Ten

Ten years ago today I was in the attic of my mom and stepfather’s house, sorting through boxes and trying to decide what to bring back to New York City with me.

It was early afternoon, a bleak, gray Memorial day, drizzly and unseasonably cool. Crouched down amidst the boxes and old furniture, I had a thought: I should go downstairs. My mother could die at any minute.

So I went downstairs. And less than an hour later, she was gone.

The week I was home with my mother I filled her room with flowers. It was that May I discovered peonies. I mean, before that I knew they existed, they just seemed extra beautiful and special that year. And my mom delighted so much in those wildflower bouquets I bought her, at least in the beginning of the week, before things got really bad.

To this day, I can’t look at a peony and not think of my mom. It’s not a bad thing. It’s comforting, really. Peonies are extraordinarily difficult to grow (for me anyway) and they have a very short season. It makes me appreciate them that much more. They’re not around for long, you have to hoard them while they’re here.

Peonies for me (no, not from my garden!), May, 2009

There’s not much else to say really. I thought ten years gone would be more dramatic or momentous somehow—years ago I remember thinking In four or three or two years she will have been gone for ten years…then what?

Every year that passes it feels twofold: more and more surreal that my mom is gone and more and more surreal that she was ever even here.

I came across this passage about death from a book excerpt in the New Yorker a few years ago. I thought it was spot on.

“What to make of it? Why can't everybody just get used to it? People are born and they just can't go on and on, and if they can't go on and on, then they must go, but it is so hard, so hard for the people left behind; it's so hard to see them go, as if it had never happened before, and so hard it could not happen to anyone else, no one but you can survive this kind of loss, seeing someone go, seeing them leave you behind; you don't want to go with them, you only don't want them to go.”
--From My Brother, by Jamaica Kincaid

The Big Sap at the IEP Meeting

This morning was Leo’s IEP meeting. He’s going into the first grade in the fall. First grade! My baby!

I always get choked up at these meetings. Not because I’m sad about all the things Leo isn’t doing or can’t do (frankly, there isn’t much he can’t do). No, if you’ll indulge me for a moment, I get teary because it’s pretty emotional to sit at a table with a bunch of women who are telling you how great your kid is. And these aren’t people who have to say any of this.

Here were a few of the main points:

-Leo loves to learn. (This has always been one of his greatest strengths, I will agree and really, I think we just lucked out with this one. It’s just his personality. He loves to learn and he loves to please and he loves to be praised). I wish I could take some kind of credit for this but I truly believe kids come with this or they don't.

-According to Ms. L, Leo is a “truly special child and one of the most grateful children” she’s ever met. She told a story of how he’d misplaced his hat. The teacher and the aides looked all over for it. Leo was troubled but not hysterical and was able to move on when he was told they would “find it tomorrow.” Then Mrs. L. tried one more place and lo and behold, the hat was found. Mrs. L. said Leo hugged her and said “thank you, thank you” as though he’d just been given an all day pass to Disney World.

-Handwriting is making progress though still needs work. No surprise there.

-Leo’s sight reading is coming along. He knows 40 sight words in the Edmark Reading Program. Sidenote: This weekend at Costco Leo asked to hold my shopping list. He took one look at the scrawled “dog food” on the little piece of note paper and the massive 35-pound bag on the bottom of cart and declared “dog food!” No doubt about it. That boy can read.

-It’s not just that he can sight read. He loves books and loves reading. This means so much to me, as a lifelong reader and devourer of books, an English major, a journalist, a writer—books have been important to me ever since I fell in love the Bob Books and Bread and Jam for Frances. It’s so important for me to encourage this affection for books in my children. Obviously I can’t make them love books. But I guess all those trips to the library and Barnes & Noble and reading Boynton board books to five day old Leo might be paying off?

-Leo loves his family. We reportedly figure big in his little world. When asked to draw anything, a circus, a beach, the cast of characters in any setting will always include “Mama, Mommy, Ellie and Ruby.” Awwwwwww.

-Leo’s speech therapist reiterated something she had mentioned to me earlier in the year, which is that she’s always judged intelligence by a sense of humor and Leo has a great one, a "sophisticated" (her word, honest) sense of humor, even. And yes, this is when I really choked up. My little boy is funny and not by accident. People aren’t laughing at him, they’re laughing because he’s darn hilarious and he means to be (and best of all he knows it). She also pronounced his receptive language "remarkable." He understands everything. (Whether or not he will actually do what you ask him to do is a whole other conversation.)

-Leo has a girlfriend. She’s in the “typical” kindergarten and her name is Bella. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that her name just happens to be very close to his adored sister Ellie’s nickname (Ellie Belle or just, Belle). That boy loves his sister (loves to push her buttons and drive her crazy and make her cry too).

-Of course not everything is kittens and puppies and rainbows. Leo continues to be a bit overly friendly, doling out hugs to pretty much anyone who will take one. This is no surprise and we struggle with that out in the world too (the waitress who brings the ketchup probably doesn’t really want that cuddle).

-We are having a major and I mean major transportation issue (transportation is part of the IEP). It's really boring to explain here but it has to do with the district not wanting to take Leo the two miles outside of town limits to where his after care program is located (they recently moved). I understand the district's reasoning and we're trying to come up with a solution but it's the kind of thing that wakes me up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. Not good.

-Leo is easily distracted, particularly by the computer (which he adores). When another child is using the computer and Leo is expected to do another activity they pretty much have to build a barricade around the computer area so that Leo can’t see what’s going on. I suggested maybe horse blinders? KIDDING.

-He is stubborn. Sometimes to a fault and to a maddening degree (OK I added that last part). Huh. Really? (Insert sarcasm.)

-Lastly, Leo was administered the standardized test all the “typical” kindergartners took and no surprise he scored low overall, with some notable higher areas (reading and portions of the handwriting and math were stronger, reading comprehension was without a surprise, a bit of a disaster, since his expressive language is still so far behind a typical kindergartners). Mrs. L. included this score in the packet of material that will come home with the IEP tonight, just for our information. “It is what it is, said Mrs.. L. “Leo’s doing just great.”

There was a time I would have focused on this point, above all others, on the fact that Leo is not “normal” and not like all the other kids. But it’s different now. He’s such his own little person and it’s so clear at the end of every school day from his weary little face and sleepy eyes at the dinner table (he’s mastered the art of chewing with his eyes closed and has been known to nearly nod off while eating) how hard he tries every damn day.

There's no reason to be sad. I can’t not be so incredibly proud of him and yes, teary.

Ready

I am ready to be home.

By Thursday night, I am just done. We all are.

And last night was one of those nights. Left work late. Hell commute. Didn’t arrive at daycare until almost 7 p.m.

Cue the mom guilt.

I know Leo and Ellie can’t tell time yet (thank goodness).

Come to think of it, Leo can sort of tell time. Well, crap. So much for that theory.

Last night it was only 30-45 minutes later than I usually get there (which looks a lot worse in black and white, actually). And to be honest, the kids were fine. When I arrived they were sitting on little stools listening to a book. I got the requisite squeals of joy and appreciation when I arrived, which is always nice. Of course the teacher looked less than thrilled, since she had to work late. But it wasn’t like I was late because I was hanging out at a bar or getting a pedicure.

It is heartening, how resilient my kids are. They were fine last night, everything just happened about thirty minutes later than it usually does.

Hmm...think Ellie was tired?

I wish I could say I was as resilient and forgiving. Even after we were safely home I was still stewing about the stressful trip. Nobody in New York City knows how to walk properly, at least in the Times Square area. They need to get out of my way when I’m headed to the bus station to get home to pick up my kids. When I’m running late and trying to get home I’m like a mama bear who won’t let any obstacle stand in my way. Walk faster! Get your darn briefcase out of the aisle, I gotta get by! I mean, I’m nice and all, but not the world’s most patient person when I have to get to my hooligans. I have my priorities.

After nights like last one, all I want to do is put on elastic waist pants and a tank top, lock the doors, open the windows and let the warm spring (more like early summer) air breeze through the house. I want to take my babies and hold them close, smell their sticky little necks and cuddle with them while we read the original Shrek (Ellie’s current favorite) or watch the Cat in the Hat DVD one. More. Time.

I want to lean back on the Adirondack chair on the deck and cheer Leo and Ellie on as they build their twentieth outdoor hayride.

I want to make waffles and cut another bowl of strawberries and dole out ice pops and vacuum and sweep and do all the laundry that’s piled up all week. And when I’m not doing that I want to sing along to “Bushel and a Peck” (which for some inexplicable reason they both love--Ellie calls it the "neck" song) and the Glee soundtracks (which I’m forcing the kids to learn to love). They WILL love musical theater, dammit.

And while Monday morning may have me skipping to work with a sigh of relief, right now, I’m ready for the weekend. In case there was any kind of question.

Fragile Kicks and IEP Dillemas

I know everyone has been on the edge of their seats about this one.

Leo’s yellow Crocs were a huge bust.

Not only were they too small (OK, they fit but they’re a tad narrow for Barney Rubble Foot). He just doesn’t seem comfortable in them. And then about ten minutes after he tried them on for the first time, he succeeded in ripping the back strap off of one of them (oh my little Curious George/El Destructo, sigh). Apparently you can order replacements from the company (of course you can! Why am I even surprised?) which I’m in the process of doing, but I’m also considering just reselling the darn things on eBay. Oh well.

Meanwhile Ellie is obsessed with her pink Crocs. It’s all she’ll wear. Well, fifty percent summer shoe success isn’t bad I guess.

In other more “hard” news, Leo’s IEP meeting is next week. Gulp. I guess I should be more nervous than I am. I received a nice call from Leo’s physical therapist last night. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m crazy because I answered the phone with a very suspicious tone as it was around the time that telemarketers call. Couple this with the fact that hardly anyone but Erin’s work uses our land line, well let’s just say I did not sound overly friendly. But I quickly warmed to her when I realized who it was (oops) and figured out that she called to check on Leo’s tooth (or lack of!) since, as you’ll recall, it was during a P.T. session that he lost a tooth earlier this week.

She also wanted to let me know that she would not be able to attend the IEP meeting, but that she was planning to propose reducing his P.T. sessions to once a week (down from three, one individual and two “group” sessions which is really only two kids).

She said Leo is doing fabulously and has made huge strides this year. He actually met all of his goals for the year back in December (so of course she created new goals). She added she’s noticing him making progress in other areas: last week Leo asked her for a drink of water, as a full sentence (this sentence thing is new and big, trust me). Her response: You can have anything you want if you say it in a sentence!
She pronounced him as doing “everything a typical kindergartner is doing with just a slight delay.”

This is great news of course, but I’m torn about reducing his P.T. On the one hand, it’s wonderful that he’s doing so well. On the other hand, is he doing so well because of all the therapy (three weekly 30-minute sessions)? Who’s to know?

Not a huge, mind blowing question, but one of the many that will swirl around in my head tonight as I lie in bed, having stayed up too late to watch the season finale of "Grey's Anatomy."

Today in Tooth History

Ellie had her first dentist appointment today.

Look at that focus and concentration (not to mention those cheeks!). The hygienist gave Ellie an instrument to "hold" so Ellie could "help" her. Brilliant.

We’ve been talking about it for several weeks. She’s a big fan of the doctor (don’t ask me why) so a doctor for her teeth was apparently even more intriguing. The whole ride there, every time I stopped at a light Ellie would ask, is this the dentist? Is this the dentist Mommy?

The Dentist Barbie Ellie got to hold, along with the Princess toothbrush they sent her home with didn’t hurt the cause.

She did great. Nothing against Leo, but it is just so incredible to take a child to the doctor who is not terrified or uncooperative. She slid into the giant dentist chair like it was a daily event. She held her mouth open willingly and happily.

It was no surprise when both the hygienist and the dentist noted Ellie’s, um, pacifier “influenced” mouth. I quickly told them she only uses “Bobby” to sleep. It’s fine, the dentist said, but it would be good to quit by the time she’s four (so as not to risk damaging her jaw and permanent teeth but let’s face it, my whole family needed braces—the kids are both doomed, paci or not). Maybe I should be more proactive about this but honestly, she adores those stupid Bobbys and they are firmly only allowed in bed/for sleeping. They bring her such comfort and pleasure. My feeling is, if it's not hurting her or anyone else, what's the point in freaking out? Life is too short, you know?

In other news, I just got word from Leo’s teacher that Leo lost another tooth this morning (really folks, does it get more exciting than this?).

You have to love a teacher that emails you this kind of information: “It happened during physical therapy. The nurse had him put it in a small treasure chest that she gives the students for that purpose. I taped it into his communication book so it wouldn't get lost. He has been telling everyone all about it!”

So this brings Leo’s lost tooth total to three consecutive missing bottom teeth. I'm just going to have to start calling him Gummy. He lost his first tooth last July or August and it’s just now coming in. And to say that it's coming in is pretty generous. It's barely visible.

That’s it. For dinner: Caramel apples!

And if you'll excuse me, I have a Tooth Fairy to notify.

Evening Firing Squad

Now that the weather is getting warmer and the flowers have started blooming, we have a nice little routine when we get home from daycare. Leo and Ellie burst from the van (with a little help from me) and race to the azaleas and rhododendrons (or as Ellie likes to call them, “rosemarys”) and bleeding hearts (on their way out, sadly) and various other plants and flowers and bushes that line our front yard, to survey the day’s blooms.

After this little nature moment, we slowly make our way up the stairs and into the house where the kids settle in, hip-to-hip on the love seat (not always quietly or agreeably, I assure you) to watch a thirty minute video while I prepare dinner. Leo’s latest obsession is “Oswald” but “Little Einsteins” is a close second.

Yesterday was different. Don’t ask me what possessed Leo to deviate, to bypass the porch and instead walk all the way around and behind the giant, violet bloom covered rhododendron bush under the front window, pick up the hose and aim it directly at me.

“Don’t do it Leo! Don’t do it!” I wailed. OK, screamed. I quickly dropped the two jackets, backpack, assorted lunch boxes and random coffee cup I had been holding, onto the hood of the minivan. I would need two hands for this one. And then…

Pow. Full-on garden hose spray to my gut. Soaking jacket, sopping shirt. Also neck.

Ellie was standing behind me and burst into tears on cue and then came her shriek of “Leo sprayed me!” Really she was merely misted (or was the victim of the excess water that bounced off my body).

I lunged toward Leo, trying to avoid any direct-in-the-face hose-action. I was moderately successful. And then came one of my finest parenting moments.

I grabbed the hose from Leo. And sprayed him back.

Not in the face mind you. Just on his shirt. And just a little. And not full blast. And then I immediately felt like the worst parent in the world. But can I pause to say how unpleasant it is to be sprayed in the face with a garden hose? I guess it was human nature or just a defensive reflex. Whatever it was, I’m not proud.

I turned the water off and set the hose down in the dirt. It was clear from Leo’s wide eyes and pursed little mouth that he knew immediately what he’d done was wrong (and probably, he also knew what I'd done was wrong). We went inside and the three of us huddled in the mudroom. I crouched down to Leo’s level and had a long talk about why it’s wrong to spray people with a hose. I showed him Ellie’s wet hair and my wet clothes. Leo hugged a moist Ellie and apologized and she whispered a tragic little “thank you.”

Then I went on and on (and on) about how it was definitely also wrong of me to spray Leo but that I was frustrated and mad and that sometimes even Mommy does bad things when she’s frustrated and mad.

In the moment, I was furious. About thirty seconds later, I realized it was pretty hilarious.

Oh well. I’ll try to do better next time. Hopefully Leo won’t log too many hours with his therapist over the old “My Mom Turned the Hose On Me” moment.

Cool under pressure. That’s me.

On Mother's Day

As I wrote last year, now that I’m a mother myself, every Mother’s Day gets a little easier and a little sweeter. There’s still a pang for the mother and grandmother who should be here, for the mother who never got to be a grandmother. But there are also two little sandy haired people who draw me hand made cards and bring me strong, much needed coffee in bed (with some help) and wrap their warm, chubby little hands in mine any time they please.

This is my ninth Mother's Day without my mom. Just like last year, the thought of having my mom actually here on Mother’s Day feels, like it was another lifetime. Obviously I’m not happy about, but, what’s that awfully simplistic yet painfully accurate little aphorism? Oh yes:

“It is what it is.”

It’s just that it’s not even an option, as it felt like it was in those first few years after she was gone. There was so much looking back, so much grief. There were so many “what-ifs” and “it’s too bad.” Now, it just is.

Many days, I pass the picture of her on the mantle and almost can’t look at her. All the things that she missed, that she is missing, it almost takes my breath away. She’s like a bright light that hurts my eyes, makes them water. But I can’t put that picture away.

It’s still strange to me, that I’m a mom. Someone, two little someones, actually, depend one me. Me! I'm a person who is craved when things are going wrong or something hurts and yes, even when things are just fine. Two little sandy haired people see me and think (or at least I hope anyway) comfort and security, the giver of sloppy neck kisses and long hugs and bedtime songs and books, the bearer of strawberry ice pops in the backyard, the one with the lap that will always welcome them, no matter how big they get.

I want my mom back, sure. But not with the same urgency that I used to. Still, I would like one more Mother’s Day. No, I won’t lie. I want fifty more. Or no, I just want her here, always. But most of all, I want to see her with Leo and Ellie. I’m not angry anymore the way I once was, that she’s not here for me and now, for them. It’s that “formal feeling,” that Emily Dickinson writes about. It’s so very true.

So Happy Mother’s Day Mom. Wish you were here. Sad that you’re not. But so very grateful that I was so loved, for so many years by you, a sweet, thoughtful, creative, enthusiastic, energetic, and unconditionally loving mom. You taught me what love was and is. Without even realizing it, you taught me to be a mother. You can’t ask for more than that.

Oh wait, yes you can. You can be a mother yourself, to two beautiful children. You can have the privilege to know what it’s like to love and be loved unconditionally. To finally know peace (yes, even when those aforementioned, beloved children are arguing ferociously over a Fisher Price stethoscope).

Whether you are a mother yourself or you have a mother and no matter where that mother is, Happy, Happy Mother’s Day.