, you don't have to stay there. Sometimes you have to wait it out. But you can get back up. And you can bare your scars when necessary.
I'm fortunate that I can consider myself a survivor of depression. A casualty that didn't stay down. For a very long time, too long, I let that demon have me.
"Normal" people (that's what I like to call them) seem to think that one can walk away from depression bearing no physical scars or signs of wear. I beg to differ. Wounds glossed over, un-stitched, hidden, covered, unspoken. The remains of your life, unmatched and scattered. Maybe it's not what the illness does to us so much as what it causes us to do to ourselves.
I don't usually show people my scar....the one I commissioned and paid for and had placed over my left shoulder....on the same side as my heart but behind me thinking no one would see. I'm not proud of it.
When your heart and mind are clouded, sometimes you don't think about what may lie ahead. If there even is anything ahead. Something better. Anything better. If you will ever be better.
The tattoo that served as her burial ground....the one I thought would make me feel better....or make me feel pain....or something, anything....will have to be seen on my sister's wedding day. That beautiful dress, a berry shade of wine, so pretty by itself, doesn't hide that painful scar. I hate it now. It's no longer a symbol of love or remembrance for me. It's a symbol of sickness and self-hatred. Punishment for something I couldn't prevent. An internal struggle that seeps through my skin.
It's a scar. The remnants of a battle fought unwillingly. It's just ink to some. Red and black, purple, green, and blue. But to me it's a bruise that won't fade. A reminder not of the baby I thought it represented, but of the subsequent sickness that nearly took me down.
In a way, I guess it can also be a reminder of grace. A reminder that once you're down, you don't have to stay there. Sometimes you have to wait it out. But you can get back up. And you can bare your scars when necessary.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
20 Days and Counting
Yesterday I told Wes that we only had 20 days left until school starts. He smiled with some relief and said "Oh. Okay." I asked if he was excited. "I'm not excited, but I'm happy for the 20 days....it means I still have time to grow up."
My baby! His precious little five-year-old mind has been worried that he has to grow up before kindergarten. I hate that I can't always make his worries go away. And I hate that I didn't realize this even was a worry.
So much he will have to do on his own. I wonder if he will ask for help when he needs it, or just pretend to know what he's doing the way I always did.
I wonder if his little hands will figure out how to hold the scissors and if he will be brave and make conversation with his table mates. I wonder how he will choose his seat at the lunch table....and if he'll remember how to open his hot lunch container.
I wonder if the things he learned in pre-school will come back to him. So many things seem to have been lost over the summer. But maybe that's because he's had one last opportunity to live care-free.
It seems unfair. That the last opportunity we have to be care-free ends when we're five.
20 days left until we have to grow up. Maybe I'll figure out how by then, too. Maybe I can show him how to hold the scissors. And maybe he can show me how to be brave.
My baby! His precious little five-year-old mind has been worried that he has to grow up before kindergarten. I hate that I can't always make his worries go away. And I hate that I didn't realize this even was a worry.
So much he will have to do on his own. I wonder if he will ask for help when he needs it, or just pretend to know what he's doing the way I always did.
I wonder if his little hands will figure out how to hold the scissors and if he will be brave and make conversation with his table mates. I wonder how he will choose his seat at the lunch table....and if he'll remember how to open his hot lunch container.
I wonder if the things he learned in pre-school will come back to him. So many things seem to have been lost over the summer. But maybe that's because he's had one last opportunity to live care-free.
It seems unfair. That the last opportunity we have to be care-free ends when we're five.
20 days left until we have to grow up. Maybe I'll figure out how by then, too. Maybe I can show him how to hold the scissors. And maybe he can show me how to be brave.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
