The Postmodern Family Vacation: What is the new normal?

I sifted through my Sunday paper yesterday morning, pulling out the usual bits- coupons, TV guide, Target ad, and USA Weekend. On the latter’s cover were pictures of the characters from NBCs debut of “The New Normal” and the corresponding story inside was titled “The Postmodern Family.”

“The Postmodern Family?”  Really?  How could I resist?

The article talked about the multitude of upcoming shows based on non-traditional families. TV historian Tim Brooks notes that television has often presented us with non-traditional families, as it reflects what’s already going on in our current society. For example, The Brady Bunch in its time reflected “the trend of a blended family,” where adults with children from previous marriages came together to form a new family unit.

This particular example rather amused me, as I just had a Very Brady Summer Vacation…

Back when I was pregnant with my son, there was a story on one of those news shows- 60 Minutes or 20/20- about the Donor Sibling Registry and families who had found each other through it.  These were families who had used the same donor in order to have their children. The story was about a set of half-siblings whose families had contacted each other with the help of the Registry, gotten to know one another, and eventually not only met, but went on a family vacation together.

I was amazed and impressed by the story, but at the same time was somewhat taken aback.  “That is great for them,” I thought to myself, “but I cannot imagine me doing that.  I think I would feel a little weird.”

The whole idea of using a donor, of having a child on my own, was so new to me at that point.  And while I was curious about other families that had used the same donor and was not above communicating with them, even meeting with them, I could not really picture myself hanging out down the shore with them.  It just seemed a little “out there” for me.

Nearly six years later, Little Man and I found ourselves on a plane to the West Coast for vacation. Where were we going? To meet two of his siblings and their moms and hang out at a beach house…down the shore…for a week.  Wait, what?

Explaining this to outside folks, hearing the words coming out of my mouth, it sounded so surreal. It was so interesting, fascinating.  People were fascinated. Truly. And excited. Excited at the opportunity for Little Man and for the mystery of it all. Perhaps we three Moms should write a pilot for our own show. I bet it would sell, too.  We have tons of material.

We had actually already met one of the siblings twice before, as he and his mom live in a nearby state. The other one we had never met.  We were going on vacation with people we had never met before. A little voice in the back of my head screamed, “what are you thinking?!” Yet the rest of my brain, the bigger, louder, more intuitive part, somehow knew it would be alright. That it was right. We have all kept in contact for so many years through FB, that in an odd way I did feel like I knew them.

Still, as we sat on the plane, eating our complimentary peanuts and drinking our tomato juice, little black clouds of doubt appeared in my mind, like pop-up thunderstorms in the summertime: what if the boys don’t get along? What if the moms don’t get along?  What if they don’t like him?  What if they don’t like me? What if we don’t like them?

And yet, it all seemed to fall into place.  We met Brother 1 and his mom at the airport and proceded to our rental car, following the directions to meet Brother 2, the one neither of us had met before. We immediately discovered that two boys born three days apart are LOUD. Being a one-child family, that was the first of many revelations. The boys were all so excited to meet each other, and spent quite a bit of time (after bonding over Angry Birds) running around shouting “Brother Hug!” followed by a sort of pile-on brother sandwich. They got along surprisingly well, although not without the typical arguments that ensue when you have both children of a similar age and siblings. We got a brief yet sufficient taste of what it might be like to have triplets.

Overall, it was a typical family vacation.  We got lost going somewhere we were sure we knew how to find.  We got sunburned at the beach. One brother spiked a mystery fever a few days in and was out of commission for two days. We went to an amusement park. We lost power and spent ½ an hour searching for candles and matches and flashlights with dead batteries. We took TONS of pictures. We bought souvenirs. We laughed a lot.

And in the Very Brady tradition, the boys decided to put on a play, which they wrote and performed for us.

All too quickly the week passed by and as the time came to leave, I felt as though I was parting with friends I had know for a long time. As Gonzo says, “there’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met.” At the end of the week, the “three brothers from other mothers” went their separate ways, back to their individual families, yet having a clearer sense of a larger familial bond out there. There is still a brother and three sisters we know of that we have not yet met.  I wonder what other family outings lie in our future?

And that was just our FIRST summer adventure. Upon leaving our beach home, we met up with my mom and set off even further west, to visit my brother and his wife. Well, that sounds like a ‘regular’ family vacation, right? Ummmm…yes and no.  So, both of my parents were married before and each had a son from their previous marriage.  I grew up in the same house with the brother we were going to visit, although I had not seen him since I was a junior in high school. He was in the military for many years and was overseas for much of that time.  He had seen our mom more recently than me, although it had been far too long for her, too. We write occasionally and talk on the phone at Christmas.  He and my sister-in-law were married in the Philippines where she is from while they were both in the service, and we had never met her although they’ve been married for several years. My son as not met either of them before.

And so we sat on yet another plane, crossing the Pacific, headed for a new week of a very different family vacation. Once again, the scene was surreal as I headed out to spend another week with someone I had never met before.  It just did not really seem to be happening. When I told people about this impending trip, they were excited, but also in disbelief.  How could I not have seen my own brother for so long? I mean, what was wrong with us, anyway? No one said that, of course, but I could tell that some people were thinking it.

And you know what?  I didn’t really care. Circumstances were what they were and we simply did not have the funds on either end to make it happen. It was only by a bizarre twist of fate that I was able to make it happen now (but that story will have to wait for another post). The point was, it was happening now.

We finally got to meet my brother’s wife at the airport when they came to pick us up.  I haven’t seen my brother in such a long time I actually walked right past him at the baggage claim (although, to be fair, I was distracted by my mother who was fretting at the time over how we were going to find him), but the minute I heard his voice, I whipped around.  My son was just beaming with excitement. He hugged his uncle and auntie, just thrilled to be in their presence.

It didn’t take long for these pieces to fall into place, either.  Before the end of the day, Little Man and his Auntie were snuggled together on the couch watching PBS. My brother was cracking jokes and our mom was giggling hysterically. We settled in and were made to feel completely at home.

Overall, it was a typical family vacation.  We got stuck in tourist traffic.  We used lots of sunscreen.  Mom had tummy trouble. We went to an amusement park. My SIL had a problem with a client and had to stay home for part of our adventures.  We took TONS of pictures.  We bought souvenirs.  We laughed A LOT.

Again the week flew by and I found it hard to believe that it was already time to go. We had not seen each other in so long, yet it felt as if no time had passed at all between our visits. Having been surrounded by so many people over the past two weeks, it seemed a little odd to be heading home, just the Little Man and me. Yet as much as I enjoyed our travels, I was happy to soon be back to our own little house in our own little beds. It’s always nice to come back home again.

At home, we were met at the airport by yet another part of our family, what we refer to as our “extended” family, which contains honorary uncles and aunts who have been friends of mine for many years but are so close they might as well be official family members. We recounted to Uncle Charles as many of our adventures as our sleepy heads could conjure. He dropped us at our house and left us both with a hug and a kiss, and the promise to meet up with him and Uncle Stuart soon to recount the many stories we had to tell.

The USA Weekend article in Sunday’s paper talked about how the new season’s shows “push boundaries” in their depiction of families today. My family may not be “traditional,” but I assure you I’m not actually trying to push any boundaries; I’m just trying to live my life.

What is “the new normal?” It’s quite simple, really, and actually, nothing “new.” My family, in all its variations, is full of love and that, to me, is exactly what a “normal” family should be.

Kindergarten Epilogue: First Grade Already??

Time is a funny thing.  Anyone with grown kids will tell you that your children grow up in the blink of an eye. As I grow older, however, I find that there is some bizarre time bending that goes on in my life, a phenomenon that, as Spock might say, is ‘highly illogical.’

On one hand, it seems like only yesterday that I was contemplating the beautiful symmetry of the last day of kindergarten, which corresponded in our town (thanks to a freak October snowstorm that kept us out of school for over a week) to the first day of summer. A beginning, an end. Very yin-yang.

I had rolled an essay around in my head on that day, summarizing the year that was kindergarten: what we had learned, what we had gained, how we had changed. That first lazy day of summer started as a Ferris wheel ride, gently circling in the breeze.

Then, suddenly, I was being whipped around on a roller coaster, up, down and all around.
Work: bam!
Camp: bam!
Vacation: bam!
Recovering from vacation: bam! bam!
Planning a birthday party: bam!

The screech of brakes, the release of the bar, and suddenly I’m tumbling head first down the school supply aisle in search of a small but specific list of necessary items.  How could 1^st grade possibly be upon us already?

On the other hand, as we readied ourselves this morning for another first day of school, it seemed, not like a year, but decades ago that kindergarten had begun.  The anxiety, the fretting, the wringing of hands. The tears.  And that was just me! Could it really have been a mere 365 days since my bright, shiny Little Man embarked on his formal education? No way!  He and I have both changed so much, grown so much, it could not possibly have been just a year since we stood in front of the great glass double doors of the school building, prepared now to begin the first day of 1^st grade.

Again the symmetry: the first day of first grade.  I have always been attracted to the balance of things, and this day seemed to hold some special symbolism.  The first of the first.  And, as my son pointed out, we were no longer in “letters”—this was serious business: we were in the “number” grades, now!

We approached the playground behind the school (“This year we are on the BIG playground, Mom! <pause> I wish we could still play on the Kindergarten one, though.”) with a calm sense of anticipation. We already had the lay of the land.  Little Man knew almost everyone in his class. We looked for friends assigned to other classes and for the place we were to line up for school. With a slight spike in anxiety, we searched for our teacher.

We found her standing near the building in a bright orange cardigan, ready to take on a new year and a new class.  She greeted each student with a warm smile, checking them off her list and verifying how they would go home at the end of the day.  Little Man’s face was bright with excitement; he could not have been more ready to take on first grade.

He took his place in line and I took mine, among the other camera wielding adults beaming with pride. Kisses were blown; hugs exchanged. A whirl of activity and anticipation which seemed to culminate with groups of eager 1^st graders pointing and shouting in recognition as their former kindergarten teachers received a greeting befitting their rock star status: “I think I see Mr. Sparkes…There! There’s Mr. Michaud!” Since our school’s kindergarten starts later in the day on the first day of school, the kindergarten teachers made an appearance, wading their way through waves of their last year’s students, joyful at the site of them, sharing high fives and hugs, smiles and stories.  The Beatles wish they had it so good.

And then the bell rang, and it was time to hear some brief words from the principal and head into class.  So much to do and see! I walked away confident that my Little Man would have the best day of first grade ever.

It was on the way to work that I felt the lump rising in my throat and the unexpected tears brimming my eyes, threatening to overflow.  ‘Where was this coming from?’ I thought, as I swallowed hard, trying to force the lump back down where it belonged. I had not counted on this being an emotional day.

I punched at the pre-programmed buttons on the car radio, which was completely unnecessary since it’s a touch screen, in search of something, ANYTHING upbeat. Why, why did you choose today, 80s morning show, to fail me?  Six stations and everyone was talking.  The chatter was finally broken by “Drops of Jupiter,” a fine song in and of itself, but clearly not what I’d had in mind. I fought hard to choke down my tears, since I get all red and blotchy when I cry and that really doesn’t go over well at the start of the workday. Success finally came as I pulled into the parking lot, and was grateful, for once, at the distance of my parking space to the building and the long walk to follow.

Little Man had an awesome day, by the way, as I knew he would.  When I picked him up from school he was positively glowing and his first words were, “I love first grade!” And my heart did sing at the sound of them. I wonder if our next first day will feel like forever or a fort night from now…

Oh, and I’m still am not sure what I was crying about. Perhaps, like the time bending phenomenon, it is just one of those things that comes with the parental territory.

 

The Magical Myths of Mommy-hood

This weekend, I saw the Johnson’s Mother’s Day commercial, “You’re Doing OK.” If you haven’t seen it yet, do give it a view (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yotq4zr0dRc).  The message is sweet and sentimental, but also straight up (“there was that strained carrot incident”).

It made me smile and think back, over six years ago now (was it really that long ago?), to when I decided to try to become a mom. I knew it would be hard to do it on my own.  I had thought through the logistics, the finances, the physical and emotional challenges.

Because I was choosing to be a single mom, I thought that meant I had to prove to everyone that I could handle it all on my own.  No help from the studio audience for me!  Why would you need to hold the baby while I’m eating?  I can do both!  Why would I take you up on your offer to do my laundry?  I can get up and down the basement stairs after my C-section…if I sit on my bum and drag the laundry up behind me (or in front of me…depending on how you look at it)!

I look back on that time and wonder who exactly I was trying to prove something to.  Certainly not to my friends or family, who knew if anybody could make it work, I could.  No, I had created my own Myth of Mommy-hood.  I told this myth to myself over and over until it became necessary and real and valid.  And then I went out to eat dinner while still on maternity leave with my good friend from work. She offered to hold the baby while I ate.  I valiantly declined.  She looked me in the eye, told me to shut up, and took the baby (who simply adored her) from my arms. I began to eat with two hands: how refreshing to cut a piece of meat with a fork AND knife simultaneously!  The spell was broken! The myth had fallen by the wayside.

This got me thinking about some of those other Mommy Myths that have been passed down through the generations. Myths that have been clung to, told and retold. Myths of epic proportion.  Myths that need to go down…

Mommy Myth #1: You will not remember the pain
To put it bluntly, this pure and utter b.s. Luckily, or not, I wound up having to have a C-section, so I did not have to go through the entire, full throttle birthing process, although I was in labor for about 12 hours. But if you think for one minute that I don’t remember how sore my throat was from the breathing tube (yes, the localized anesthesia didn’t work and I had to be knocked out), the thrill of the catheter, and every time I forgot to get out of bed without twisting at the waist (and the blinding pain resulting from said movement), you are c-ra-zy.

Perhaps this myth would be more feasible if it were renamed “you will not CARE about the pain.” Of course you care about the pain at the time, but in retrospect, withstanding that pain seems a decent enough trade off for the freshly minted person you get at the end. I remember the pain, but I didn’t hold it against my little man.  And it didn’t stop me, or most other women, from considering another one.

Mommy Myth #2: You will instantaneously and magically fall in love with your child
I cannot tell you how many times I heard this when I was pregnant: that magical moment when they hand you your child, your eyes meet, your minds meld, and if anyone so much as moves a hair on their head, you will immediately rip out the heart (and eat it will some fava beans, and a nice chianti).

No myth caused me more angst than this one (except maybe #3). Perhaps it does work this way for some moms. It did not work this way for me. As far as I know, I did not have postpartum, yet the magical moment eluded me.

Firstly, I was unconscious when he came into the light, so I did not even get to see him until I was back in my room. I woke up with a sore throat, and having never had any kind of surgery, I was quite discombobulated by this, as I was sure all the action had happened further south.  They brought him into my room, but I wasn’t quite fully functional yet and was afraid my arms would not hold him.  My best friend brought him to my side.  He was adorable, squeaky clean, and perfect in every way. He looked at me with his little old man face and it was clear that he was mine. There was most definitely a maternal connection.  But no shaft of light from the heavens.  No Hallelujah choir. No jolt of lightening. What was wrong with me? I was already a horrible mother before I’d even had a chance to get started!

After a few days, I took him home, my best friend went back to Texas, and I was left alone with the boy and my inferior thoughts.  I most assuredly adored this wee person I grew, but I waited for that amazing wave of something…mythical…  It did not come. I began to panic.  Perhaps I would never bond properly with my baby.  I did not share my fear and guilt with anyone, lest they realize what a truly terrible mother I was. After a week or two, my friend from work (the same one who shattered my personal myth), came over to visit.  We were sitting on the couch talking, when suddenly I burst into tears, weeping uncontrollably about my inability to “connect.” She hugged me and rubbed my shoulder.  “What took you so long?  It took me less than a week to freak out with my kids.” She assured me that there was nothing wrong with me and that very few women were blessed with an actual light beam from on high. And of course, she was right.  One would be hard pressed to look at my son and me today and think we had not “bonded.”

Mommy Myth #3: There is something fundamentally wrong with you as a mother if you cannot or will not breastfeed your child
My angst over a lack of angels singing in the in the recovery room was doubled down by the fact that I was not able to breastfeed.  I believe there was a combination of reasons for this, medical and physical, but the fact was, I could not make it work and I was utterly distraught. I was sure I was destroying my child’s life through this shortcoming of mine. I actually had one nurse tell me I was “ruining” him by giving him a pacifier. Really?  He’s hot off the presses and I’ve already ruined him? Damn, talk about a heavy cross to bear.

I pumped.  I took meds. The results were unimpressive. It was my attending doctor who helped dispel this one.  An older woman than I by a generation, she assured me that while we knew breast milk was the best if possible, her entire generation was bottle fed, and they seemed to have turned out ok. God bless her wisdom.

Mommy Myth #4: You must sacrifice yourself and your needs at all times for your child
Here, again, we have absolute and total b.s. Of course there are times when you put your child’s needs and wants above your own—I mean, did you REALLY want to read One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish for the 46^th time…today? No, you did not.  But sometimes, you do it anyway. Sometimes you give your child the last drink of water, even though you are really thirsty.  Sometimes you don’t buy something for yourself so you can get something special for him or her. Sometimes the sacrifice is real and deep. But let’s face it, women are trained by our society to put other people’s needs ahead of their own, and there are those that take great pride in the fact that they never, ever do for themselves because they are too busy taking care of everyone else.

I personally believe in two basic guiding principles here.  The first is the old adage: ‘if Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.’ That doesn’t mean that Momma gets everything she wants all the time and to hell with everyone else.  But it does mean that Momma needs to have a life that is somewhat happy and fulfilled so that she can reflect those qualities to her children and teach them how to find these things in their own lives.

The second is from your basic flight attendant instructions prior to takeoff: ‘in the unlikely event of a loss in cabin pressure, please secure your own mask before assisting your child.’ If you do not take care of yourself, you cannot take care of someone else.  Plain and simple. What good is it to run yourself into the ground for your child when you will eventually break down, and then who will take care of them?  Keeping a happy healthy you gives you the ability to take raise happy and healthy them.

 

Mommy Myth #5: You must treasure and adore every single moment with your child
A few months ago I read a great blog post about this very topic that puts it more eloquently than I ever could.  Some friends were passing it around on FB and it is a great read. It’s by Glennon Melton, titled “Don’t Carpe Diem.” (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/glennon-melton/dont-carpe-diem_b_1206346.html).

It is about being a mom and how other (usually older) moms will come up to you, at random, and tell you how much they loved every moment of motherhood and how you should enjoy every single minute, too.  She is usually telling you this in the middle of a the grocery store or your local Target, at a time when your children have driven you so close to the edge that you have contemplated, even for a brief, fleeting moment: A.) strangling them within an inch of their life or B.) simply walking away and pretending they do not belong to you. You know that moment I’m talking about.  If you don’t…you will. Of course, you do NOT do either of these things, because you are a responsible adult in charge of their well-being.  But having someone tell you you should be savoring this very moment really makes you want to turn around and commit choice A upon her.  But you don’t do that either, because she means well, and that would only get you arrested, and then who would look after the children? (although the woman would probably assure you, as you were choking her, that you would someday look back fondly on this very moment. Making you want to squeeze even harder…).

There are many moments of motherhood I have not enjoyed.  Being vomited on. Discovering the six-foot scratch my son etched in his bedroom furniture.  Mysterious medical maladies that come and go with no known cause or cure. I do not treasure them. I do not cherish them. And like Glennon, I do not think it makes me a bad mom to admit that I do not hold them near and dear to my heart.  There are many, many other memories that I do, but not these.

 

I’m sure you’ve heard other Mommy Myths; these are just the ones that came to mind at the close of this lovely spring on which we celebrate all things maternal.

In truth, I find motherhood, like most things, is a dichotomy. Amazing. Exasperating. Inspiring. Infuriating. Frightening. Awesome.

An old ad campaign for the U.S. military (Army, I think) had the tag line “the toughest job you’ll ever love.” I think that sums it up pretty well, don’t you?

Happy Mother’s Day, ya’ll!

Giving Thanks 2: Deja Vu

Giving thanks?  I know, I know, that’s so LAST WEEK, right?

So, why talk about giving thanks now?  Well, honestly, I feel like Thanksgiving is getting a bum rap. It’s nothing new really; it’s been happening for years.  The slow and steady decline from the picturesque Norman Rockwell fantasy to the mosh pit that has become Black Friday. I had similar feelings last year, but this year seems much worse.

Again this year, the merchants couldn’t even wait for Black Friday.  In fact, their ads actually said, ‘Why wait for Black Friday?  Save big now on blah-dee-blah-blah!’  While Black Friday used to be the starter pistol of holiday shopping, this year you barely got to digest your turkey before some stores opened on Thanksgiving day.

I understand the idea of the importance of Black Friday, so called because it’s supposed to be the day that sales bring merchants’ books out of the red and into the black. The day they look forward to in order to keep their businesses in business.

Remember when Black Friday was a quirky diversion?  Something families would make plans to do together? When getting up early meant hitting the stores at 5 or 6 AM to hunt for bargains, then crashing at home late morning for some much needed R&R?

This year stores opened as early as 9 PM on Thanksgiving Day, while some never closed at all. Friday evening’s news was riddled with war stories from the field; tales of shoppers being trampled, mugged, tasered, and more. Really?  I simply cannot imagine the thing that I would need sooooo badly that I’d actually pepper spray my fellow shoppers to get it. Way to show some Christmas spirit! While I’m not a terribly religious person, in this case, I think the question ‘WWJD?’ is pretty darn appropriate. I hardly think he’d approve of trampling thy neighbor for a waffle iron (or anything else, for that matter).

Early on Thanksgiving, I took my 5-year-old son to see the Muppet Movie.  In it, Tex Richman tells Kermit the Frog that it’s a hard and cynical world, a world that has no place for the sappy, sweetness of the Muppets. And he is right.  The world we live in is a hard and cynical place.  And it makes me wonder how I can raise my Little Man to be… a Muppet.  A kind hearted, sweet, silly boy who values friendship and honesty and doing the right thing over greed and selfishness and mean-spiritedness. (Maniacal laugh! Maniacal laugh! Maniacal laugh!) I hope I’m raising him to never, ever shop on Black Friday.

And so, although it’s been over a week since Thanksgiving, I prefer to hang on to the season of giving thanks for a bit longer, thank you very much. Because I have so very much to be thankful for.  I hope that you do, too.

Time To (Wo)man Up: Thinking Pink

This was a landmark year for me: the big 4-0. I think I handled its arrival pretty well: no brooding, no weeping, no gnashing of teeth. “Forty is FABULOUS!” That was my mantra. Time for me to come into my own.  Time to enjoy the person I’ve become and set new goals for myself. Time to …get a mammogram.

Because as fabulous as I think 40 is, I must admit that I’ve begun to look at my body as a bit of a ticking time bomb. Although I’m in good health, I can’t help but wonder what part of me is ready to give out, give in, give up or take on a life of it’s own.  I’ve already noticed a change in my vision and know I’m well overdue for a visit to the optometrist. I fear reading glasses are in my not too distant future (like, tomorrow maybe). I’ve begun to pay more attention to those ads on TV that tell me to ‘ask my doctor if xyz is right for me.’ I don’t take any medications now (save for a daily vitamin) and am loath to start.  Yet I find my mind wondering if plaque build up smaller than an erasure is poised at any moment to break off and lead to a heart attack or stroke. Are my bones dense enough? Do I have too much uric acid?

Most of this rolls around in my mind in an abstract sort of way.  Like the way that exercising more sounds great in theory, but generally does not make it to the “practice” phase as often as it should. Most of it remains sort of a vague, shadowy phantom that enters the forefront of my consciousness whenever I see some frightening story on Dateline NBC.  Even then, there’s little call to action; once that initial fear wears off,  I usually settle comfortably back into “yes, but that won’t happen to me” mode. But the mammogram, that’s a different story.

About two years ago, my friend, MC was diagnosed with breast cancer. Well, I say “my friend,” but you would not call us close. I know her because she is my best friend’s sister in law.  Her husband, his sister and I went to high school together. She’s part of the package deal that is some old friends from school who have kept in touch and join forces when we can. When I’m passing through town on my way home from visiting my Mom, and the stars align in some mystical cosmic way, we get to meet face to face. More often, we keep tabs on each other through FB and maintain a running commentary on one another’s families and lives.  MC’s the kind of person that fit right in.  She has a warm smile and a genuine, down to earth way about her.  You meet her and you just like her.  You know the kind of person I’m talking about. So although we aren’t “close,” I still count her as my friend (FB and otherwise).

Her diagnosis was a shock.  Breast cancer did not run in her family.  She was so young, just in her 40s.  She had a beautiful family, with a loving husband and two growing girls.  I had heard stories, known people whose lives had been affected by the disease, but never quite so close to me. At first I was relieved to hear that the lump they found was caught early and at a low stage. Knowing little about cancer, I didn’t realize there was another component to consider, which is how aggressive the tumor is.  In MC’s case, this was very high. She had a lumpectomy, followed by another surgery to clear the margin, as well as both chemo and radiation. Her sisters came out to help when they could.  When she lost her hair, her husband shaved his head as a show of support. I kept up with her FB updates and thought of her often. I talked to God, which I do on occasion, and informed Him/Her that MC’s family needed her and it was imperative that she came out the other side of this OK. Luckily, she did just that (not because of my talk with God, mind you, but I figured it didn’t hurt).

Like MC, I have no history of breast cancer in my family. No increased risk factors. No reason to think this could happen to me. But my area of the country has the highest rate of breast cancer in the nation. And as much as I’d like to put things off and dismiss the possibility, MC made me realize that it COULD happen to me. So shortly after my 40^th birthday, I made my appointment with the OB/GYN (which I was just a little overdue for—hey, I can’t be perfect with everything!), who gave me my script for my very first mammogram. Time to (wo)man up.  Squished up boobies, here I come!

It turns out my mammogram was not as big a deal as I made it out to be in my head.  It certainly wasn’t fun; not something I’d rush out to do more often than necessary. But it wasn’t horrible either.

When I posted in my status that I’d gone for my test, a friend commented: “Way to take care of yourself!” she said.  I appreciated that, and I guess that that was true in retrospect.  But in reality, I wasn’t doing it for me. I was doing it for my son, amazing, sweet, wonderful boy that he is.  He deserves to have his Mommy and he deserves to have a Mommy who takes care of herself. If I don’t do for me, how can I be there for him?

And I also did it for MC.  To honor the unexpected and unwelcome fight she endured. To honor her struggle and her success.

I truly believe that everything happens for a reason. I do not always understand it and I very often do NOT like it. But I believe it to be true. So, I believe that there was a reason for MC’s breast cancer, for her battle and ultimate triumph.  I believe there was a reason that another noble and inspiring voice needed to be added to this fight. I believe there is someone out there who needed to hear her message, to hear her story from her, to make the connection, to make a difference.  Maybe it was me.  Maybe it was you.

So ladies, in this month dedicated to breast cancer awareness, to battles lost and won, to research that carries on, please go get your mammogram.  Take care of yourself.  Take care of those you love by taking care of your self. Take yourself to the clinic and get your mammogram.

Kindergarten, Part 3: The Waiting is the Hardest Part

When we returned to pre-school from our kindergarten visit in the morning, Little Man was suddenly the rock star of the playground. His friends rushed to greet him. His teacher was anxious to hear how it had gone. He proudly displayed his “Ask me about my visit to kindergarten” sticker. I looked back as I left for work to see him sitting at the bottom of a slide surrounded by a group of friends as he held court on his amazing (one hour) visit to the Big House called Elementary School.

I breathed a little sigh of relief. The paperwork had been completed, submitted and approved. I was stoked about the school and Little Man’s enthusiasm was growing day by day. The stage was being set for a smooth transition. The only problem was, this visit occurred in May.

May, before the current school year was even over.
May, before his “end of pre-school” celebration had even happened.
May, more than three whole months before school started in the fall.

And so the waiting began. I continued to talk about kindergarten and how great it was going to be, careful not to ‘oversell’ the prospect while still keeping the issue visible on his then 4-year-old horizon. Everyone asked him about school, and he fielded their questions with the cool confidence of a little man not entirely comprehensive of the great change about to take place.

I was a bit apprehensive, but not terribly concerned.  I knew he’d do great at school, probably a bit shy at first and somewhat overwhelmed at the sheer size of the place: both the building and the people. Frankly, I was overwhelmed at the thought of my “baby” going from a daycare that had 60 kids max, to a school where there were over 80 kindergarteners alone. So many kindergarteners, in fact, that while there would be at least four classes for sure, there was a possibility of five.  Five kindergartens?! Holy cow! When I went to school there were exactly two kindergarten classes, A.M. and P.M., both taught by Mrs. Napoleon who, from my very low vantage point, appeared to be an Amazon (but a really nice Amazon!).

The principal had cautioned us that while the class lists were expected out at the beginning of August, they were subject to change if enrollment rose past the threshold of the max class size. As mentioned in Part One, our school has two male kindergarten teachers, a veritable coup in my book, and as a single mom (with no offense intended towards the female teachers) I was sincerely hoping that Little Man would be assigned to one of them. The first week of August, which coincidentally was also the week of his 5^th birthday, seemed ages away.

The letter finally arrived, on his birthday, no less, and I ripped it open with a frenetic energy fed by the alarming realization that this was about to get really…real. This was happening, this kindergarten.  This abstract thing that we’d been discussing since last Fall when his older pre-K friends went off to school. This milestone of childhood, this passage into formal education. He was about to be a name on a list. The list of his future kindergarten teacher.

I withdrew the small stack of papers from the envelope and unfolded them. The top page was a brightly bordered sheet with a greeting from his teacher welcoming him to class.  I scanned the information and my eye finally fell on the name at the bottom: Mr. M.  MR. M! Was this really his teacher? I sifted through the rest of the papers ‘til I found the class list. Sure enough, Mr. M’s class was made up of 19 children, one of which was Little Man himself.  YEA!! I was ever so happy. I consulted with our neighbor across the street whose daughter would also be starting school this year. She had been assigned to a different class consisting of 18 students.  Surely they must have gone to five kindergartens, we surmised. Hadn’t they?  Slowly the doubts crept in.  This was the teacher I’d hoped he’d be assigned to, so the thought of losing out at the last moment was crushing.  I had to know!

I called the school a few days later and spoke to our lovely secretary, Ms. Nancy, who sadly informed me that the lists were based on four classes and there was still a chance that they might change. Nooooo!  My heart sank.  I felt a bit better when she noted that summer enrollment had not been as high as they anticipated and while she didn’t want to make a promise she couldn’t keep, she felt there was a good possibility that they would stay at four classes. I asked if I could call back in a few weeks to check the progress and she cheerfully encouraged me to call any time and she would give me an update.

School didn’t start until September 1, so the waiting continued, exacerbated by the fact that what I had hoped for was resting there in the palm of my hand (literally, at least on paper). While I didn’t want to rush things, I couldn’t wait until I knew for sure how things would turn out. In the mean time, I got Little Man prepped for school with a new LL Bean junior backpack and lunch bag in colors of his choosing.  I’d already picked his first day clothes and got him two new pairs of shoes (thank you, Payless BOGO). Before and after care was in place.  The stage was set, the players waiting in the wings.

I called back a few weeks later, and we were still holding at four classes. If we didn’t hear anything in the next week, we would be good to go. Fingers crossed, we prepared for the last day of pre-K, making cards for his teachers and collecting up his things from the place he’d spent the last four years. On his last day, I cried on the way to drop him off, on my way to work, on my way to pick him back up and on the way home. These amazing ladies were like part of our family and I certainly would miss them. But it was time for bigger things for the Little Man.

September 1^st finally arrived, and still we had to wait. Our district divides the kindergartens into three one-hour shifts and has them come in small groups on the first day.  This gives them a chance to meet their teacher, tour the classroom, find where their things go, have crazy crying parents play paparazzi, and then be ready to come back the next day for a full day of kindergarten fun. Our assigned time was, of course, the last slot at 12:30 PM. So we slept in (to Little Man, this means about 6:45AM), had breakfast, took a shower, took lots of pictures, had lunch, and got ready to go.

As we prepared to leave he admitted he was a little nervous. That’s perfectly normal, I assured him.  What was it that was making him most nervous? Well, everything would be new and he wouldn’t know anyone, he told me. I tried to be sage without sounding condescending. Most people were a little nervous when they did new things.  I talked about when I first started my job and didn’t know anyone or how I was going to get things done, or even if I would be able to do the job. “But now you know lots of people and do all kinds of things!” he said. “Exactly; and you will, too.” I made up a song as we drove up the hill towards the school and we sang it all the way there. It ended with “kindergarten, here we come!”

And so we came.  After all that time, we were finally crossing the threshold of the school as a newly minted kindergartener and his Mom.  We found his classroom and met the teacher (Mr. M!).  We found his cubby (LOCKER, Mommy!).  We went on a treasure hunt that was simultaneously touching and informative (insert watery-eyed Mommy here).  We went out to the kindergarten playground for the circle ceremony (the one I’d heard about in Kindergarten, Part One; more water works here). Then we were done: prepped and ready for the full day of school the next day.

As we walked out of the school, I suggested we take a picture by the school sign out in front of the building. Little Man thought that was a great idea! As we held hands and walked across the grass, he told me how much fun he’d had and how he was not nervous any more. He could not wait until tomorrow!

And there you have it.  We’d waited and waited and waited and waited. Then suddenly, in a mere 24 hour time frame, we’d moved from Pre-K to K. And he couldn’t wait for more.

I’ve been told that once Little Man starts school, the years will just fly by.  I’ll have to wait and see if that’s true…

Kindergarten, Part 2: Who Are You?

After the kindergarten parent meeting comes the scheduled school visit. This is when your child comes to the school at a set time with a small group of other incoming kindergarteners. They go away with some of the kindergarten teachers and participate in various activities (listening, reading, coloring, etc).  This gives the teachers a chance to see how the children interact and they get a basic idea of what their skill levels are.

Little Man was super excited about visiting his new school. I talked him through it several times, reminding him that he’d go off to a different room with the teachers and other children while I stayed behind with the parents and principal. I reminded him to listen to his teachers and that they would bring him back to where I was when they were done. He picked out the clothes he wanted to wear and chatted cheerfully as we walked through the front door.  He was raring to go until some of the other children arrived… then he got a bit shy. I expected that, and continued to talk to him about what to expect and how much fun it would be.  He was a bit apprehensive when the group was ready to go, but went along without incident and I let out a little sigh of relief. After all, I know how super awesome he is, and soon his potential teachers would know it, too.

Then I shuffled off into the parent meeting, which was certain to be less fun.  Don’t get me wrong, everyone was pleasant enough and was happy to answer all our questions (if you’ve ever had a child start kindergarten, you know there are quite a few questions ranging from basic information gathering to outright paranoia). With us we schlepped the big fat packets we received at the Parent Night (see Kindergarten Part One) containing a half an inch of all manner of forms which we had (more or less) dutifully completed between that day and this one. Forms about me, forms about him, forms about health and residency and the PTA. So many forms that I had to fill them out a few at a time as my hand was getting crampy (funny how I used to be able to write forever, but now that I’ve become so dependent on my laptop anything more than a paragraph or two sends my muscles into spasms and my handwriting into the toilet).

Truthfully, there were forms, or parts of forms, that I set aside to deal with later. As a Single Mother by Choice, I began to wonder how to answer some of the questions. One question from the after school program (which is not run by the school) asked me to indicate my relationship status.  My choices were: “married,” “separated,” “divorced,” “living together,” and “prefer not to answer.” Since I was none of the first four, my only other option was the latter, which was untrue—I did PREFER to answer, but did not have an option applicable to me. Being particularly sensitive to this issue, I also wondered what gay/lesbian couples might indicate. “Living together” would seem the closest choice for them, although certainly not adequately descriptive of their relationship, and ‘civil union’ was not an option (although legal in our state). I was particularly disturbed by the options because the after school program is run by a woman’s organization–you’d think they’d be a bit more cognizant of the different types of families that exist. For my purposes, I refused to check “prefer not to answer” and instead created my own check box with the word “single” next to it, checked it off and highlighted it in yellow. Take that!

The second stumbling block came on the same form (and also came up in some forms that came directly from the school), where I was asked: “does your child have any siblings?”

Well, hmm. How to answer this question? I assumed that their intent was to seek information on other siblings living your home with you and your child. Which, in our case, would be ‘no.’ However, the fact of the matter is that he does have siblings. They are not full siblings, but they are technically related and he does know about them, has even met one of them. I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to confuse the truth. Argh!

All these forms are designed to reflect relevant, database worthy information on the incoming class.  Most of them capture extremely basic information, although a few were open ended inquiries seeking a bit more personal information, such as “which discipline style does your child respond best to?” followed by a list of several options.  Being a Gemini and knowing my child as I do, the answer to a question like this is generally ‘all of the above.’  For example, sometimes I can speak quietly to him to correct his behavior, sometimes positive reinforcement works, and sometimes I just have to scream my fool head off.

God bless the people who design these forms in an effort to get to know our children; I know they are trying very hard to get parents to talk about their kids. In these little rectangles, I am tasked with creating an outline of the remarkable little boy that I’ve spend nearly 5 years raising. For a wordy girl like me, this is a nearly impossible feat.

Luckily (or not), our packet contained a lovely lavender flyer titled: “A Message from the Principal, Class Placement for 2011-2012.” On this flyer, the principal invited parents to “write a letter about your child for 2011-2012 placement purposes.” Letters would be used during the creation of the class lists and we were asked to adhere to the following guidelines: tell us about your child, don’t request a specific teacher, don’t ask to be placed in a class with current friends (it was noted that this would be considered in passing only and would not be a major consideration in placement), and get your letter in by the deadline. The principal’s closing lines were:

“So, begin the reflection process.  Jot little notes to yourself.  Make a strong cup of coffee and sit down at the computer one night to compose your masterpiece. Then place it in an envelope addressed to your child’s teacher.  We promise to do our best!”

Are you kidding me?  This was a dream come true!  I could write a whole letter about my Little Man? Sa-weet!! I stretched my arms, cracked my knuckles, and prepared for the challenge.

I filled the space all around the margins of the flyer with notes to myself .  What did I want to say about Little Man? What was most important?  How could I best convey his personality? His strengths? His weaknesses?

I found it just as easy to gush about his good points as to dish about his bad ones.  He’s not a total angel, but certainly is no devil.  Sweet and kind but hard-headed and sassy. How to balance the presentation so as not to give impression that he’s a pain in the ass, but also not that I think he can do no wrong.

I hemmed and hawed and thought and composed little snippets in my head.   And I put it off for as long as possible.  The night before our kindergarten visit (when I would have to turn my letter in) I was up until midnight crafting my words, carving them out, molding and shaping them into an impression of my soon-to-be kindergartener.

I opened with a brief explanation of our family structure, then launched into my description: joyful, funny, creative, affectionate, and a list of the things he likes, which is almost everything.  He is just as comfortable playing dress-up or creating macaroni art, as he is reading a book, writing a story, building with blocks or playing with dinosaurs.  From there I talked about his weaknesses, although I admit I found myself using lots of hedging words here: sometimes, occasionally, seems. He is my baby, after all!

I read it, re-read it, printed it, read it again, edited it again, re-printed it.  What had I missed? Had I said too much?  Not enough? Well, to be honest, I hardly think I’d be accused of “not enough.” I managed to squeeze 865 words onto a single page by annihilating the margins and using a tighter font. But did it say everything that needed to be said?  I could not believe the angst that went into this! I hope that I did my Little Man justice.

The hour was late and a big day lay ahead for us both, so I finally had to put it, and me, to bed. I concluded my letter thusly:

“So there, in a nutshell, is my amazing son. I have planted the seeds of learning, love and life, and pass him now to your tender care, to help me nourish his mind, body and spirit, and cultivate the incredible human being he is meant to be. I hope that you enjoy having him in your life as much as I enjoy having him in mine.

Thank you so much for all you do.  I hope this letter is helpful and look forward to working with you in the coming year.”

Stay tuned for Part Three!  🙂

Kindergarten Part 1: Parent Orientation

This fall marks one of my son’s big milestone events: on September 1, 2011, he will join the ranks of the class of 2024 as he enters kindergarten. It’s hard to believe, for so many reasons.  Time seems to be creeping along and flying by all at the same time, like some slo-mo scene in an action-packed martial arts film: frozen in mid-leap, then suddenly kicked in the jaw and sprawling on the ground.

Don’t get me wrong, I am excited for this new adventure, both his and mine. He is so ready.  I talk up kindergarten whenever it can be naturally inserted into the conversation—my child is one who, like his mother, appreciates a little mental preparation for upcoming events.  We talk about meeting new friends, having a new teacher, learning cool things. So far his chief concerns have been riding the bus (which he has decided against (for no particular reason), which is just fine because we don’t live far enough for that anyway) and what types/amount of new toys will be available. He’s excited that our neighbor across the street will be starting school this year, too, although I carefully caution that we do not know if she will be in the same class or not. His enthusiasm at the prospect of shedding his pre-school skin and spreading his wings in the big world of public school grows daily, although I suspect a few fears, tears, and laughs along the way, both his and mine.

My part of the adventure formally began this past week, when the 2011 parental cohort converged on our elementary school for the time-honored tradition of Kindergarten Parent Orientation Night.  Clearly institutionalized, we lined up in front of the appropriately labeled boxes containing alphabetized packets of information, glossy folders neatly stuffed with what appeared to be a ream of paper. The left side contained all manner of informational flyers: calendars, PTO, afterschool program, registration requirements… The right side, and certainly the more intimidating of the two, contained all manner of forms, requiring completion and submission to the appropriate entity. But more on them later…

Packets in hand, we were set to navigate the halls to the various kindergarten classrooms to get a peek at where our kids would be spending the next academic year of their lives.  What I saw impressed me.  The classes, as one might expect, were warm and inviting. There was art everywhere, and not just the children’s own art, but Renoir and Van Gogh.  Different areas of the classrooms were designated as learning centers for a variety of subjects. I felt my anticipation grow as I made my way to the auditorium.

The evening began with the school’s principal, a man so full of genuine enthusiasm that he could not help but rub off on you. Before introducing several key players, he gave an overview of the philosophical approach of the school. I listened intently, every moment growing more ecstatic that this was the place my son would start his formal education.

He started off speaking about positive reinforcement. Studies reveal, he said, that in the most effective disciplinary model, students should receive 6 positive comments for every negative/corrective comment.  Many schools do the opposite.

One way they work to achieve this model is through clearly stated expectations.  All over the school are postings stating what the expectations are in that area: auditorium, cafeteria, hallway.  Great little colorful, laminated signs worded in a positive way that tell kids what is acceptable.  I am totally groovin’ on this.  I’m a firm believer in clear expectations—and then expecting my child to meet them. I’m on board.

He continued by describing Monday morning assembly, his words paint he picture: all the students in the school meet in the auditorium on Monday morning, greeted by a drum choir (like the drum line in band).  The drummers are front and center, tapping out their beats.  Student can’t help but pick up on it and begin moving to the music-a sea of elementary kids bopping and swaying. A tactile, literal example of getting everybody in the same rhythm, off on the same foot, to start their week in a positive way.  Are you kidding me?  I LOVE it! This is just too good to be true.

He tells us how they listen to the kids and their ideas on improving the school through various experiences and opportunities.  As an example, he tells us about the circle ceremony.

It seems that a 5^th grade class had a teacher whose mother passed away during the school year.  The students took their teacher’s loss to heart and began thinking about life and the journey each of us was on. They decided they wanted to create something to reflect this journey, and came up with the Circle Ceremony.  It goes like this:

On the first day of school, the new kindergarteners go out on their very own kindergarten playground, where a circle is painted on the ground. As the principal calls each child’s name, they step onto the circle, with their parent/guardian behind them. This symbolizes them being welcomed into the circle of friends, and that there will always be someone standing behind them to support them along the way. On the last day of 5^th grade, the same students go out to the kindergarten playground; this time, they stand on the circle. When the principal calls their name, they step off the circle, then take a last lap through the hallways of the school, where the students in all the other classes stand in the hall outside their rooms and clap for them.  This symbolizes them being ready to move on to the next phase of their lives.

The story gave me chills, and after thinking how sweet and nurturing and supportive this environment was, my immediate next thought was: “and then you’re gonna send him off to middle school and they’ll ruin it all!!” Ok, really? I’m on the verge of tears, now I’m worried about 6^th grade and middle school, and my son hasn’t even STARTED kindergarten yet!

The evening went on, briskly hitting the basics, to be covered more in depth at a later time: PTO officers introducing the organization and fund raisers (no candy bars, gift wrap, bundt cakes—yea!!), the school nurse, and the teachers themselves, addressing a ‘day in the life’ and some basic expectations/preparations for our budding kindergarteners to be. I was thrilled to find that not one but TWO of the four kindergarten teachers are men.  As a single mom, I’d love to have him wind up in one of their classes as another positive male role model in his life, although I know he’ll do well no matter which teacher he’s placed with.

After all the presentations, came the mad rush to sign up for the Kindergarten Visit day next week, where my son gets to go and play for a bit while I turn in the mountain of paperwork currently weighing down the right side of my folder.

Among my forms and official looking documents is another requirement—to write a letter to his future, as yet unnamed teacher introducing my son to him/her: his strengths, weaknesses, passions, personality. A simple, yet monumental task. It’s difficult to explain the mix of emotions that this journey evokes, but as I write this, a lyric comes to mind: “put my tender heart in a blender, watch it spin round to a beautiful oblivion.”

It’s going to be a long (and short) few months…

Unicorns, Bad Guys and Princesses, oh my!

The other day, my son started a random conversation over breakfast.

“Mom,” he said, “ I don’t like girly things.” He gestured with his hand for emphasis as he clarified: “I like girls, but I don’t like girly things”

I tried to remain calm as sirens began to go off in my head. Part of me wanted to react immediately and I fought the urge to step up on my soapbox and launch into a speech on how there weren’t ‘girl things’ and ‘boy things’ and how you could do or like or be whatever you wanted. Instead, my curiosity piqued, I took a breath and sought further clarification. Sometimes what you think kids are talking about is not what they actually are talking about.  “Like what?”

“Like unicorns.”

“Unicorns?”

“Yeah, you know they have that horn that’s pointy on top of their heads and it could stab me. I don’t like them”

Ok, let’s face it, it’s difficult to dispute that kind of logic. “And princesses. I don’t like princesses.”

This one was news to me, as I had it on good authority that, despite the fact that he had not seen any of the Disney movies to date, he knew every Disney princess by name and had, in fact, pointed them all out to me in the princess collection in the toy section at Target, having been schooled by the older girls in his mostly female pre-K class last year. “Why don’t you like princesses?”

“Because they wear dresses.”

Attempt to insert adult logic: “Well, Mommy wears dresses, does that mean you don’t like me?”

“No, I LOVE you. But they wear dresses ALL the time. There is one princess movie I’d like to see, and that’s The Princess and the Frog.”

Before I had a chance to pursue this line of questioning further, he pressed on: “I do like one girly thing, that’s horses, because I’d like to ride a horse.”

Now, I generally don’t think of horses as particularly girly, but again, in his class last year, some of the girls were into ‘ponies’ so apparently the whole equine line has been tinted pink.

Not to be one sided, he continued by providing ‘equal time’ to his own gender’s stereotypes. “There’s also some boy things I don’t like. I also don’t like bad guy boyish things.”

“No, I don’t like bad guy things either,’ I concurred.  In his current year at pre-K the tides had taken a decided turn, with a younger and almost all male class that tended to conform to the “typical” boy interests in guns, fighting ‘bad guys,’ wrestling, tackling, etc.

And then, just as it had begin, the conversation was over, and he’d moved on to finishing his breakfast and then heading into the living room to watch Martha Speaks on PBS while I got ready for work. I sat for a moment both amused and appalled at the inner workings of my child’s mind.  Don’t misunderstand, I wasn’t upset with him in any way.  But it was somewhat startling how he had already so clearly begun to designate ‘girly’ things and ‘boyish’ things. I did take some comfort in the fact that he had chosen in his mind to allow himself to both embrace something he identified as feminine (horses) and reject something he’d identified as masculine (playing bad guys). It is fascinating. Having a kid is like observing a lifetime science experiment.

I’ve been fighting an uphill battle with society (and myself) against gender stereotypes since I got pregnant. When I first found out I was having a baby, I just assumed it was going to be a girl. As a single mother, I would raise her to be a smart, competent, kick-ass girl who would have strength and confidence and be full of ‘girl power.’ So finding out my feminist-in-training-to-be was a boy initially threw me off my game.  Of course I would love him with all of my heart, but was I really meant to have a boy? I knew so much about being a girl, how would I approach raising a boy?  Eventually it occurred to me that the idea was to raise a human being: a confident, caring, compassionate, upstanding member of society. Duh.  One of many lessons learned (learn-ING).

I was determined not to raise a stereotypical boy, or at least not surround my boy with stereotypical things, and at my baby shower requested guests refrain from gifts involving blue, cars, and sports. It’s not that I don’t like blue or cars or sports.  It’s that I didn’t want everything the child owned from birth to involve one or more of those things.  And that’s pretty much all that’s out there. It’s truly amazing how important it is to some people to know the gender of a child simply by looking at it. If a baby’s not in pink or blue, these people get downright cross—as if you were trying to trick them.  As if the infant in your arms was to suffer some irreparable harm if a total stranger could not readily identify whether the child possessed a penis or vagina by the onsie it wore.

Realizing that my request basically prevented anyone from purchasing newborn boy clothes from most mainstream stores, I set out to purchase the 5 items in existence in the apparently ‘universally neutral’ baby colors available: green and yellow. Shopping for boy clothes can be so utterly depressing.  There, in one part of the store, taking up nearly ¾ of the available space, are the girl clothes, in all manner of hue. In the other part, a few aisles wide, lie the boy clothes. Blue, generally navy and baby.  Red. White.  Perhaps some brown.  On a lucky day, there may be some dark green, dark orange, or brighter blue.  It will probably have a race car, basketball, or dump truck on it.  Or words like “All-Star” or “Team Captain” emblazoned across it. Or a big number, like a sports jersey. Ugh.

I thought it was bad when he was a baby, until I started looking for underwear when he was potty training. If you do not want a licensed character (which I did NOT), you have exactly two choices: pink or blue.  In extraordinary cases, a lone package of white may be found. By the time they’re ready to hit the bathroom, your little one’s booty better be color-coded, my friend.

In his daycare pictures one year, the boys held a football while the girls held a flower.  There weren’t any ‘neutral’ choices, like a book or a pumpkin.  Boy: football; girl: flower. Period. Beginning leveled reader books? Princesses or Spider Man. And try to find purple ANYTHING (my favorite color, and one of my son’s as well) for boys.  Until the last year or so, it was impossible (thanks, Old Navy, for sporting a plethora of purple this Fall!).

I work hard to fight against this stifling gender conformity and let my son have as many choices as possible.  When he chooses to play with dump trucks and train sets, that’s just fine.  And when he wants to paint his toenails, like he did last summer, that’s AOK with me, too. Mommy uses power tools.  Uncle is a gourmet cook. My son dons his green and blue apron to help make cookies (a gift from another Uncle). Happily, these are part of his everyday life, and not seen as ‘exceptions’ to gender-specific ‘rules.’

I have to admit that while contemplating my choices on one underwear-buying occasion early on, I nearly bought a package containing cotton briefs with pink flowers just for spite at the whole ‘system.’ I knew my son wouldn’t care—he was just excited to be wearing ‘big boy’ underwear instead of diapers (he’s still excited about that; in fact, he recently stuck his hand through the front of his newest underwear and said, ‘Look, Mom, it’s got a pocket!’ (lol!)). What stopped me was the thought of him being in pre-K and possibly being picked on by other boys (and/or girls) in his class.

And that is where I currently find myself negotiating the choppy waters

How do you balance the desire to instill in your child the courage to be his or her own self, and to embrace the things they like and to be who they are, with the real-life fear existing in our world today where bullies take our children’s lives, or make them feel so bad that they believe that taking their own life is their only option? These types of cases used to be extreme.  Now they seem to be the ‘norm’ and are occurring at younger and younger ages, all across the country.

To me, this is one of the great struggles of parenthood. Where the balance lies, I’m not quite sure.  Right now, I’m trying to roll with it.  And tell him every day, many times a day, that I love him.  Even if he makes me mad.  Even if I don’t like his choices. Always.  No matter what. Because Mommy’s love is like that.

Tis the season?: On Giving Thanks

I was doing some shopping on Veterans’ Day at my friendly neighborhood Kohl’s, enjoying the fact that I had the day off while my son had daycare (one of those times that this single mom rarely gets, when I can go out and get some things done by myself without having to take time off work or find a sitter), when I noticed the Muzak joyfully blaring “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Really??

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Christmas.  It is my favorite holiday of the year. While I was raised Christian, I wouldn’t say I’m a terribly “religious” person, but the idea of Christmas, the message of peace on earth, good will towards man, of hope and love and joy soundly resonates with me. Decorating the tree with handmade ornaments, baking cookies, sharing time with family and friends…I really do believe “it’s the most wonderful time of the year.” When it is that time of year.

November 11^th was clearly not that time of year. Neither was October 22^nd, when I entered my friendly neighborhood BJs to find the inflatable Christmas train and snowmen in a row directly behind the inflatable Halloween display.

Thanksgiving, it seems, is more and more merely a means to an end.  It’s about fretting over cooking a big ass meal for any number of people and maybe watching some football, if you are so inclined. It’s a day to get through in order make it to the Black Friday sales that used to start at 6AM, but now begin at 5, 4, 3 or earlier.  Why bother going to bed at all? This year’s some stores actually started their sales BEFORE Thanksgiving. Pre-sale sales.  Ugh.

Is it any wonder, then, that teaching our children about Thanksgiving is a challenge?  My son’s Pre-K teacher has been talking with her 4-5 year olds for the past week about the upcoming holiday. She’s talked about Pilgrims and Native Americans and holiday feasts.  And what it means to be thankful.  This last item has proven to be quite a task even for her, a veteran teacher of many years. She mentioned to me how the kids seemed to be having a hard time with the idea. On Friday for Show and Share, everyone was asked to bring in something they were thankful for to help reinforce the week’s lessons.

My son and I discussed his options at length. At first he said, “I’m thankful that you’re my Mommy and that you cook good things for me.” That was sweet, I told him, but he could bring in neither me nor the food I make him for Show and Share, so he’d have to think of something else.  I thought he had the concept, until he started suggesting things like a toy truck and a helium balloon. I explained that just because you liked something, didn’t necessarily mean you were ‘thankful’ for it. He nodded, but looked somewhat perplexed. We went on like this for a little while. Finally, he decided to bring in a stack of cards he had collected over the past year: a birthday card from his uncles, a thank you card from his friend who lives across the street, and an Easter and Valentine’s Day card from his Grandma. “I love my cards and I’m thankful for the people who gave them to me,” he said.

It was nearly time to go, and I told him that sounded great.  Even if he was merely mimicking me, when I told him some of the things I was thankful for, he appeared to be on the right track—at least he’d been listening, right?

I picked him up that afternoon, and quizzed him, as usual, on his day.  How was school? Did he eat all his lunch? What was most fun? I asked him if he shared his cards with his class and he said he had.

“I didn’t pass them around for everyone to hold, though, because Ms. Andrea told me not to.”

Oh, dear.  I wondered if we’d somehow brought in something that we shouldn’t have.  I’d spoken with his teacher, and she said he did a great job of sharing, so I couldn’t image what the problem was.

“Ms. Andrea told you not to pass them around?” I asked.

“Yeah, she didn’t want them to get all bent up or ripped or anything.” He paused a moment, then added, thoughtfully, “I guess I could be thankful that Ms. Andrea was looking out for me.”

From the front seat of the car, I could not help but smile. And be thankful.