Just a wee bit of WTF

Now hear this, friends. I am happy to have obliged Ol's doe-eyed request to stay home with me this week rather than attending any camp. But I will tell you that if you are like me and require a certain amount of quietude, do not agree to Camp Mommy the week immediately following the family trip from which you've just returned. 

But Em, you may say, "Wouldn't I be relaxed and fully rested after a week at the beach with my brood?"

Let me put it simply: You will in no way be fully rested after said week. Especially if you spent the last 7 hours of said week driving home together in the same car. 

You will then, come Monday afternoon, find yourself wild-eyed and with terrible hair. Your home will look like you're a hoarder who enjoys playing on the floor with blocks and costumes. Quite possibly you'll have agreed that you and your camper could of course paint one wall of his room. In two new colors. Stripes!

Then, you'll remember that you have a second child. He needs to be picked up at camp five minutes ago, and you are still unsure as to whether or not you have brushed your teeth. Ever today.

You will go to camp, pick him up, cringe when he says "what's the snack?" because not only did you not bring a snack but also you haven't yet told either child that guess what, it's time to run to the pharmacy for a prescription refill. 

You do these things, spend $4 on a croissant and scone to fill their pieholes with food rather than words and then return home to realize that the night is young. Hell, the day is young.

You instruct the children to play together, old-school style. #noscreens Then you quickly and desperately Facebook messenger a friend and start to vent. Twenty minutes later, your children are in nothing but underpants and one, also wearing one pleather glove by the way, is licking the other while you and your friend are discussing the many ridiculous names given to babies these days.

At, "No, don't put that in the litter box," you pause. This, if any, might be a reasonable time to intervene in whatever mofo crazy game your children have invented. Like I always say, summer makes 'em smart. You cautiously glance over your right shoulder to see what's happening. You find that child 2 now has TWO pleather gloves on, and you spin your head so quickly back to the screen that you give yourself whiplash. Your friend says, "Hmm....two pleather gloves sounds ominous."

Indeed. 

Because you're awesome, even when you're on FB and your kids are acting like S&M lunatics straight outta Pulp Fiction, you will make a gorgeous, healthful dinner of whole wheat (obviously, people; you're not an asshole) spaghetti with spring-green pesto; just-picked strawberries from the farmers market (double duh; you are that woman); sugar snap peas AND pea tendrils; and wholesome milk, chilled just right. 

The gloved and gloveless wonders sit down and begin to eat the spaghetti with their hands. You have raised.them.right. #allthemanners

You pour some wine, curse your ever-hopeful dog, and give thanks for the "who gives a shit" cat who's skulking to and fro with his tail high. "Bless that feline" you think as you sip some lovely whatever it is in your glass.

A stroke of maternal genius overcomes you about two years late, and you inform child 1 that as he is almost 9, you will no longer be bathing him. (Maybe you are an asshole. I mean, NINE?). He takes it well. You wonder if he'll ever be truly clean again but as you start to fret, your worry is wholly and successfully tossed back into the current by the utter liberation of NOT bathing your extremely capable child.

You become brazen and tell child 2 that "Hey, you're six. I KNOW you can do it too." You might sit with him in the bathroom as he bathes because possibly you're still terrified he could drown. Remember that babysitter who always fell asleep on the job BUT had been a lifeguard and reminded you regularly that "kids can drown in even an inch of water"? Yeah, that stuck with you. And so there you find yourself. On a toilet, with a three-month-old magazine that you still won't read, watching your six-year-old kinda not bathe himself but at least you're not doing it.

LIBERATION! Maybe this is what summer is all about?!

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

The kids are such great travelers, but today was hella long. The drive between DC and Wrightsville Beach is about three hours past crazy-inducing, but it's so nice to be there that it's worth it. 

We were sad to leave by also very happy to pull up in front of home. Home. That word conjures so much. During the last couple miles, we talked about what we looked forward to returning to: Nutmeg, "my room," "my bed," amongst others. 

Walking in did not disappoint. Hugs all around for pets and things familiar. I cleaned out the fridge, Tom mowed, the kids crafted a buffet of Minecraft-related perler bead things.

And then dinner. Thanks to our freezer (shrimp), crisper drawers (corn) and garden (greens and herbs), we ate well and were thankful to do so. Off to bed now.

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.