Our own personal Kindergarten Readiness Program

Jack’s starting to freak out a little bit about Kindergarten. Me, too. We’re a fine pair.

Of course, I have to keep my freak outs for when he goes to bed. Then I start my frenzied, whispered demands in Robby’s ears, “Tell me again that this we chose the right school? he’s ready? we’re ready?”

As for Jack it’s coming out like a Greek play– a little tragedy, a little comedy, a little “huh!?” The other day, coming out of the bathroom he panicked, “What if I can’t get my pants up at school if I have to go to the bathroom??” Or, “What if I can’t get this open at lunch?” regarding his favorite fruit chewy snacks.

We’ve spent a lot of time trying to reassure him that there are lots of grown-ups at Kindergarten that can help. That will help. We’ve watched the little video tour of his school a half a dozen times. (“Mom. I do NOT want to go to the nurse. I won’t need her.”) We’ve talked about the books in the library, the fun games in at gym, the stories and computers and “math sentences.” We’ve promised him a world of new friends and a spiffy playground and so many new adventures and things to learn.

This week we’ll meet his teachers and visit his classroom and be able to better imagine where he’ll put his things and spend his week days. There is an open house so it’ll be good to see the other families and get the lay of the land. Better to answer his questions with specifics.

It’s been a long and winding road to kindergarten. Back in the winter we visited several schools in our area. We ruled out the nearest school to us– there was something about it that left us unsettled. Our first choice put us through hoops and obstacles only to tell us, later, that our spot on the waitlist didn’t mean much because the families that lived in that neighborhood would take up all the spots. We went off in search of our second choice, a third choice, considered moving to Canada (because that’s where you move to if you feel railroaded), and went back over all the options including home, parochial, public, and charter schools again. We settled on a place. Started to acclimatize to it.

We got a call from our first choice last week. Jack has a spot. And next week he’ll begin. It’s hard to see him off. I want to squish him back into a smaller shape and keep him home longer. But I won’t.

I still might take off to Canada with him though.

Retail Therapy

So we stopped at H&M on the way to pick up my mother at the airport. My nieces and sister talked me into going along (and I was smart enough to remember to yell, “Shotgun!” so I got to ride in front…)

In 15 minutes I bought a dress and a long tunic.

Didn’t even look at the price tags. Just tried them on and marched up to the counter. $68.79 and darn if I didn’t feel a little better.

Of course, after I eat this entire box of meringues from the boulangerie in Lauris, France, I may not fit into either thing.

Huh.

For the most part– even the people you think are jerks– can be really kind once in a while.

There. That’s your thought for the day.

Simple gifts

Little joys pop up.

In the comfort of a plate of starchy, salty Hamburger Helper. In the promise of boulangerie meringues from France this week. In the warm tomatoes from the pots on our deck.

In Jack’s sticky little hands wrapped around my neck and his whispered, “Mommy! I like you!”

In the sudden appearance of Keegan who brought a Sam’s Club pretzel and a nap.

Strawberry jello.

The second half of the BBC Sense & Sensibility.

Texts from Susan.

Sleep. Tylenol with codeine.

Jack’s bunny cup. It has a bunny popo on it. It makes us laugh.

Laughing.

We’ll take it.

Bad news.

Here’s a full sentence: We were pregnant but now we’re not.

There were better ways to end that sentence. Unfortunately, for us, it was in a miscarriage. Another miscarriage. My mother-in-law was very eloquent in her reaction of ”Well that sucks.” (Which, if you know Lady, is saying an awful lot. Robby thinks it’s the first time she’s ever uttered that. I know better but I know what he means.)

We hadn’t announced that we were expecting because we both felt very strongly (feel very strongly) that it wouldn’t do for Jack to hear about an impending sibling from anyone but us. Our plan had been to get to the first trimester mark (and some false sense of safety because we know there aren’t any guarantees) and then let Jack in on the fun– then let him announce it in his own way to our family and friends.

It was a good plan. For 10 weeks we’ve kept to it… And then plans changed. And now we’re trying to keep Jack from our grief. It’s not fair to burden Jack with our sadness when he didn’t get to enjoy the happiness.

So, if you’re reading this, and you know our Jack, we’re asking you to respect that, too. Watch what you say in front of him.

Which brings about the logics of why I’m typing this at all then– why not keep it to ourselves? Because we both believe pretty fervently that things happen for a reason. Even when we aren’t sure of what that reason is. Especially when we aren’t sure. And maybe the reason is for someone else’s comfort? or someone else’s education? or for some big lesson we haven’t learned yet.

I do know this– miscarriages are crappy secrets.

Once you’ve had a miscarriage you realize that nearly everyone around you has had one, too. It’s a twisted logic. Just when you’re feeling completely alone and abandoned by your own body and thinking that hope is the cruelest minx– you are surrounded by people saying, “I know. It’s happened to me.” The miscarriers close ranks around you in a strangely humbling and kindly way. And you don’t get let in this Thing In Common until then. There are mothers, aunts, cousins, sisters, girlfriends, coworkers that keep silent until it’s happened to you, too.

What’s with all the mystery? We didn’t drink or smoke or experiment with heroin– we were good and took our vitamins and walks and carefully chose our produce and monitored our every move and bite and thought. So why all the secrecy and pseudo shame?

We loved, we hoped, we lost. So why don’t we acknowledge?

At the hospital the other night two interesting things happened. The first was that nearly every single person we encountered– from the triage nurse to the CNAs and the anestheologists had a cross somewhere on them in the form of a necklace or tattoo. In hindsight I realized in some weird way I’d been passed from one set of Christian hands to another. I’m sure the ACLU would freak out about that– but oh. my. Even in hindsight I’m grateful.

The second was that nearly every woman I encountered along the way from ER to transport to observation and surgery had also had a miscarriage. When they’d ask what I was in for they’d make that gutteral sound of shared grief and pause to pat my arm or tuck a blanket in more closely.

I guess if you’d don’t believe in God than this is all just coincidence– but for us it was a gentle reminder of the bigger picture.

Here’s more: We’d told exactly three people. Our friend Katie who cares deeply about our physical health (and our spiritual and emotional health, too). She keeps me plied in vitamins and information. And our friends Susan and Chris.

When I got the call that I should go to the ER– can you guess who was there for dinner? Not in their five-hours-away house– but our living room? Susan went with me to the ER and managed to smooth my ponytail even while she juggled a very wiggly 6 month Adrian. Robby had Chris to ply him with distractions and (not entirely) surprisingly gentle man sympathy. (And a little Scotch.)  Jack had his AunT to watch over him in the night and the amazing Maddie to feed him, dress him, and play with him all day. (And today– when I wanted to sleep– there was “Keegy!” who came and chased Jack around the backyard so I could crawl off to bed.)

Years from now we’ll fill Jack in on these days– how everyone took it in turns to keep him from feeling our sadness. And tell him how he’s checked our grief somewhat with his very existence. In the meantime we’ll hope that for better endings to full sentences.

I’m moving to England. And back two hundred years.

I’m watching Sense & Sensibility (BBC) again. It’s probably about the 14th time I’ve seen it. It’s exquisite.

Elinor has great clothes in it– nice and plain and dark colored gowns. Sensible. The little cottage in Devonshire is perfect– as was the grand Norwood in Sussex. Edward is swoon inducing. And this little Margaret is enchanting. Not annoying or cloying like some other versions. I like the world they live in. I like measured Elinor. And her gorgeous coats. I like their tea cups and gentle manners and the green, green countryside.

It’s been a rainy, gray, and gloomy day. This is the perfect background accompaniment to the rain and to the work I’m rushing to get done.

Jack Logic

I mentioned that Jack played with his friend Kathrine’s Star Wars action figures this weekend.

Kathrine is completly fluent in Lucas-ese. She’s got down even the obscure background droids and creatures. (She was not impressed with my pigeon-Lucas. I can name Luke, Han Solo, Leia, C3po… I peter out with Lando.) Jack liked the little shiny droid-man. He was silver. I don’t recall his name now. (Jack doesn’t either.) And, somewhere in Ohio, little Kathrine just yawped in frustration.

There was a little roboty thing that looked like R2D2 (spelling on that? I’m not looking it up. You can.) but wasn’t. Kathrine explained that it was R4-something. She rattled off the specs, etc.

Jack: He’s R5. Not R4.
Kathrine: Actually, no. He’s R4…
Jack: Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday to you! Now he’s R5.

Yeah. We’ll hold off for a while on the movies… Robby’s pristine collection circa 1977 is safe for a while yet.

Don’t mind the little kid in the corner. He’s with me.

Today was “Take My Son to Work Day” because all my babysitters are either out of the zipcode or dancing their little toes off at their Dance Intensive.

I went armed with my iPod loaded with two Between the Lions episodes, a Sesame Street, and our favorite Christmas movie The First Christmas (which Jack calls “The Camel Story”). I also brought his magnetic USA puzzle and his favorite water bottle.

He lasted about 40 minutes. Sat perfect and quiet in the big chair behind the conference table while I rehashed the bits of my job that I seem to have to rehash every six minutes. And then Jack was done. He informed me that he was “getting very hungry Mommy.” And bored.

Huh. Me, too.

I wrapped things up as quickly as I could. I’m not dealing with an exactly child-friendly office these days. It used to be different. Now folks are too far removed from their own Young Family Days to remember.

I think Jack picks up on my frustration at the office. I used to really love it. Now I struggle to still make some kind of betterment– all the while wishing I could love it like I used to.

I will say this– walking out of the office is a lot more fun when you have the warm little hand of a four year old to hold.

New rule… Don’t just bring snacks– bring water, too.

This weekend Robby, Jack, and I met up with some friends to celebrate the 40th birthday of our pal Chris. The original plan– put in place months ago– was for a huge contingent of us to go camping in the woods together. We had grand visions of all the best camping aspects– s’mores, stars, campfires, and comraderie.

But then we had a mix up in who exactly was supposed to make the reservations for all of us at the campsite. And we were shut out of all the good sites. By this time the originally intended contingent had been reduced to just three families so we went to Plan B. In hindsight Plan B was better. It blew Plan A out of the water. Plan B was a beautiful stone cottage in the middle of the Hocking Hills (Ohio) area… Plan B had a fully stocked kitchen, DVD player, gas grill, and oh! did I mention the huge hot tub?

All three families have one child so all of could relax in the knowing that children make noise and play and squeal and grow weary. Jack took great delight in the slightly older Kathrine– she shared her Star Wars toys (half of which were her father’s) and patiently schooled him in the world of all things Lucas.

And the rest of us delighted in the great stores of food and drink and merriment.

On Saturday we went off to see the Hocking Hill caves. There’s a huge one called Ash Cave with layers and layers of ash from some long ago fires– was it for some sacred ceremonies? Sacrifices? Cremations? Barbeques?

I’m a Michigan girl through and through. We don’t have an abundance of caves. I am always fascinated when the scenery turns rocky and cliffy. Caves send me over the moon.

At Cedar Falls (which we missed somehow. Ohio doesn’t exactly excel in great signage…) we had to go down a great distance of stone steps at a good incline to reach the bottom (where, again, we somehow missed the falls). Chris had the baby backpack on with little Adrian in it and did not relish the idea of climbing up the stairs to the parking lot. He wondered aloud if the walk between Cedar Falls and Old Man’s Cave might be “easier” since it was only “2.0 miles”?

The group split– Robby and Susan agreed to move the cars from the Cedar Falls parking lot over to Old Man’s Cave while Rick, Anne, little Kathrine, Chris and the baby, and myself decided to take the nice little walk. (Jack, thankfully, went off with Robby.)

We set off over a little scenic bridge and around a bend and remarked how lovely the area was. About a 100 yards in we encountered the ledges we had to snake along and then a series of boulders that had us climbing up and over, up and over, up and over in succession. The path would level out again and give us false hope that we’d passed the worst of the uneven ground then, looming, would be another collection of roots and boulders and logs.

I was grateful that Jack had gone with his Dad. As I scrambled down the steep sides of boulders I would think, “How would I have managed to get Jack across this safely, too?” Little Kathrine did beautifully– she’d take the hands of whoever went in front of her and slip easily down where she’d land on her little plaid slip-on sneakers neatly. (For my part I had on my sturdy boots and wool socks. I was grateful with nearly every step for that choice.)

Baby Adrian was a wonder in his patience. He mostly looked around with a perplexed look while he sucked in his bottom lip. He fell asleep for a stretch and woke up only when his Daddy had to climb under a huge log putting the backpack parallel with the ground. Adrian woke with a start and made one little cry before sucking his lip in and deciding that maybe he’d be better off staying awake.

On and on we walked. When we got to the sign that told us there was still “1.5 miles” to Old Man’s Cave we cried out in disgust. We weren’t prepared for bad signage and worse measurements. (It might have been two miles– but it was as the crow flies and not in actual pathage!) We hadn’t brought along water.

We walked on along a creek and under the shade of huge rock ledges. And, despite our thirst, found the area excrutiatingly beautiful. The hikers from the other direction (and the two that passed us and disappeared completely) were all well equipped with their canteens and water bottles, walking sticks and maps. We resented them.

Chris and I started lying to the people going in the opposite direction, “Going to Ash Cave? It’s just around that next bend– passed that tree there…” (Of course, they countered with, “Wow! Do you still have a long way to go if you’re going to Old Man’s Cave! It’s quite a ways off!” Curses.) Anne and I thought murderous thoughts about the smaller people with water. The ones we could overtake if we really wanted to.

By the time we’d passed the halfway point (an area called Whispering Falls where we had to walk on boards strung across the marshy ground) we’d ceased remarking on the beauty of the area. Our thoughts had turned to wondering how worried poor Susan would be at the other end without her baby… and the evening’s promise of a shrimp boil. We’d have long stretches where we didn’t talk at all then stretches where we would… or spurts of tired laughter.

Little Kathrine rarely complained– something we all later realized and remarked on. I had granola bars and Tootsie Pop Drops in my pockets (of course) so the latter kept her somewhat distracted for a while from asking, “Are we almost to the cave Mama?”

And then, finally, after the little bursts of oncoming people (which we no longer let by but instead just plowed ahead…) Chris, in the lead, and I, behind, encountered a family with three very, very small children. It was a good sign. These weren’t hikers– this was a little family. We had to be close. Chris had heard the main road just a bit earlier and soon there was the sound of the echoes off the cave area walls.

And the longest set of stone stairs any of us have ever seen. Longer than the ones we’d tried to avoid in the first place at the falls…

But all’s well that ends well. And any night that ends in a shrimp boil ends very, very well. Throw in a hot tub with the jets on the back of one’s weary legs– and, well, it ends particularly well.