A Sad Goodbye

If I have learned one thing about motherhood in eight years doing it, it is that nothing should surprise me.

But yet, I am so surprised at how emotional I am about one thing in particular. My sister says it’s the hormones.

For 13 months, I have personally nurtured my baby girl with a gift only her mother can give. And now, that door is about to close. We are both growing and moving on.

When the boys were infants, I worked hard and did what I was supposed to do and went through the motions of nursing them because I had to and at six months, they each were done. They were too busy to sit still and just nurse. They had other things to do and couldn’t be bothered. And truthfully, it felt to me more bothersome than anything else. Finding the time and place to get it done seemed so much more impossible then. It was a chore and I pushed on as far as I could and when that chapter ended, I knew I did my best and gave them what I could and we moved on to formula and on with life. It was matter-of-fact. They needed to be fed and I fed them the way I was supposed to for as long as I could. And then I was free.

But now, feeding my baby isn’t a chore. It’s a bond. In fact, it’s a gift. And it’s ending.

We have survived sinus infections, flu, mastitis, pneumonia, and business trips. I have pumped in cars (parked and moving), in bathrooms, in airports, in offices, and in the Louisiana swamp. I remembered vitamins and counted ounces of water intake and measured and timed alcohol consumption. Whenever we left the house, I would keep an eye on the clock and a part of my brain would constantly be ready to alert me as to when it was time for the next feeding. My nursing cover was always ready to whip out, no matter when or where my baby needed to eat.

We plowed through The Great Incident wherein a certain very important person who shall go unnamed accidentally left an entire month’s worth of frozen pumped milk in a hot car and ruined it. I have never felt so devastated - as if I experienced the death of family member or the loss of a limb. And yet, we powered through and pumped and restocked the supply and soldiered on. Perhaps one of my proudest accomplishments.

Because it was that important. Not just for her consumption, but for our bond. Our thing that only we could have and only I could do for her. I am the only person who could give her the nutrition she has needed to live, to grow and to thrive. I alone have provided her with that, and all from within the cradle of my arms. But now it is coming to an end and so is this unique bond we share. And with it, I say goodbye to this life stage of mothering infants.

And it’s just so surprisingly sad.

Eight

We pulled into the garage and your dad turned off the ignition. Everyone got out and went inside but something made you and I linger a little longer. It was your birthday eve – your favorite subject of the moment. “Can you believe you’re almost eight!?” I said. “This is the last night you’ll ever be seven.”

You crawled from the third row and perched yourself next to me, atop the console between the two front seats. “I can’t believe it,” you proclaimed with a sly smile. “I can’t believe that means I’ve been a mom for eight years,” I pointed out and grabbed you for a hug. “Did you know you made me a mom?” I said. “You gave me that gift.”

You held on tight – you, the kid who is always so pissed that you’re not yet a teenager, that you still have to live with mom and dad rather than on your own as a self-sufficient free spirit who answers to no one – you held on and so I did too, rubbing your back. “What a gift you gave me,” I softly repeated.

You looked at me with tears in your almost-8-year-old eyes. “Now I’m crying tears of happiness,” you said. And so was I.

These are the moments I treasure in the midst of ADHD and defiance and homework hell. In the mess of the daily grind, and anxiety, and hidden triggers that others around us can’t seem to relate to, like when you absolutely must be the last person in the gym after basketball practice, meaning that even the guy who turns off the lights and locks up better get out before you or else you’re gonna lose it.

You have moved on from calling me “Mommy” to “Mom,” from trains to skateboards, from pajamas to athletic shorts. Your feet stink, you leave the door open and you always have a ball in hand. But even behind your tough-guy persona I still catch you, though fleeting, as my first baby.

Your teacher told us this morning that you think differently than everyone else. When the assignment was to make an American flag, you refused to have yours laminated because you wanted it to ripple like the way you notice real flags rippling. When asked to create a city scene, everyone else drew buildings on paper but you had to fabricate yours in 3-D, consenting to not hang it up with everyone else’s so that your constructed buildings could actually stand up.

You are passionate and determined and quirky and individual. Sometimes the way you make everything uniquely yours can drive your dad and I batty. We try to remember it’s not about us. We try to not squash your spirit just because we have agendas and bedtimes to manage. But we’re still growing along with you.

You acknowledged recently that Autumn, whom you’ve said for maybe three years you are going to marry one day, doesn’t really hang out with you. You’re thinking maybe it’ll be Maggie or Brooke now. It’s all of course meaningless but your heart seems so fragile and sensitive. It’s amazing how at 8 you straddle the fence of tough guy and sensitive boy. And how you push and pull us back and forth with you, alternating between moments of sheer let’s-watch-a-move-and-snug-under-blankets joy and those of whatever-mom-wants-is-exactly-the-opposite-that-I-want discord.

You are one of my favorite people on Earth and I couldn’t love you more. You, who made me a mother. Who gave me that gift.

One

She looks out the window and points suddenly, a surprised expression on her face and an elevated voice: "Dad!" He's mowing the lawn. My heart pings a little. She says "Dad" so much more often than anything else. But she still clutches me as if I might disappear at any moment, she reaches her tiny arms out for me to come get her, hold her, hold on. She collapses her little self on top of me in the bed in the mornings. As if she had been looking for me in her sleep, and upon finding me, right next to her the whole time, she is almost relieved and determined to keep me there. I relish these little moments that make up our life today. The third time around, my sense of what is fleeting is keener than ever before. I know she'll push me away one day, but for now, I am her comfort and her hero and I couldn't have a more important title in my life. How funny that one year ago, we were just getting to know each other.

A Short Reflection on a Short Year

I'm sitting up (hooray for at least sitting up) in bed, propped up by pillows, laptop glowing in my face, sleeping baby cradling my hip and breathing rhythmically in and out. I can't remember the last time in my life I was so sick. I am on day five of fever, chills, aches, coughs, and surely death's door - the whole nine yards. What a wonderfully ruined Christmas vacation. This is the kind of sick that isolates you to bed upstairs while you get to listen to the family open their stockings and eat their Christmas dinner downstairs. Yes, next year I will be getting that flu shot.

I am alone on New Year's Eve with just my girl, while the guys have gone to a germ-free friend's celebration. What a wonderfully ruined New Year's Eve. But in the stillness of this house, and having read my book, caught up on my People, and watched the entire season one of Downton Abbey, I'm suddenly struck with the realization that I have no other obligation than to reflect on this year.

We are a blessed family of FIVE.

We survived the Great House Remodel. And I even managed not to maul any of the contractors who spent my entire maternity leave in the house with me.

We are fighting the vicious beast that is ADHD and though it's an exhausting daily battle for all of us, I believe we mark a W on more days than not.

We have cultivated new meaningful friendships in the arms of a community.

We got to introduce our sacred beach and annual family tradition to the newest member.

We celebrated 10 years of marriage. We are high school sweethearts who have grown into teammates.

We have contributed time, talent and treasure to local causes that can benefit from what we have to offer.

We are given a daily gift of watching our boys love our girl, and vice versa.

They say the days are long but the years are short and it feels no more true than at this time of year. How do I have an 8-month-old baby? How am I possibly going to remember all the little moments of this precious, fleeting time that I find myself begging my brain constantly to imprint? It's the catch-22 of a full life: it will not last. So here's to hoping 2014 brings more big and little moments that make me catch my breath and hit the pillow hard at night with the knowledge that I did my best to earn it every day. That I worked hard and played hard and prioritized appropriately. And that one year from right now, I will be cursing time, begging it to slow down while also recognizing that my begging means it was again a year full of so much to be thankful for.

Cheers to you and yours and happy new year!

To My Daughter

I open my blurry eyes in the morning and see you there. I am amazed you are still here each day. That you are really part of our family.

I pinch myself regularly. Thankfully, I am not waking up from this dream.

Your story started almost a year ago, when your dad, brothers and I were in the car on our way to the airport, headed to the family beach house and I made us stop at Walgreens on the drive north so I could purchase a pregnancy test. I got sick in the plastic Walgreens sack. Your dad and I exchanged looks. I took the test in the airport bathroom and gave him the news in the terminal. You were already with us. This was happening. We managed to keep the news of you secret between just the two of us for several months even while we lived with Mimi as our house was remodeled. We didn’t know when we had created the blueprints with our architect several months beforehand that we were adding space for you.

I have waited months to write these words because I am so desperate to make them count; to live up to the standards you’ve set. Perfection. It’s an impossible goal so I move forward anyway, expecting missteps but doing my best. Just like in mothering.

In my belly you made me crave anything tomato-y. Salsa, spaghetti sauce, pizza sauce. And anything involving a mix of peanut butter and chocolate. I was sure you would have peanut butter colored hair based on the amount I consumed.

I find myself reminiscing about you growing and stretching inside me, kicking and hiccupping. This is not my first rodeo. I know I will forget how that felt and I already grieve for these memories that are so fleeting in the course of motherhood. This is the story of you, now. The snuggly baby ball of you that is just stopping by on her path of growth. I plead with time to stand still, while simultaneously looking forward to the next phase of you being unveiled.

You arrived in late spring and when we left the hospital with you, there was a May snowstorm. Welcome to Life, a place where we shrug our shoulders and try to go with the flow. In the 11 weeks that have followed, you’ve done just that. You eat and sleep like a dream and your yelling, screaming brothers don’t even faze you. I believe you got used to them in utero. And based on the chaos you heard, you figured out that you would need to be flexible. Thank you.

You love to be outside. You seem lulled into a peaceful state by nature sounds and smells around you. I hope a yearning to be outside stays with you forever. You gaze up at me from your seat in the stroller as we walk and I gaze back, overwhelmed with all the life advice I want to impart. Be a helper. Stand up for what’s right. Extend your hand to the outcast. Identify your gifts, then cultivate and share them. Stay off of reality shows and out of tattoo parlors. Respect yourself and treat your body as a gift on loan from your Creator. Keep the faith. The list is endless. What will you learn from my words and what from just living, experiencing, observing? I feel anxious pressure to set the best example.

 

I know there will come a time(s) that you’ll become so annoyed with me and that’s okay. (I’m sure your grandmother secretly looks forward to those full-circle moments.) I’ll try to be patient, give space and wait for you to come around. I also hope there will be times you are proud to be this woman’s daughter. I will tell you about the day you accompanied me to the office, just a few weeks into your life, as I was promoted to Partner. I want you to learn from me how to work hard in pursuit of a rewarding passion. Not how to fall back on your laurels or be enabled. At the same time, you inspire me to cut back, reexamine priorities and seek treatment for my sometimes workaholism. You are my treatment. I know you will remind me over the next many years, when I want to be reminded and when I don’t, to stop and exhale.

I need to tell you about your brothers. You wouldn’t believe how in love with you they are. Even Graham, who upon learning that you would be a sister cried real tears. “But she’s going to be bossy!” he lamented through sobs. I know we’ll recount that story time and again with a giggle, but oh that boy. I believe he thought you would come out as a fellow first-grader who stole his toys and liked to tell him what to do, which (word to the wise) apparently he does not appreciate. But the first night you were home with us from the hospital, he held you in his 7-year-old arms and proclaimed, “I guess I wanted a girl the whole time.” He is protective and proud. As you get to know him and come to appreciate his quirks, you will be a better, more empathetic person for knowing and loving him in all his uniqueness.

Everyone says you look just like Reid. He loves that. He is gentle and understated and timid around you. But really, it’s not just your effect on him. You will learn from him how to be a sweetheart, a listener, a pleaser. At night he asks if you will snug with him in his bed while I read to him. I ask him if he will read to you one day and he looks up with me with a nod and a smile. That’s so Reidy. Remember that when Graham’s extremes push you too far, Reid will be your soft place to land.

These boys have taught me how to mother to this point. I hope you’ll find they’ve done a good job with me and consider yourself a lucky addition to their team.

I hope you also find luck in being your daddy’s daughter. One day when you are older I will tell you about my complicated relationship with my own dad, but more importantly what I learned from it. Part of that education was what I wanted in a father to my children. You will now benefit from that hard-learned lesson. Your daddy is the man by which any of your future suitors should be measured and often fall short until one day, someone doesn’t. When that happens, and not beforehand, you’ll know. In other words, never, never settle or compromise your expectations in this arena. Never. Ever.

While I’m still early in this motherhood journey, I know enough to know that while daydreams of the Future You are inevitable, we really have just met and you haven’t shared much about yourself yet. In seven years of parenting, I have learned the most important lesson: that you are not a mini version of your parents, or who we think you are or want you to be, but you, Blair, yourself. And as you let us get to know you more with each passing year, I hope you’ll find that you have no louder cheerleaders anywhere in the world than the four who will always be here in the Hawks Nest – your nest – where we have enthusiastically made room for you. You, my daughter.

Welcome to the world.

Love,

Mom

My Broken Boy

Watching him struggle with a pencil in one hand and a piece of paper in front of him, I am a mess of emotions. I want to shake him. I want to scream at him. I want to rip up the paper and tell him it’s okay and I know he’ll figure it out in his own way eventually so who cares about these stupid spelling words. I want to cry.

It takes him over an hour to write four sentences. There are seven more.

I look at the faint blue and pink lines on the thin paper. I hate those lines. The sky, clothesline and ground.  The letters are supposed to fit nicely between them. Letters that you can’t form when ADHD wins. So often, it wins.

My son struggles with barriers in his brain that I can’t comprehend because they don’t exist in mine. And they make me angry at him. And then reminding myself it’s not his fault they are there, I get angry at myself for my misguided frustrations. I love my son. I hate his ADHD.

It’s bedtime. I tell him he must stop now and turn in unfinished work. And he cries, anticipating his teacher’s disappointment, whom he adores in spite of the fact that he is not the prized student. The boy cries because he didn’t finish his sentences, but yet, he can’t (?) won’t (?) finish.

Will he ever? He is smart, so smart. He asks the right questions and comprehends, inquires, analyzes, problem solves. But follow a simple direction? Write some words on a piece of paper? He stares at it. He asks about noises, and erasers and why is this pencil so sharp and Mrs. Bundy has paper like this, and my Stompeez are slippery and what is Reid doing and, and, and…

I email his teacher with the heads up. I search for solutions beyond medication. New strategies. Tweaks. Options. Diet changes. The medication is on only during the day. It’s off at homework time. Our time with him is off time. And oh how it throws everything off. But still I have a love/hate relationship with the little blue pill he takes each morning. It helps and even he knows it. But he is so little. What about the long-term? Is enough really known? What if?

I try to keep my focus on ways I can help my son. I try to separate ADHD from my relationship with him. I try to silence the white noise of society’s judgment. His parents should be stricter disciplinarians. My child would never. Such behavior problems. Too much TV. Or, those who think ADHD is a cop-out label. Every other kid “has” it, right? The squirrely kid? The kid who doesn’t want to follow directions? The kid in her own world? Oh, of course, it’s ADHD! Someone once asked how we had Graham “diagnosed.” In quotation marks like it was made up. A mask. Are that many pediatricians throwing meds at first graders these days that this real misery has become synonymous with some imaginary state?

ADHD is very real here. And it is horrible. And it will never leave my son alone. Just like him, dancing around that lined piece of paper, it will never finish.

A Perfect Date

I took the smaller Hawklet on a mommy-son dinner date recently on a whim. One of us suddenly thought cheesecake needed to appear and jump into our bellies. I can't recall exactly which one of us had that hankering... hmm.

When we arrived at our booth, he insisted on sitting next to me on the same side. I nearly shed a tear at the gesture. He was the perfect date, excited about being there, about the menu choices, about being just the two of us, about the carb-loading he accomplished.

We held hands walking back to our car, loaded with take-home bags. I promised him we'd do it again.

What an easy promise to keep.

He could not be more excited to be on a date with Mommy. That, or, to choose his cheesecake flavor. Maybe both.

A Dinner in the Life

Mom, it's a Mexican restaurant. What's with the camera? Seriously. What's the big deal? I'm tired.

 

But not too tired to get crazy! Which obviously requires a tongue sticking out. Graham, look at me! My tongue is so funny!!!!

Where are my shoooooooeess? Did I wear shoes here? Why do shoes always jump off my feeeeeeet? I don't need shoes!

Graham, put your arm around me. Look how cute! Let's put our heads together. We are cuuuuuute! Ooh, chips! Chips! CHIPS!

Okay, NOW let's be even funnier and cuter by making CRAZY faces! We are so cra-zeeeeeee!

I know! Cheesy grins! Oh. So. Funneeee!!!  I can't stop laughing at how funny we are! And cute! Did you get that, Mom? Oh, what is this food on my plate? Am I supposed to eat it? Nah. Prob not. Let's get boxes! We need lots of boxes! Does anyone know where my shoes are? I'm going to go use the bathroom BY MYSELF! Wheeeee! GOING OUT TO DINNER IS SO FUN!

The patience of a funny bunny

Fast asleep, he clutches the same bunny I clutched 30-some years ago.This kid. He slays me with his heart, bigger than his little body. He balances out the crazy chaos of our Hawks nest.

I like to tell myself he loves this bunny so much because it was once mine. Even though he wanted to cut the bunny's whiskers off with scissors. I noticed recently the bunny now has whiskers on just one side.

To me, the bunny was Jelly Bean. To him, Funny Bunny (and sometimes Margo). How funny that this bunny, claimed and saved from the depths of Mimi's basement storage boxes could be so revived. His musty smell now gone. Instantly best friends with this big-hearted kid.

Funny Bunny waited patiently on the driveway last night while Reid rode his bike all around the cul-de-sac. Then he waited patiently outside Reid's door in the hallway while we read bedtime stories.

"Where did you find him?" he asked, relieved, after I brought him to my tucked-in little man.

"He was waiting for you, right outside your door," I smiled.

What a patient bunny. He certainly had been waiting. And now he is so loved, clutched tightly just under the peaceful breath of a little one, once again.

No more Winkles Dinkles

Reid decided this morning he is so over being called "Winkles Dinkles."

I have no idea why. Obviously Winkles Dinkles is a very fine nickname and it makes no sense as to why he wouldn't welcome being called Winkles Dinkles right on into his sunset years.

Luckily we still have his other various nicknames, including:

Reidy

Reidy-Bo

Reidy-Bo William

Doogie

Doogie Pants

McGavin

and

Doogie McGavin

But Winkles Dinkles? Don't even think about it.

As for his brother, for some reason he's always been Graham, or the abbreviated version of his one-syllable name: G.

So glad we've cleared that up. As you were.

Backseat Philosopher

“If the world is round, why does it feel flat?”

“If God made everything, who made God?”

“What is gravity? What makes gravity?”

“Why are rats disgusting? If there was a whole house of rats, but no people in the house, would they still be disgusting?”

“How do workers [at the water treatment plant] separate pee out of water?”

Why is it that deep thoughts seem to bubble out of a wee one’s mouth most often when he’s riding in the car?

Make It Stop

You turned six yesterday. Six years ago you made me a mother. Today I reflect on the fact, once again, that this crazy ride feels like it just started and like it’s been part of me forever all at once.

On the eve of your birthday, you asked me to lie down next to you, all tucked in under your fire truck quilt. I told you how excited I was for you to turn six, and how I remembered the day so clearly that I met you for the first time and held your little baby body in my arms. You love hearing that story.

Then you said you wanted to tell me something.

Oh, here comes a wonderful bonding moment, mother and son, I thought.

“Mom, I’m in love with Addie,” you declared, as our heads lay on your pillows in the dark, the hall light reaching in through your door.

Oh God. How is this already happening and who is the influencer in your daily environment poisoning you with these thoughts that you should already be thinking about girls as girlfriends?? my mind immediately blurted out inside my head. Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety… followed by… actually kinda cute… followed by… way too soon!... followed by… yet still cute.

“Weeeeellll,” I started, “You know you can have friends who are girls but you don’t have to be in love with them. Being in love is really for grown-ups and mommies and daddies.”

“Well, I’m in love with her,” you protested. “Anyway what about teenagers?”

I know you’ve heard the story of Mommy and Daddy dating in high school. In this moment, that high-school-sweethearts thing appeared to be working against me.

“Well teenagers go on dates, that’s true,” I offered, while also wondering how I suddenly found myself in a conversation with an almost-6-year-old about dating.

“Did you tell Addie this?” I inquired, trying not to pass judgment one way or the other against my sensitive, loving son, and also trying to steer the convo away from what teenagers do on dates.

“Yes,” you stated, before recounting the moment: “I said, ‘Addie?’ and she said, ‘Yeah.’ And then I said, ‘You know I’m in love with you.’ And she said, ‘Yeah, I know.’”

“And then what happened?” I was almost afraid to ask.

“And then I went back to my seat because we had just come in from getting a drink.”

“Oh okay,” I replied.

“Anyway I’m also in love with Abby,” you said. “But I haven’t told her yet.” AND YOU DON’T HAVE TO, CHILD!!

And then, most likely sensing my uneasiness with the whole thing, you offered up: “Don’t worry, Mom. I still love you best.”

Happy birthday, dear 6-going-on-16-year-old son of mine. I love you best, too.

Just another day in solving the world's problems

Reid: "Substisoot! I don't have a substisoot!"

Me: "Reid, it's not substisoot, it's substitute."

Reid: "Substitoot!? We don't say toot! It's not substitoot!"

Graham: "Substisoot. Did you say substitoot?"

Hubs: "Yes, substitute."

Graham: "Substisoot. It's substisoot. NOT TOOT!!!" hehehehehehe

Reid: hehehehehehe

Star of My Everyday

Someone special is the "Star of the Week" this week in pre-school.

He loves his chicken. Though, before you go marveling at his interest in nutritious protein power, I feel the need to confess he originally said "chicken strips and French fries" but there just wasn't enough room on that line. I steered him towards the "chicken" part of his verbal answer and away from the "French fries" part, knowing this would be posted somewhere. Mom truth.

Betcha didn't know Calendar was such a riveting subject these days. Or perhaps this is just a glimpse of his meterology days to come? Lately he's been talking offhandedly about the weather and what kind of day it is outside today. Little Brother in his obvious genius has already pinpointed the phenomenon of global warming, pondering the calendar and aligning weather patterns in his 4-year-old daydreams, obvs.

His book choice of Sheep in a Jeep was a top-of-mind-at-the-time one. He seems frustrated now when people read his paper and ask him about his favorite book, Sheep in a Jeep. Child, you wrote it down! He has lots of favorites. It's a good problem. Don't box him in.

And how about when he grows up? "Dad." Yeah, hubby should shed a tear at that one. I would have. I mean, if my fictional daughter said she wanted to be mom when she grew up I'd cry a tear of joy at the thought that I might actually be doing something right. Hmm, a daughter. Sigh.

Reid William, you are the star of my week, and of my life. Love you, Doogie.

Evidence

"Mommy, don't...come...in...the...kitchen," he instructed me slowly in his best whisper voice, his body standing by my bed, his face so close to mine, it may have been resting on my pillow. "Okay?"

They were busy making my birthday cake while I enjoyed the gift of a nap.

"Okay. How'd you get that chocolate on your face?"

Pause.

"I don't know."

Where Walter Went

Where did Walter move? Can we go there now? Well I don’t care if you come, I’m going there today. I’m going to Las Vegas and I’ll ask the owner if he knows where Walter lives. And then I’ll live with Walter.

Oh, child. I know how you feel.

I remember the first time one of my best friends moved away. Her name was Summer. It was second grade and she was here and then she was gone. I continued on about my second-grade ways and had other friends. And it was fine. And then one night in the shower it hit me that she was really not coming back and I remember standing there crying, a wave of emotion suddenly washing over me with the warm water, and then wrapped up in my towel, going to find my mom, hot tears in my eyes, so she could tell me it would be okay.

It was still final. And I still remember these things.

I don’t know how affected you really are, inside, about the fact that your first best buddy has moved away and you probably won’t ever see him again. I know that you don’t really comprehend the gravity of “ever” or of “final.” But I also know what a great first example of real friendship he was. He was the “fuzzy haired” boy from pre-K, with whom you bonded right from the start amid bullies, pretentiousness and the teacher who lacked any control. You played trucks and LEGOs and wrestled and went to zoo camp and had fun. No biggie.

But as your mama I do comprehend the bigger picture and I am affected, thinking about how this is one of so many relationships that will come in and out of your life as you go on about it. Down your life’s path as it gets intersected here and there by the paths of others. And I am thankful for Walter, for you.

These are the things that matter. You have friends and they are important to you. You are important to them. These are some of the truths of a rich life. I see you learning this in your small ways.

I left Walter’s mom a Facebook message letting her know you had been missing your friend that day. She messaged back saying Walter had just asked if he could talk to you on the computer. That you must have been reading each other’s minds. And I wondered for how long we’ll have these little reminders. These reminiscent memories of first friends. For how long will you miss him? For how long will something spark that makes you pop your little head up and ask, “Where did Walter go?”

Walter went. But he stays. He left behind how good it feels to have a good friend. He left behind the capacity to share. He left behind the means to give and receive friendship. What a gift, that fuzzy-haired Walter was.

Meeting Margo

"Is Aunt Sara sick?" he whispered to Mimi, stoic and nervous.

"No, she just had the baby and she's tired," Mimi reassured him, surrounded by the hospital room's sterile sheets, linoleum floors and hand sanitizer.

He stayed quiet and out of the way. Not making any sudden moves. Not upsetting the delicate balance of the room. The universe was telling him Something Very Important had happened. His senses were heightened. His demeanor revealed it.

Later, he warmed up, softened a bit, ready to embrace his new cousin. He got to meet her first, and thus had become a Margo Expert. He schooled Graham on the fact that no, she did not say "mama" nor "dada." "Well, what does she say?" Graham quizzed. "Waaah," Reid stated, matter-of-factly.

"Can I give her a kiss?" he inquired quietly up at me, nestled in next to me on the hard plastic hospital room couch.

"Sure," I smiled, "how about right here on her head?"

He leaned in and welcomed his little Margo to the world in his delicate, direction-following way. He's gonna take care of her. Because being a good cousin is serious business, you know.

We drank the kool-aid (a.k.a. the week I became a Disney ambassador)

We recently spent the happiest week of our lives at the happiest place on Earth.

What a big statement. It surprises even me. But it's true.

Mickey knows how to pull the same strings Santa does, apparently. He left these bags in the boys' rooms. When they woke up it was time to go.

Disney kept commanding that we let the memories begin and so we obliged. Then they rushed in. And they started flooding.

Brothers loved on each other. Why not? There was just this abundance of love to go around. Seriously, Disney!

How do you do this, Disney? This voo doo that you do, so well?

My spirited boy was spirited in all the right ways.

My reserved baby made new friends.

No detail was overlooked.

We will be back. Again and again.

And again.

Hindsight

In hindsight, I should not have left the kitchen TV on the “E!” channel and walked out of the room.

In hindsight, that is really a waste of electricity.

And in my even sharper hindsight, coming back to the room quite a bit later only to find my kindergartener on top of the countertop, eyes glued to the pivotal climax in the movie Titanic in which Jack’s frozen stiff hand is pried from Rose’s, whereupon she watches his cold, dead body -- eyes garishly open of course -- drift downward to the black depths of the Atlantic? Um, yeah not cool.

And even less cool was the slow-motion pivot in which my boy turned to face me with his huge eyes, clearly questioning all of humanity. This was of course followed by the face scrunch, and then the alligator tears and deep-seeded wail. Like a one-two-three punch you could see coming right toward your gut.

“Why are you so sad?” I tried to play it cool. Like maybe he would forget about the melodramatic death he had just witnessed.

“Her friend Jack just died!” his finger jabbed at Kate Winslet on the small screen. He was beside himself. “And he sank into the ocean!” my 5-year-old wailed.

“Well, we need to get ready for your class picnic!” I exclaimed, as if tap dancing in front of a crime scene. Nothing to see here, folks, did you notice there is an ice cream truck over there! Hey kids, ice cream! Carnival! Santa! Fun!

“I think a shark bit his leg off!”

Well now you’re just making things up. Isn’t James Cameron dramatic enough all by himself?

In hindsight, when the tap dancing did nothing to help and I feebly attempted to provide my boy some text book logic (long time ago, wouldn’t happen today, yadda yadda), mixed with a definition of “movie magic” (actors aren’t real, Leo’s not dead, clothes are costumes, yadda yadda) I basically dug my own grave. My answers led to new questions as his little mind started weaving an intricate web, attempting to make sense of it all and bandage his broken heart, such as:

Why did the captain not know there was an iceberg under the water?

How does the captain see under water?

Did someone not tell him?

What is technology?

Do the boats we have today have technology?

So boats have computers?

Where are the computers?

Our car has a computer?

I probably should have stopped at “movies are not real,” even though the way the questions progressed made me think I was totally working at that distraction thing. But then he totally called me out on saying that this happened “a long time ago” and thus DID IT REALLY HAPPEN OR NOT???

Note to self! Turn the TV off! Particularly before loading up the car to drive to the kindergarten class mixer/picnic at the park where your still-weepy kindergartener will tell the other kids about Jack who died in the ocean!

In my future hindsight? I’m sure this will be pretty funny.

What I want for you

You came home last night with exciting news. You had already told Mimi and couldn’t wait to tell me, with a sheepish grin.

“I wrote my name on all my papers today,” you proclaimed. Followed by, “You can go ahead and cry now, Mom.”

You were so ready to see tears of elation.

You know. Oh, you know how it kills me that you aren’t more like I was in school – teacher pleaser, honor roller, over achiever. You know how much advice I’ve sought simply because you are so desperate to divergently walk your own path – the road less (or never?) traveled – so much so that you do these things that land you in the “safe seat” constantly, that get your name on the board, that have put me in constant contact with your teacher.

“Graham is smart,” she reassures me. But you won’t show your cards. You can do what you’re asked, but you refuse. You can finish the worksheet, but halfway through when you’ve shown you know how to write that letter G, you don’t see the need to keep going. You can write your name on your paper, “but everyone knows the one without the name is mine.” This is Kindergarten.

And oh we have so many years to go.

You exhaust me. Your brother who actually has diagnosed needs? Piece of cake compared to you. But here we are in the trenches together. I subconsciously dress myself in armor in your presence. I try to mentally anticipate your needs, your actions, before they happen. I work to diffuse your “spirited” ways. And it’s work.

I remember hosting our first Parents As Teachers meeting in our old house when we still counted your age in months and we still wore our naiveté on our sleeves. Our instructor asked us to tell her what characteristics we hoped you would have. I remembered how surprised she was that we knew so clearly what we wanted for you.

Perfectionism wasn't one of those things.

Unfortunately what I’ve found is that you are in fact more like me than what I want for you. “It has to be perfect!” you shrieked recently when your pencil line contained a wobble. “It’s not perfect and it has to be perfect!” The wobble became a roadblock and you refused to go any further. I saw my reflection in your eyes and my heart broke.

Who doesn’t want their child to do well? But you don’t believe me when I tell you that you can indeed make mistakes. You can wobble. That you only have to do your best, whatever that may be, try again, learn from it, move on. Move on.

Things are harder than they have to be. I know because I make them harder, too. I want to be perfect, too. I know how exhausting it is inside your mind, too. Trust me, son.

But while I yearn to see you as the teacher pleaser, honor roller, over achiever, what I more so want for you is to not be like me. To get off of this steamrolling perfectionist train before it’s too late and you live your life on it, mile after exhausting mile. What I want for you is to be imperfect and happy in your skin, in your surroundings, in your intellect. To have character, not perfection. To shrug glitches off, not let them incapacitate you. To write the word, not dwell on the wobbly line.

A couple nights ago, between stories and tucking in, you looked in my eyes and said, “Mom, I can’t tell you how much I love you. And the more days we get, the more I love you.” And oh my heart. My armor fell off.

Child, you slay me – with both frustration and elation. How do you do that? You do it so well… so perfectly imperfectly. This is what I want for you. If only that was all you wanted for yourself.