A teary end to a terrific school year

Wasn’t it just September, and we hurried to take our traditional First Day pictures before leaving for school? 

Yesterday brought this year to a close. Rising 4th and 1st graders now, J and O seem so much older than they did just ten months ago. Last night, for the last time ever, I washed and put away the mismatched pillowcases both boys used in PK and K for their daily rest times. Oh, the years.

During the slow pull out of the school parking lot yesterday, as we waved goodbye to friends and teachers, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw two deeply sad kids. Jack was especially blue, and cried intermittently throughout lunch and even while solving the new 4x4 Rubik's cube I surprised him with. The tears stopped at the orthodontist's office which is, and I'm absolutely serious, one of his favorite destinations. And then they resumed once home.

I held him tight, and let the water fall. I think the world needs more in the way of boys who cry because they had a great third grade year and can't imagine it being over. Who feel the tug of leaving amazing teachers behind, who are heartbroken over a best friend moving away. Who struggle with their emotions, many of which they don't yet understand. Who let those feelings flow rather than pack them away.

And I think the world needs more in the way of people who let them do just that. Without judgment.

Even when Jack expresses inner turmoil in sub-optimal ways, I recognize in it the difficult process of growing up and try to appreciate it as such. He is like me in so many ways- sensitive, emotional, and in possession of a mind that rarely stops. It wasn't easy for me to forge my way through elementary and middle school, and I feel so grateful that he is having an infinitely happier and simpler time of it.

The advancing army of hormones is on his horizon, as are new teachers and greater expectations from them. All of that is hard, even for the most laissez-faire children, and so when I see him struggle and rage and crumble and tire, I get it. Even when it annoys and exhausts me. 

I believe that the traits in our children we find most challenging (in either a difficult or irritating way) are often those we like least about or struggle most with in ourselves. My moodiness and the years it took me to see the glass as half full wore on others and made me question my worth.

I see in Jack now a familiar mercurialism and a fatalistic fear when something feels hard. If he's good at it or inspired and curious, forget it. He's golden. But if he doubts himself or doesn't enjoy the task at hand or meets with more than a modicum of frustration, he erects a wall that even a mighty tsunami would have trouble breaching. 

Hamstrung by dramatic hormone swings, I am still moody but work mightily to rein it in. I no longer fear much of anything really. Years making it on my own in New York largely cured me of worrying about whether or not I could do something; indeed, those years made me fearless in a wonderful way. 

Without individualism and faith in others, we have little, in my opinion. There is plenty of room for introverts and extroverts, for even-keelers and roller coasters, for innately sunny folks and those who naturally skew towards the gray. The world needs all of these types as well as an acceptance of them.

And so as my boy processed his sadness, I tried my best to let him. To show him how he might better handle his emotional swings, to gently remind him that taking things out on others isn't usually the way to go, to be there with him to bear witness and support, to reminisce over all the good that causes the pain but also makes it worth it.

*This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post and is in response to the prompt: "The world really needs more..." Hosts this week are: Kristi Rieger Campbell, Shelley Oz, and Anna Fitfunner. 

Tired, thanks for great teachers, odd

Tired. Ordered take-out. End of story. 

In other news, I wish to applaud my husband who is diligently and lovingly crafting an oversized sheriff badge from foam core right now. Why on god's green earth is he doing that? you might be wondering.

Well, for starters, I asked him to.
Second, he's seen me taking care of all end-of-year to-dos with total gusto and knows he needs to participate.
Thirdly, he's had the MOST ANNOYING cough for four days and owes me for tolerating it.  
Lastly, and most importantly, because it's a gift for one of the boys' greatest teachers.

Coach Gold and Jack have been tight as a good seal on a jam jar since Jack started PK five years ago. I suspect Coach Gold knew my dear J was not an athletic rock star and also loved Jack's obsession (at that time) with all things police. At that point, a politico's child was at school with J and so the secret service were on campus all of the time every day. 

Jack was thrilled by this and took to wearing mirrored spy glasses and police gear to school. Because school is awesome and honors children for just who they are, this was kosher until Jack started directing his classmates around with "10-4, over and out" instructions and walking into the traffic lane from the carpool lane when he was unable to break focus on the agents at the perimeter.

Anyway, Coach Gold started calling Jack "Sheriff," and when Ol started two years ago, Coach Gold nicknamed him "Deputy."

So tonight, we are making a large badge as a little symbol of our family love for Coach Gold. 

Can I tell y'all something that I find odd? At least once a week, the phone rings, and caller ID shows an unfamiliar number. It's not a telemarketer or any of their ilk, so I usually pick up. Invariably, it is a stranger calling with Nutmeg in his (it's usually a man) arms.

"I have a Nutmeg here. Very sweet cat. Is he supposed to be out here? On the sidewalk?"

People, Nutmeg is not a child. He is a cat. Though I am exceedingly grateful for this sincere concern about a roaming cat, do cats not, in fact, roam? I'm vexed. Are there no city cats who get to go outside? Yes, I used to let Nutmeg play outside whilst leashed to a stake. But it was just so depressing to watch his innate drives be foiled again and again because of rope length. 

He always comes home, he is never lost, he has never been hurt. He is obviously loved and well cared for. He wears a collar with our number on it (clearly). But man are strangers concerned. 

Excitement with a tinge of trepidation

Fuuuuuccccckkkkk.

The end is barreling down on us: just a day and change to go. I can't tell if I'm glad or terrified by that, but come it quickly will so I guess I best just go with it.

Let's be honest, people. Terrified is tipping the scales right now. Cue the wine pour.

The children are vacillating between angelic loves and rabid loons. Tics I'd thought were long gone are making irritating resurgences. The "heh-heh-heh" constant cough from Ol? Making me batshit crazy because it is SO fake and omnipresent. Also, he has a bizarre chafing on the side of his face in which the first four of his cavities were filled. Swear to god, I have zero tolerance for a latex allergy.

As an aside, did y'all know that when cats drink from a bowl, they take mini-breaks with their tongues? It's like lick-lick-lick-fake lick and repeat. 

I'm taking breaths where I can. Today that meant a 6-mile run in drizzling rain as well as crafting multiple raffia bows and using Stickles pretty glitter to make Thank You tags that much more special. 

A) My legs are like, "Shit, girl. Too far." But really, Some Nights and, then, Raise Your Glass (Fun./Pink) came on, and I was like, "Shit legs, this playlist is the bomb." And there you have it. Plus, I did register for that damn race, so I best get my training on.

B) Raffia bows. Raffia is an underrated craft material. It looks like something homespun from natural fibers in a fantastic shabby chic way. And then. You can stretch it to a thin, papyrus width which makes it both infinitely more elegant and fun AND all the more homespun and natural. #winning

C) Stickles. One of my top three favorite Paper Source finds. Wanna bedazzle any paper good with a bit of flair? Grab a squirt bottle of Stickles and dot away. It's upscale glitter glue y'all, and boy is it fun. A glittery golden dot at the top point of a stamped star? Fabulous! I needed those shiny little stars today.

In spite of escapist running and crafting fun though, the lows, regressive behavior, tics and generalized mayhem right now are just fucking exhausting. Tears spurt forth randomly as if I've moved into a convent of pubescent gals. I can say that because I was one. And I know.

Tonight, after many hours of loving bonding (by which I mean SO MUCH togetherness), Oliver's face crumbled, the tears poured forth as if that kid pulled his finger from the damn dike, and he begged me to "get my kitchen back." The one Santa brought three years ago and had not been played with in two. The one we sold for $50 and replaced with a pimped out, made-for-small-spaces "office" because Oliver said, "I have work to do!" 

Meanwhile, Lunatic the Elder, having spent hours waxing rhapsodic about the magical and singular experience of 3rd grade, proceeded to fall apart in a spiral of angst + ennui. "I'm OVER IT, Mom. I'm over 3rd grade." 

I attempted to make him a nice dinner, but after freaking out over black beans and a pluot, it became clear that sleep was the only solution.

Also, wine.

Scab face attempted to sneak out of bed under the guise of being "unable to cool off." He was just fishing for me to say, "Get naked, honey." So, I did. I just said, "Take your darn underpants off if that's what you want, man." 

And then I seared the heck out of some filets while masterfully keeping the insides nearly walking for T and much less so for me. And making a freaking awesome brown butter succotash'ish thingy for our side and messaging wildly with writer friends.

Cheers!