Another Year, Settling In and a Thank You

Another birthday earlier this month and in my book, many small cakes trump one big cake. Happy birthday, indeed.

Thanks to everyone for their sweet comments to my last post. It's been heartening to hear from people and the support means so much. So thank you. Truly.

I absolutely HATE going this long between writing here but I will be honest. I haven't really known what to say. My mind is a jumble about everything that's transpired. Things seem fine and normal and things also feel completely upside down.

An email from an old high school friend who had also experienced a job loss summed it up best: He wrote to me of his layoff experience, of what it was like for him  to suddenly be without something that is the "anchor to our days." Which, yes. That. Exactly.


Don't get me wrong. I have plenty to keep me busy.

I think the toughest thing right now is that my life suddenly feels very small. Quite literally! Don't get me wrong--I love these small people, I'm just not accustomed to being with them all day every day. And I always thought I was a better mom when I had "my own thing" and requisite time away and that's always been work. But I also know that there is some grace in this and in a funny way I'm very lucky to have the chance to be doing what I'm doing right now. When we're driving in the minivan toward Costco (have I mentioned how amazing it is to grocery shop on the weekdays? No crowds and I don't have the rushed, urgent feeling because this is it! THIS is our big outing for the day!) and Lucy calls to me from the backseat "MOMMY! You need to talk! You're not saying anything," I can't help but smile.



And then they call to me to "Put on Frozen" and before I know it we're all three belting out "Let it Go" as we drive up Northfield Avenue and I look in the rear view mirror and see two sets of winter coat-covered arms gesticulating and conducting and of course hear their tiny unabashed voices: "Let it Gooooooo!"


I'm in the kitchen loading the dishwasher AGAIN and I realize the twins are suspiciously silent and I pad toward the front of the house and find them both sitting, almost tush to tush on the carpet in Leo's room, reading--Lucy, a Dr. Seuss and Harry a Lego instruction manual (because, of course).  I linger in the doorway much longer than I need to thinking, This is what I missed when I wasn't home with them. All the little, quiet moments. And so I'm enjoying them now. Or trying to. Because who knows how long they will last.



I mean, spending all day with twin two-year-olds, followed by everyone's favorite Witching Hour, aka, helping-Leo-with-his-homework-when-all-he-wants-to-do-is-play-Legos-or-watch TV, while the aforementioned twin two year olds pull at my leg or tug at my sweatshirt string or repeatedly ask for "More seltzer."  It is the best of times and it is the worst of times. Truly.



While it was unquestionably difficult working full-time and commuting into New York City every day, one of the things I enjoyed the most about it was the literal "change of scenery," not to mention the "break" that working afforded me (I've always said that going into the office was the easiest part of my day). The intellectual challenges were nice too, as were conversations with people over the age of nine.

The day, recently, that the boxes from my office were delivered to the house? That was a hard day. For years and years, that office in midtown Manhattan was my little oasis of calm. My shrine of sanity. And not only that, it was mine (well, it felt like mine anyway). The only thing that was truly separate from the kids, the house, it was just my little world, where I could be me, and an independent person.



But as another dear friend wrote to me recently, "Nothing is ever permanent, in the best possible way." That little time, that specific office and job title, is gone. It doesn't mean something like it won't be mine again, it just isn't, for now.

Three to five times a day, as I attempt to change the diaper of a toddler who is rigid and squirmy (yes it's possibly to be both) or as I am simultaneously trying to help Leo with math, bounce Harry on my knee, cut up oranges for Lucy and somehow convince Ellie that I am watching her draw ponies, I must think to myself (or mumble, between gritted teeth): This cannot be done. I cannot be home with these people for one more moment, get me to the nearest office. Stat. I will lick envelopes. I will sharpen pencils. Anything. 

In the morning after I drop Ellie at school and the twins and I are en route to some appointment or store, I sometimes pass the 8:55 a.m. express (I use that term loosely) bus to Port Authority. It was the bus that I took to work nearly every day. And part of me is relieved that I don't have to get on and brave another mind numbing commute and be apart from the kids for another nine hours and part of me feels a stinging, aching, longing. To just, go.

And then at least seven times a day, I think, I can totally do this. This is awesome. And not only that but I am rocking this being home thing. I'm making homemade chicken stock from bones! We never run out of homemade pumpkin bread (the twins' favorite). I'm replacing (well, picking them out at Home Depot) porch light fixtures we lost in one of the many blizzards. I'm helping the big kids with their homework (which, when it's good, it's very, very good and I think: I missed my calling! I should have been a teacher! And when it's bad: I'm back to pining for that envelope licking and the interminable bus commute). 


Whatever you do, don't tell Harry his "cymbals" are really pot lids.

The kids and I have wonderful, hilarious conversations (Ellie tells me on St. Patrick's Day that Lucy is "kind of  like a leprechaun. Because she's small and she gets whatever she wants.")  Leo, who has been anticipating the DVD release date of his beloved "Frozen" with complete reverence, announces that I "need to text his teacher" to tell her he won't be at school today--the release date--he'll be too busy watching "Frozen." (In case you're wondering, Leo did go to school).

We laugh. A lot. We dance to Pharrell's "Happy" in the kitchen on repeat (we did these things before of course, there is just more of it now--the days are, as they say long, but they really do go by quite quickly.)



So yes, there are good days and bad days. But really it's more good moments and bad moments.

Good thing I have these little people, for now, as the anchor to my days.

We're all adjusting to the new routine around here. And by "We" I really mean me. (Note Harry's expression: "I'd rather be napping.")

It never ceases to me amaze me how quickly the days at home pass by. Before I know it, it's 2:45 and I'm waking two babies up from naps to go fetch Ellie from school. Harry is usually the less pleased of the two. Nutella sandwiches eaten in the stroller on our six block walk help ease the pain. Running the stroller over speed bumps ("Like a roller coaster!" squeals Lucy) also helps. The sidewalks are just recently not completely snow and ice-covered and we can begin to find them again, can you believe it?

Yes, the snow is melting. Some days are warmer than others. We even braved an actual playground yesterday.



With the time change, evenings come later and we've been privy to some especially remarkable sunsets. These days I see them through our living room window, instead of on a bus stuck in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike.



And life, as they say, well it does go on.

Doors and Windows: A New Chapter

And just like that, my job was eliminated.

It's difficult to put into words what it means to get up every day for almost twelve years and go to a place and then one morning be told, there is no place for you there anymore.

All it took was one solemn conversation. Tears. Disbelief. An office door closed and I was left with a new reality. Suddenly everything was different. "My" computer wasn't mine. Or "my" phone. I had a "last" day of work on a day I'd expected would be like any other. There were boxes to pack and a hundred phone calls to make.

Surreal doesn't begin to cover it.


I've already posted this, but it's just so perfect that I keep going back to it. I might edit it with "when something unexpected happens." Because I refuse to believe this is necessarily a bad thing. But unexpected? Oh. Yes.

I think I've certainly learned the lesson that life is full of surprises and that as much as we might like to think we have control of things, we really don't. All it takes is one extra chromosome, one hurricane wind-gust, one wonky cancer cell or one name on a list of lay-offs, to turn life as you know it, into something quite different.



The day I got the news (almost a month ago to the day, hence the quiet on my end) I left work early (obviously!) and did what any logical person would do. I got a mani/pedi. Then I walked the streets of our snowy, bitterly cold neighborhood (keep in mind these pictures were taken the day before snow storm #I'velosttrack).



It's funny how one big life event can make you look at everything with a different lens. These were the same streets I drove by and walked on every day. And yet. Everything seemed just...not the same.

Because it isn't.

For now I'm suddenly doing things like making chicken stock out of bones from a leftover roast chicken and discovering I can drop Ellie off in the morning in the front of her school, to thus avoid hauling twins through a parking lot when it's twelve degrees outside (to say nothing of negotiating Lucy in and out of her carseat twice--there's a good thirty minutes right there).



I'm not sure what my next act is. I am trying to be very When a Door Closes a Window Opens about all of this.



The best is yet to come? I think so. I really do.

Huge, Big, Massive, Scary (and Also Potentially Good) Changes and Did I Mention I'm Not Good With Change?

I've had a post percolating in my head since Monday when I took the tour of Leo's prospective new school for next year.

His class would be a self contained kindergarten with six students, one teacher and three aides. The class joins the typical kindergarteners for gym, music, library and lunch. Depending on the student's strengths in certain subjects (i.e., math, reading) they may also pull students out to join typical peers in these subjects.

I left the visit on a high. It's a precious school nestled on a quiet, tree lined street about two miles from our house. It would be the first "real school" Leo has ever attended. Up to this point he did center-based E.I. at a well, center. His current school is housed in a church.

We passed the cafeteria where I spotted the hair netted lunch ladies when we first walked in and I swear, one whiff and I was in first grade again, wishing my parents would let me have a corn dog.

But I digress.

In addition to the good smelling food, the school has two gyms (one is sparkling brand new), a large library, and a dedicated music room. The bulletin boards were cluttered with fish and stories and busy borders and the halls buzzed (as most schools do) with noise and life and whiggling children.

I went to the school prepared to "write it off," figuring our district just wanted to save money by showing us this program (Leo presently attends school out of district but it's paid for by them, to the tune of about 35K).

Instead, I fell just a little bit in love. It felt right. Leo has the chance to really shine there but he still has the cushion of a place that will give him the extra help he unquestionably needs.

Then I attend the IEP/placement meeting and it all came crashing down.

OK I am being slightly dramatic. Basically his current teacher and principal don't think he's ready to leave. They want him to do one more year with them and then talk about moving into district. I believe they sincerely have his best interests in mind, but did I also mention that they are losing roughly half of their population next year through a combination of graduations and districts insisting on bringing kids back into district? (Note: our district is definitely NOT insisting. They have left the decision completely up to us and would let him remain where he is in a heartbeat so I don't believe there are any ulterior motives there.)

The principal's reaction, seeing my hesitation based on her and the teacher's reaction: "We're just like you. He's your baby but he's also our baby."

A bit of background on Leo's current school: It's a private school paid for by most public school districts (students come from far and wide, some facing one-hour plus bus rides), something like 99 percent of the children have Down syndrome. There are roughly 25 children in the school which is comprised of two preschool classes (ages3-5) and two primary classes (ages 5-approximately nine, though most students leave by about age seven). Leo has been in the preschool class since he was three and the original plan was that he would move to the primary class and spend one more year at that school.

But the evaluators think Leo is ready for kindergarten. His prospective teacher who we met when touring the school thinks he's a perfect fit (by the way this same prospective teacher received rave reviews by an acquaintance who's daughter was in her class). So what's my problem?

I think I'd feel a little less afraid if I knew Leo had the option of going back to his old school if for some reason the new one doesn't work out. But since so many kids are leaving they've had to lay some teachers off and have only one primary class (where Leo would go) and if Leo gives up his spot, that's it.

So I feel like we're out there dangling a little, taking a risk.

Change is scary, but I know, it is sometimes necessary and often good. And it is also a huge part of parenting. Kids move on, kids progress. It's a good thing. I think I just wish his current teacher was a little more excited about this. But I have to wonder how much of it is political and also a bit over-protective. I adore Leo's school but I also get a strong feeling that they are big fans of "Birds of a Feather..." if you know what I mean. And also? They kept saying how "their kids" do better when they spend that extra year there (transitioning between preschool and kindergarten). But who's to say Leo won't be the exception? If we've learned anything since Leo arrived it's that he surprises us almost daily, and does things when he's ready to do them. And my gut says he's ready, even though I am yes, terrified.

Oh and as if all this wasn't enough, we're moving the kids into a new daycare/aftercare. It's significantly less expensive and much closer. Thankfully it's not happening until August because if it were any sooner I think my head just might explode.