A whole lot of nothing on a Monday morning

We tend to get a lot of deliveries from UPS and FedEx and even the US Mail. It is a rare day that a box or a fat envelope of some sort isn’t sitting on the dining room table awaiting its recipient. And every day, when my son comes home from school, he never fails to ask, “Anything come for me today?”

It’s a hopeful question, one that betrays my son’s love of product. In fact, this child is so into the experience of buying consumer goods that he tends to call guests who visit our home “customers.” As in, “Mom, another customer is here for dinner.”

We have a rainy day ahead of us and I am looking forward to catching up on laundry, wrapping up a freelance assignment, and maybe, just maybe, even taking a nap this afternoon. I’m a little surprised by how tired I’ve been this last week. I am finally catching up on doctor’s appointments and some long-avoided bloodwork for myself. I had gestational diabetes when I was pregnant and my doctor suspects it has returned in the form of late-onset or type 2 diabetes. Did you know that statistically, you have a very high risk of developing diabetes within 10 years of giving birth if you had it during your pregnancy? I hope I’m not going to be one of those statistics. Keep your fingers crossed. (Maybe your toes, too.)

After school activities are winding down. This is the last week of religion classes, and since we’ve dropped vision therapy—for now—(yes, I finally made a decision, and I’m getting more comfortable with that decision every day) we are left only with OT on Tuesday afternoons. A slower pace for the end of the school year is, without a doubt, a welcome change.

We also got word last week that we made it onto the roster of our first choice tutor/therapist for the summer. Miss R is an educational therapist and I have a feeling we are all going to love her. I don’t expect miracles in six weeks, but I am hopeful that my son will walk away with improved skills and a better handle on reading. (You can cross your fingers for this one, too.)

Here’s a question for the internets: If your school age child has a shadow (or a para or a one-on-one aide), do you tell him or her? Do you say, Miss X is a special classroom helper? Or do you say, Miss X is your special classroom helper? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

And, finally, this post over at Reimer Reason, is a lovely read to wrap up talk of Mother’s Day.

 

Beyond the break

This is why I love this place. Not a soul in sight. Of course, this wouldn’t hold true in July or August, but today? Today there was not another soul on the beach.

Though the air had turned cold and damp, we walked back down to the beach tonight after dinner. GP wanted to see if the holes he dug this morning had been washed away by the surf. I was surprised to see the sand was littered with a long trail of seaweed. This morning, the water was crystal clear and the beach was clean. Nothing but a few rocks and broken shells washed up by the waves.

I can’t stand on a beach without thinking of my dad. I remember how he taught me to dive under the waves. I was probably around my son’s age at the time. A little nervous, a little brave—wanting my dad to be proud.

I can’t remember the last time I dove in. The Atlantic was stone cold today. Like newly melted ice. I swam in this ocean exactly one time in 20 years. I jumped off a pier in Jamestown one August day a long time ago—just because I could.

I wonder if my son will ever swim in the ocean. Or learn to count the waves and read the tide. I wonder if he will ever sit on top of a surfboard, paddle out beyond the break or do something—anything—just because he can.

My son never knew my father. But I wonder what he would have thought. I wonder what they would have done together—given the chance—for one long endless summer on the shore.

 

The way back home

There isn’t much that a day like today can’t cure. We were on the road early, a familiar drive under clear skies, trees topped with pink and green, the sun warm through the open sunroof, Dan Zanes blasting on the car stereo.

And then this—

—a perfect afternoon.

My sister is finally home. My brother, too, though not the home I would prefer. And I am home, in my heart, with my boys.

 

Unsettled

Tonight my brother is flying back to Colombia, leaving behind a trail of mixed emotions. Mine, his, all of ours.

My sister is in the hospital. She’ll be fine, eventually. But life changes in a heartbeat.

Tomorrow I will be standing on the sand with my husband and son watching the Atlantic collapse against the eastern shore.

As much as things change, they stay the same.

I took GP to the playground this afternoon. The play structure was crowded with kids, but he was reserved—again, he held himself back, clinging to me and asking me to play with him instead. After a few awkward moments, I asked it he wanted to leave. “Let’s go somewhere quiet,” he said.

Something is in the air. I feel unsettled. Quiet is good. An empty beach. Just me and my guys.

By Monday, everything should be back in its rightful place.

 

Under a shady tree

As we stood under the trees this afternoon, my son looked up at me and said, “It’s snowing,” and he wasn’t exactly wrong.

On that enormous field, in the middle of a beautiful sculpture garden, on this incredible spring day, it was, in fact, snowing…pink and white petals from the flowering trees.

Today was better. Busy, but quieter, calmer, less agitated. “I want to do something to enjoy nature,” he said this morning. And, then, later in the day, as luck would have it, we found ourselves on the field, enjoying the sculpture and staring up into the wide open sky.

Earth Day, indeed.

 

Keeping the force with us

Yesterday’s Star Wars birthday party was a swirling tornado of light sabers and small bodies hurling themselves through space, and my son—holding himself somewhat apart, out of the mayhem.

It was a beautiful day. The kids were quickly moved outside into the large yard where their energy could be more easily dispersed. Not so long ago, this party would have been impossible for GP to navigate. But yesterday he did just fine. Like at the zoo, there were a couple of near misses. A couple of very minor breakdowns. But like at the zoo, he stood back, choosing not to participate in the party games, but to play alone in the house.

There was a time when this would have upset me. The fact that he wasn’t participating. But there was also a time when his participation would have led to a complete meltdown. He’s growing up. Learning to figure out what he needs. And I have to respect that. It’s not about what others think (why doesn’t GP come outside with the other kids?) or about what I think (is he okay? is he having fun?). It’s about what he needs and what he wants. When it was time for the kids to eat and to sing and to open presents, he joined right in, taking his place on the grass in the late afternoon sun.

We’ve known the birthday boy’s family since moving to Mayberry a few years ago. They include us in all their events and invite us to tag along on nearly all their outings. Yesterday, we were asked to stay for the family dinner after the kids party ended. James got off the train one stop early and walked over to meet us.

As the birthday boy and his brother and their cousins ran around in Star Wars costumes and organized baseball games in the street, GP amused himself in the big backyard of toys. And when I looked over and saw how he was dragging his feet, I told him we needed to get ready to say our goodbyes, even though most everyone was still eating dinner and the gigantic cake had not yet been served.

If I’ve learned one thing in all these years of parenting my son, I’ve learned when to leave. We are very often the first ones out the door. But we’re learning not to let that bother us. Because saying goodbye with a smile and a hug beats the hell out of tantrums and tears.

 

A lot of yesterdays ago

This beautiful magnolia is firmly rooted in my neighbor’s yard. It is an old tree with twisted branches and pale pink flowers—the centerpiece of our block. When I see this old girl in bloom, I know there is no turning back, winter will not have a last blast, it’s done. Spring is here.

Today I went with my son’s class to the Bronx Zoo. We saw tigers and baboons and giraffes and polar bears and seals and lions and snow leopards and countless birds and four-legged things. It was a big day. And it wore my son out. He was so exhausted tonight, so completely out of sorts, that as I helped him into his pajamas he simply broke down and sobbed.

There were some near misses at the zoo. Some moments that escalated—it was crowded and noisy and it didn’t take long for him to fall into sensory overload. His teacher wisely kept the class together, but keeping pace with 20 kids and nearly as many parents, was exhausting. There were no breaks in the action. No opportunities to go our own way or do our own thing.

I think he recognized the challenge. He chose to stay by my side, matching my step for most of the day. His classmates ran ahead, ran amuck, but he held himself back. And for that, I am grateful, though I know the day was not entirely easy for him.

Next week is spring break. The school year is winding down. It won’t be long before the magnolia drops its flowers, leaving them to turn brown on the sidewalk in the heat of the sun. There are days when I am just so tired, days when I worry more, laugh less, smile hardly at all. Today was one of those days. A day where I couldn’t turn my back, let down my guard, or let go of his hand.

Today felt like a lot of yesterdays ago—only he didn’t fall apart at the zoo. He waited until we were alone, safe at home.

After he calmed down and I tucked him into bed, he turned to me and said, “Thanks mom. Thanks for coming with me to the zoo.” And I knew exactly what he meant. And that it couldn’t have been any other way.

 

A list, of sorts

• This morning GP did three (out of five) eye exercises with only a small amount of complaining and throwing himself around the room. Hopefully, the drama will subside in the next day or two.
• Our TV has officially become a radio—sound but no picture. Okay, it’s nearly 20 years old, but this seems kind of sudden and abrupt, if you ask me.
• Tomorrow I am accompanying the first graders on a field trip. GP finally gets to ride the bus and wear the class shirt (you might recall that he missed the first two trips of the year due to illness).
• Must buy a birthday present for Friday’s Star Wars party. Ideas? (The birthday boy is turning 6.)
• I recently finished Jennifer’s beautiful and thoughtful book Road Map to Holland. If you haven’t read it, please please please get your hands on a copy. This book is a must-read for all parents and quite frankly, (as one of her reviewers suggested) should be handed out by NICUs everywhere.
• Speaking of reading, I started Old School by Tobias Wolff yesterday. Brilliant. From page one.
• And, finally, as long as I’m mentioning Wolff, the latest issue of Poets & Writers (with Wolff on the cover) is definitely a keeper.

 

Absolutely spring

I love daffodils. I can’t look at a daffodil and not remember my first date with James. I don’t know if daffodils grow in California, but I can honestly say, I never noticed them until I moved to New York. And even then, not until that first date.

He picked me up at my apartment on the upper east side in his 1962 Thunderbird and drove to a beautiful old estate on the North Shore of Long Island. It was April 1987 (he could tell you the exact date…) and I had only been in NY a few weeks. As we walked around the old estate and through the public gardens we were surrounded on all sides by an amazing blanket of gold that stretched wide down to the Long Island Sound. The next day, he bought a huge bunch of daffodils at the corner bodega and brought them to the office (yes, we worked together). I’ve been hooked ever since.

A couple of years ago, James planted some bulbs in our garden because he remembers too. And I love that about him. The flowers are creamy white with a hint of gold in the center. Paper-thin. Delicate. And absolutely spring.

 

Things I love about Mayberry

At 8 o’clock this morning, I handed my son over to his physical therapist in the lobby of the elementary school less than two blocks from our home. By ten after, I was pulling into the parking lot of our local grocery store—which is, in fact, walking distance from the house but not when carrying a week’s worth of groceries. By 8:45, I was pulling back into our driveway, having just spent $104.52 on food for the week.

The above scenario, is my low-impact-need-to-get-food-in-the-house option. In and out, usually for less than $150.00, before 9 a.m., leaving me the whole day to focus on work, writing, internet shopping.

The other option, the high-impact-time-sucking-spend-alot-of-money-on-food scenario, involves a trip to any one of a handful of mega-stores that are still within a five-mile radius of home. Of course, sometimes, there’s no way to avoid this less palatable option. There are times when the supply of paper towels or laundry soap are running low and it makes more sense to buy in bulk than to buy the individual sizes stocked by the small family-run grocery store in town.

But here’s the best part: The best part is having a choice. Getting to decide. Choosing the option that fits my day or my needs best. And that’s what I love about Mayberry. I can be in my own little world, or the world at large, and it’s entirely up to me.

I wish everything in life was so easily resolved.

 

A shout out for what’s to come

Spring soccer. It’s a bit of a misnomer here. It is, after all, 39 degrees.

But he couldn’t wait to get to the field. So I bundled him up—fleece pants, turtleneck, soccer jersey, gloves, hat and winter coat—and sent him and his father on their way. The calendar claims it is spring, but it doesn’t feel much different than it did on the last day of the fall season, when the calendar claimed it was winter.

There is a single purple crocus that fights its way through the soil in our front yard every year. It is the first of what we always hope will be many blooms. It is a shout out for what’s to come. I don’t know who planted that single bulb. It is in an odd place, just shy of a walkway that leads to the side of the house. But there is something about its persistence, the simple fact that year after year, with not a drop of water to nourish it but the rain and snow that falls in the yard, this bloom finds its way to the light.

My son was thrilled to be heading back to the soccer field this morning. He’s been practicing. In the backyard, during gym, however and whenever he can. He doesn’t play well, and I’m not even sure he understands the rules of the game, but there’s something about the movement, the action, being part of a team, that appeals to him.

He will never be a child who is spread too thin—one whose sports and activities overlap so that on any given Saturday he must make the choice between hockey and lacrosse, soccer and little league. For now, for the immediate future, he has chosen his sport. And he has chosen well.

I’m beginning to understand how soccer is a great equalizer. Sure, there are kids who shine, who stand out in their ability to control the ball and score, but right now, at this age, my son’s challenges and physical delays are lost amidst the chaos on the field. He’s just another kid running after the ball.

Like that single crocus in the front yard, he’s doing it for himself, fighting his way to the light—he’s persistent. And I can’t help but say, I am in awe of the little boy he is and the bigger boy he is about to become.