A blur

I am so tired tonight I can hardly keep my eyes open. Ol was up at 4am with a nightmare, and I was never able to get back to sleep. I spent the day at school taking photographs of students new and old, some nervous, some utterly at home, some keen on talking, some inward and unsure as we all have been some or many times. Some of these bright faces I've known for up to six years; some of those are like my own nieces and nephews. When I interact with these children, I feel lucky that my own boys get to learn and spend time with them. 

I didn't bother counting how many of the same routes I drove on repeat today. I was just happy I could keep the windows rolled down, a fall breeze gusting through as (mostly) good music played. 

Sometime, ages ago, I made it to yoga. I had to leave early to be at school, but the 65 minutes I spent centered on my mat were tremendous. And I don't mean that in any way but literal. The woman next to me twice dropped bagged crystals from her cleavage -I am not kidding- and finally laid them all on her blanket. Beyond that momentary distraction (and, admittedly, the time I spent periodically throughout today pondering substantially-sized crystals housed in billowy mesh bags of various pastel hues tucked in a lycra yoga tank and yet still tumbling forth), I was so grateful for the quiet time in which I was to focus on me. My breath. My practice. My strength. My connection with all around me. Yoga. From the Sanskrit "yug" meaning to join, unite, yoke.

There's also an element of subjugation in that Sanskrit meaning, but I'm not going there. Except in the ways it makes me consider how often I do subjugate my needs to those of the loved ones I tend and the issues I care about and advocate for. Which are decisions I want to make. But still. It is essential to step back sometimes, and yet, despite decades of practice, I continue to find doing so a challenge.

Tom hugged me last night, and half-jokingly quoted from Good Will Hunting: "It's not your fault, it's not your fault." 

"It is!" I replied. "I never say 'no." 

"No, honey, I know that. I mean, it's not your fault if another volunteer doesn't step up. That doesn't mean you have to fill in."

Food for thought. But I am getting better.

The boys have had a marvelous first week of school. Their school. That dreamy, exceptional place whose cost makes me quiver but which always seems worth it. And god are we forever so damn fortunate to be able to do this. Truly. I think about the rather lousy education I had access to growing up, how flummoxed by everything I was when I got to college, how desperately I had to work to catch up. I learned so much during the catch up, but it was a bear of a challenge, would have been easier to build along the way instead of tacking up a foundation, shell, necessities, and an addition all on short notice. But alas. My lucky boys.

Today during my pictorial tour of the student body I happened across Ol's class. He didn't see me at first but I saw him. Racing across the playground, sweaty and mussed, eyes flashing with joy, voice without a care in the world calling out to old friends and brand new ones. He spotted me and ran over, draping himself atop and across me. "Oh, mama, I love to see you at school. I love you! Can I help you?"

Did I ever feel that gleeful and free in third grade? In second? In fourth? I am nearly certain I didn't. What about the glee I felt today in Ol's embrace? And in Jack's when I picked him up? Hard to articulate that, really.

And yet in this soft, fuzzy skein of love also threads a few strands of overwhelm, a chokehold that I thought would have loosened by now. No one tells you motherhood doesn't get easier. I mean, it does in some ways, but in others, no dice. 

We desperately needed to go to the grocery store this afternoon, after I'd left the lower school, raced to the middle school to get Jack, raced back to the lower school to get Ol. I had been gone from home since 8:30am and was sweaty and beat. And the thought of taking both kids with me to the market just before the 5pm crowd descended was not something that made me enthused. It made me feel yoked and overwhelmed and pissy about being out of milk. 

The kids were not badly behaved, but let's just say they weren't calm, either. We left with milk but also three pints of ice cream and the most bizarre assortment of items for "picnic dinner." And my head was spinning. I felt like one of those malfunctioning Fembots in Austin Powers, all blowing gaskets and puffs of smoke and lolling eyes. 

I don't have any words of wisdom to tidy this post up with. I feel rusty and dry here which vexes me to no end. But I made it to yoga, and I saw my boys in their elements today, and I helped out and met some new people and hugged lots of old friends and the greatest teachers who guided my children and are now friends, and I still managed to cook us all dinner and tuck my boys in. And there is a lot of love swirling around. Lots of memory of this day sixteen years ago when I lived in New York and a dark plume of smelly smoke and ash and char and destruction blew up the avenues towards my apartment. 

Out of darkness most always comes light, even when you can't see it for a bit. I see it today but boy am I tired. Hope y'all are well. 

Reentry: a mom leaves, returns, and restructures family life

Reentry

In mama parlance, the week following any child-free getaway is known as reentry. Every time I go away, I receive a flurry of friendly check-ins in the days after my return: "How's reentry going?" "How are the kids behaving?" "You ok?" I also send these notes to my girlfriends following their no-kids travel.

Sometimes sweet, at other times, reentry sucks.

When I first glimpse the boys after any multi-day separation, I find myself death-gripping them in loving embraces and also looking over them with some remove: do they look older? more tan? have longer hair? any missing teeth? It's funny how a relatively short time can look as if much more time has passed.

Return strategically

What looks long often feels very short, and before you know it, you are back.in.full.bore. For this reason, I urge you to return home from your vacation after the kids are asleep and, for a bonus, when they will go to camp or school the next day.

This realization was thrust upon me last Sunday because it takes most of a day to get to the east coast from its western counterpart. I left California at 9am pacific time and walked into my home at 9:30pm eastern. I was tired and felt grimy. I needed food. Because of all of that and because I was still hanging on to the peaceful zen I'd acquired en vacances, I was fully aware, pretty much immediately, that I was grateful the timing had worked the way it had. 

I could settle back in, cuddle with T and Nutmeg (both fairly quiet), get some sleep and then wake with the boys, rested and ready for the reunion. Rested 6am hugs and squeals and the inevitable sock in the face by some flailing little boy limb is definitely something I can do; it is preferable to hugs, squeals and the inevitable sock when also dirty, tired, and strung out from air travel and fellow passengers.

Consider that a return might be an opportunity for a dynamic shift?

That first morning, I hugged and nuzzled and packed lunches and kissed my bigger/taller/tanner/longer-haired/teeth intact children goodbye as they left with T and headed to camp.

And then I exhaled and looked cheerfully upon the eight hours of solitude ahead. 

A carpenter arrived to do some work, I unpacked and did laundry, caught up on emails, grocery shopped and showered, all the while musing about what felt so good about being away and on my own besides the relative novelty of it.

• I engaged with interesting, funny, inspiring not-related-to-me people for a week straight.
• I had alone time when I needed it and stimulation and new opportunity when I needed that.
• I learned stuff, used my brain, thought deeply.
• I slept more than seven hours each night.
• I took time to read and exercise and also to sit and do nothing. I felt no guilt associated with any of that.
• I didn't do anything I didn't want to do.

On the one hand, all of that seems like Vacation 101--or, Seeing Best Friends and Attending a Neat Conference 101--but on the other hand, it doesn't seem like a laundry list of Xanadu pipe dreams (the Olivia Newton-John Xanadu, y'all, not Kublai Khan's). 

In other words, it seems like the sort of living that daily life could more closely approximate.

I sat with this a-ha wonderment all day. In the garden, in the shower, while buying toilet paper, and while transferring darks from the washer to the dryer. And I became determined, hellfire determined, to point our family dynamic (or my dynamic within the family?) toward the vacation-at-home north star.

I picked the boys up at 4:45, overjoyed to see their happy, dirty faces. They're at Calleva right now and are outside all day- fishing, kayaking, rapid swimming, rock climbing, pony riding, shooting bows and arrows, traversing ropes courses, and working at the farm. They come home filthy. Filthy!

Their ankles are ringed with dirt, toe cracks stuffed with nature's detritus, faces painted with a blend of river water, sweat, and muck. Their lunch boxes, oh lord, y'all should see and smell their lunch boxes. And I think of all that is just the sort of thing kids should do and be during the summers. I love it!

We headed to 2 Amys to resume our after-Calleva tradition of Monday dinner there.

Avoid overcompensating

Often after I return from time away, I overcompensate. I "make up" for leaving, and within a day I'm exhausted. 

Not this time. I walked slowly, I did not rush. I did not answer every question shot at me, nor did I look at every line drawn in real time. I was present and engaged but I kept some for me, not least by refusing to look out the restaurant window when they went outside, pretended to be dogs by crawling on the ground, and lifted a leg in faux-pee. I cannot encourage that, y’all.

On Tuesday, J was talking a mile a minute while simultaneously asking me to engage in 85 ways, and look and respond and see. I could feel my heart quicken under the onslaught, but instead of freaking out as the tidal wave approached, I took a deep breath and with love in my voice and eyes said, "Sweetie, I'm not going to interact like this. I'm not going to be on, on, on all the time."

He said, "Ok, Mom. Right!" because this is not the first time I've said all of that but it might be the first time he could hear how much I meant it. The tidal wave petered out.

He (more calmly) told me about camp and I told him how great my trip was, how good for me it was, what I learned and what I enjoyed. He quietly built something in Minecraft, and Ol expanded the Lego base he's been working on for two months. 

For the second day in a row, I didn't even consider going upstairs to ensure that they bathed. I said, "Sweeties, go on up and shower, and then we can have dinner and start our movie."

Wednesday and Thursday, same song third and fourth verses. I taught a class and registered for a multi-month writing class I've eyed for a while now. I worked in the garden and got a mammogram (tip to all who've not yet entered this stage of life: Don't, under any circumstance when you're in the vise-grip, look down. You do NOT need to see your breasts in that state of being.) When the boys are home, I give them a lot but I keep some for me.

Leave and Let Everyone Shine

My week away (a must for all parents who can fly the coop for a bit) and my determination to hold on to a good amount of that way of living has been wonderful for me but also, I think, for the kids. Tom is a great dad but he does not consider doing, and never has, some of the things I do in terms of parent-child interactions. There's a lot to be learned from that.

He also likes to do some things that I really don’t, like taking the kids swimming for two hours and painstakingly building light saber hilts from wood and PVC.

Since I’ve been back, I’ve let him keep the reins he took hold of while I was gone. I mean, if I don’t let someone else help drive, how can I fault them for not doing so? He has gotten up with the kids every morning, done breakfast, made coffee, and driven the boys to camp. Jack jumped on the bandwagon two days ago and packed his and Oliver’s lunches on his own accord. Excuse me, did someone steal my child and replace him with an engaged-in-household affairs doppelganger? I accept!

The thing is, T feels good when he knows he’s helping me. As well, it is meaningful for him to be equally involved when he’s home because of how the kids respond. They establish their own relationships on their own terms, not on mine.

When Jack steps up and receives truthful, thrilled praise, he beams, learns a lot about giving back and helping, and is inclined to do more.   

As I did by virtue of leaving (and let me say that a week may sound long, but it really reset everything in the best way), I also need to step back when I’m here. I need to ensnare my Take Care of Everyone in the World compulsion and toss away about 30% of it because not only does it take agency away from others but also it’s just too much to shoulder.

When the dynamic has shifted, don’t turn back!

There have been moments this week in which I or the kids have reverted into patterns I really don't want any of us to return to. Fortunately, because I am still rested and zen and they are at camp from 8am - 4:40pm (these are really good hours, y'all), I've had the reserve to both realize what's happening and alter course, back toward the vacation-at-home north star.

Quantity of time spent together really isn't as important as the quality of it. Equally true is that each of us must honor and make time for all of the facets of our lives that make our souls sing. When we starve a few, the whole is weakened.

I came back from my week away as a happier, more fulfilled mother and Tom and the boys were thriving. Here's to this being our new normal!

Time's determined march

Leaves are changing color and falling, but the high temperatures and humidity persist. My habanero plant is flowering again; it is confused. Summer and fall are duking it out in the final battle for seasonal primacy.

I step from my bath, dripping and thoughtful. Epsom salts and heat help my achy back, the scar on which hasn’t faded over the years as much as I’d have liked. I am prone to all manner of irregular freckles and moles; some need to be removed, while others are simply physical manifestations of my idiosyncrasies and can stay and remind me of such. 

I study my face and its newer wrinkles, my belly and hips. My eyes look tired. Things everywhere are both taut and soft, as aging bodies are wont. Thinner here, fuller there.

It occurs to me that the seasons aren’t the only things fighting for supremacy.

I used to know everyone in the school pick-up line. But during the past two years, waves of new families have reached the shore, and now, I sometimes feel slightly meek and anonymous. Friendships are being forged, over children and similarities I may never know. 

I haven’t felt that way in a long time, and I’m not sure if I like it or don’t.  

My big boy will graduate this year and move to the older campus. I think I like that but nostalgia grabs my heart and makes me unsure. I glean comfort from the fact that even if I’m then just part of the crowd, my younger one will tether me to the special place for a couple years more.

A friend writes with disbelief, “I can’t believe you volunteer at school so often.” I reply, “I love it because not only can I give back but also I can see my children as their best selves.” I had never thought about that before and am again struck by the power of writing without thinking, of responding without editing myself immediately and repeatedly.

There is a lesson there.

I awoke this morning as might a furious storm, swirling and messy and vexed. My agitation could have been for so many reasons, or none at all. I cried, and cooked. I talked to a dearest friend and kept cooking. I poured my soul into my friend and my food. And, later, into my boys.

They were both darling and not, thankful and spoiled, perfect and ugly. My mind told me to run, my heart urged me to stay. Both were right. I am no longer interested in the not-rare arguments about, for example, how much of a body one will willingly bathe. But I am inordinately grateful to be the one asked for advice and trusted with deep secrets.

Finally, the pregnant skies have opened, releasing their watery savings with an unapologetic gush. The parched earth yawns, gratefully lapping up what is shared. Mud splatters, newly sown seeds are unmoored. Wild animals take cover, my domesticated ones snooze obliviously, comfortable and secure on blankets and in beds.

Time marches inexorably on, battling towards the future and against the past. I see it in the seasons, and on my body. In the wave of new faces and the six years that have flown by, a blip in a vast sea, since my family joined the school community we hold so dear. In my dog’s gray whiskers, and in my husband’s too. In the rain that pours down and my sons as they mature.

In the belief in tomorrow and the fresh start it holds.