Mother Goose and Me

           Every afternoon on my way to pick up my son at the bus stop, I pass a small pond. It's home to a variety of creatures—turtles, waterfowl, frogs, dragonflies. A few weeks ago, their numbers increased when four fuzzy new goslings hatched. They wobbled after their parents much like human toddlers, still getting used to being on their feet. If I got too close to them, they'd duck under their mama's wing while papa goose hissed at me to stay away.

           Yesterday when I walked past, I noticed they've doubled in size. They walk and swim on sturdy, steady feet—they practically strut. And their dad isn't quite so aggressive when I slow down to watch them. They aren't babies anymore. The beginnings of real feathers are beginning to show like the peach fuzz on a young man's face. They're tweens or teens by goose standards now. In a few short weeks, they've gone from helpless balls of fluff to geese on the road to adulthood. I couldn't help but feel a little sad on Mother Goose's behalf.

           My oldest son is finishing up elementary school this month. Next month he'll be eleven. He isn't a baby anymore. He doesn't seek shelter under my wing very often these days. I'm proud of the way he seeks out independence. It's a relief to not have to see to his every need—feeding, clothing, bathing. But I can't deny that eleven years have gone by much too quickly. Poor Mother Goose, I hope she has a girls' night out planned soon.

Write at the Merge: Snowfall & Secrets

            I’ve spent more time than usual with my boys over the last couple of weeks. We missed three days of school after the blizzard called Nemo and the following week was February school vacation. Most of our time together was great. There were days that I genuinely missed being a stay-at-home mom. We cooked together, did crafts, played games, and snuggled up to watch movies. My babies are growing into smart, interesting, funny kids. I don’t just love them—I really like them.

            But over the course of our time together, I became aware of a very disturbing secret.  My children are growing up and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. I don’t want them to be babies forever... but maybe just a little longer.

            A couple of weeks ago, I was standing outside with Owen. The sunlight, reflecting off the snow was bright enough to make me squint. In that brilliant lighting, my aging eyes finally saw something Owen had been telling me about for weeks—peach fuzz. Right there, under his nose. Incontrovertible proof that my little boy is growing up. 

            Last week, we were running errands. I finally agreed to change the car radio from NPR to their favorite cheesy pop station.  The song “Hey Ya” by Outkast came on. When the song came to the part, “Shake it, shake it, shake it like a Polaroid picture,” Owen said, “This song sounds inappropriate.”

            “Huh?” I said. “What do you mean? I think he’s just talking about dancing.”

            “It sounds sexual,” said Owen as I nearly lost control of the vehicle and narrowly avoided careening into a snow bank.

            Sexual.

            My ten-year-old said it sounded sexual.

            It probably is.

What else does he know?

            Don’t answer that. I’m not ready.

 

            I’m linking up with the wonderful group over at Write on Edge for this week’s Write at the Merge prompt. We were asked to write a piece inspired by the phrases, “a snow fall” and “a secret revealed”. It could be fiction or memoir.

Seven O'clock

 

            The clock on my computer reads 6:38 AM. The sky outside my window is beginning to glow as the sun rises. My workroom door is closed, but I can hear the sounds of waking from the boys’ room. Their door open and the elephant like thudding takes them to the bathroom and back. I can hear their discussion as they get dressed.

“Is it time yet?”

“You go in.”

            “No. You.”

            It’s nearly seven. My morning writing time is over. I ask myself for one more paragraph. One more sentence. One more word. It’s like the negotiation I had with my alarm clock an hour ago. Ten more minutes? Five? But then I was only stealing the time from myself. This time belongs to all of us.

            Finally, Owen has talked James into opening my door.

            “Mama!” he says in his babyish way when he wants something. He throws his skinny arms around me. “It’s snuggle time!”

            Back in September, the idea of snuggle time before school would have been absurd. Mornings were a constant state of chaos. The boys are in two different elementary schools this year. Their buses arrive at the same time in two different places. The two schools would be in different towns if they were any farther apart. After months of trying different combinations of buses and dropping off and picking up, we found a routine that works—most of the time.

            One morning this winter, Owen came into my workroom at 7:00. His eyes were sleepy and a little red. He loves his new school, but the work is harder and there is a lot more of it. Fourth grade is a big jump from third. There isn’t always time to just play and that really eats away at him. A nine-year-old boy needs to play as much as his forty-year-old mom needs time alone behind a closed door.

            “Mom, do you have time to snuggle with me before breakfast?”

            In all honesty, I didn’t see how we had time for one more thing in our morning routine. But he definitely needed some snuggle time, so I shut down my computer and we cuddled under an old wool afghan on the sofa to watch the first few minutes of Arthur on PBS.  We haven’t missed a day since. My mother used to say, “You have time for what you make time for.” and I’ve always found this to be true. My boys are growing up and before long I know the last thing in the world they’ll want to do is snuggle up with me and watch PBS. But for now they do. And so do I.

Not Yet

            Something disturbing has been happening in my home lately. I am powerless to stop it. My children are getting older. I know you’re going to tell me that it’s inevitable. But why? I’m not getting any older, why do they have to? I know, I know, denial isn’t a river in Egypt.

            My older son has a cell phone. He wants to walk home from the bus stop by himself. He watches “ICarly” because he has a crush on the blond girl. He calls me Mom and not Mommy. He doesn’t believe in Santa Claus, but works very hard to keep that from his little brother. When I want to kiss him on the top of his head, I have to stand on my toes. How did this happen? It was only ten minutes ago that I snapped this picture to use as a Christmas card:

2005. Really? It seems like ten minutes ago.

            A few weeks back, Owen and I were talking after school. He was throwing his jacket and backpack on the floor neatly hanging up his jacket and backpack and he said to me, “You know what’s a funny word Mom? Puberty.”

            “Did you talk about puberty in health class,” I asked him as I resisted the urge to put my hands over my ears and yell, “La la la I can’t hear you!”

            “No. I just think it’s fun to say… puberty, puberty, puberty, puberty,” he sang to a catchy little tune.

            “Do you know what that word means?” I asked.

            “No.”

            “It’s when your body starts to change from being a kid into an adult.”

            “Oh,” he said, clearly understanding the gravity of such a transition. “I guess I shouldn’t sing that song in school any more.”

           

I remember having a conversation with my mother when I was a little girl. I told her that I liked kittens, but I didn’t like full grown cats. She said something along the lines of, “You wouldn’t want to stay a baby forever, would you?” She was right of course. And of course I don’t want my kids to stay kids forever. I want them to have jobs they love and go to work on time. I want them to vote and do the right thing when nobody is looking. I want them to grow up and have families of their own.

            But not yet.

My "babies" 2011

RemembeRed: Taking Center Stage

This week's memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club was to write about a graduation. It could be any graduation.

Taking Center Stage

We were twenty minutes early and the church basement was already standing room only. Mothers made sure the graduates had clean faces. Grandmothers were trying to keep younger siblings in their seats. Fathers checked to make sure the batteries in their cameras and camcorders were fully charged.

            “When it going to start?” Owen whined.

            “In about 20 minutes.” I told him.

            “Why did we have to get here so early?”

            “So we could get a place to sit. If we had come any later, there wouldn’t be any seats left. Be patient. James sat through your preschool graduation, not to mention more soccer games than I can count.”

            “I know,” he sulked.

Two years ago it was James who squirmed impatiently in the metal folding chair waiting for Owen to graduate from Children’s Ark Preschool. The school had been a part of our lives for three years. The first time I dropped Owen off, it took me twenty minutes to wrestle James back into his car seat. He was two years old then and it was the first time Owen was going somewhere without him. He didn’t want to leave the school’s brightly colored décor, sand table, play kitchen and indoor play structure. James wanted to stay and play with his big brother and all the other children.

            Our family fell in love with the small program that I stumbled upon while searching the internet for preschools. I had driven by the Lutheran church a thousand times and never noticed the small yellow and red sign that read Children’s Ark Preschool. I never knew that little gem was there. The boys and I visited the school and I had a very strong good feeling that this was the right school for us. It was nurturing without being stifling and stimulating without being overly structured. The children said grace at snack time, participated in a Christmas pageant, and had discussions about the gentle and loving nature of God.

Before graduation.

            The graduation ceremony was in two parts. In the first part the children performed songs about the seasons. Afterward, the children would put on their graduation caps and capes to receive their diplomas. While James’ group sang a song about summer, he kept his fingers in his mouth. To anyone who doesn’t know James, it looked like the nervous habit of a shy kid. But James has never been shy. He has always been happiest in the middle of a crowd of children. 

            “Why is he doing that?” I wondered until I remembered him showing me his wiggly tooth earlier in the day. I didn’t think much about it at the time. He was only four years old. I figured that wiggly tooth would wiggle in his head for a weeks.

            But moments later, he pulled the tooth out and stared at it. At first I was the only one who noticed the little boy center stage who had stopped singing. Everyone else of course, was watching their own children or grand children.

When the song ended he whispered to the director of the school, “Mrs. Rogers, I lost my tooth!” he held the baby tooth out to her.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the director announced. “We’ve lost a tooth!”

James showed off his new Jack-o-lantern grin and giggled madly. His transition from little kid to big kid began center stage to a standing ovation. 

After graduation.

My Favorite Holiday

            This may be my favorite holiday of the year. No, not Black Friday. I wouldn’t venture to a mall on this sacred day if they were giving out dates with Russell Crowe and Viggo Mortensen (well maybe for Viggo). Today is “National Buy Nothing, Drink Tea and Wear Sweatpants Day” in our house. I’m absolutely thrilled that it’s a rainy day here. If I were inclined to go outside, I’d probably find the weather miserable. But since going outside would involve putting on shoes, I’ll skip it. 

            Yesterday was a marvelous and manic Thanksgiving Day. I got up at 4:30 to head to New Hampshire where much of my family lives. I intended to be up by 5:00 but that OCD of mine kicked in early. By 6:00 we were packed, gassed up, and had made the requisite stop at Dunkin’ Donuts and were on the road.

            I ran the 37^th Annual Greater Derry Track Club Turkey Trot with a few members of my family. It was, as we say here in New England, wicked fun. They are all much faster than I am. My brother Jim, nephew Jack, niece Annie, and husband Dan all crossed the finish line10 minutes or more before I did. But I finished—with no passing out, vomiting or injuring myself. So I call it a success. 

            After showering and doing a little baking in my mother’s kitchen we headed over to my sister Katie’s house. After devouring enough Brie en croute for a small city in France (not to mention proscuito, red wine, salami, and gorgonzola-walnut spread) and waiting for the football game to be over (GO PATS!) dinner was served. Katie and her family had ingeniously put together tables in the living room in such a way that all twenty of us could sit down at one large t-shaped table. Having a kids’ table would be torturous to some members of our youngest generation who are rapidly turning into adults. I would love to show you a picture of the set up, but I was having so much fun I didn’t take my camera out all day.

            Somehow we all managed to leave room for dinner—potatoes, squash, turnip, stuffing, cornbread, sweet potato bacon biscuits, peas (I think there may have even been turkey and gravy). As a family, we aren’t big grace-sayers, but my lovely sister-in-law Kim raised her glass at the beginning of the meal to give thanks for our wonderful family. I looked around and thought about how true that was. Not only do I love everyone who sat at that table, but I genuinely like everyone who had gathered. What a blessing! As much as I enjoyed the meal, it was the warmth and companionship I enjoyed most of all. Long after the plates had been cleared we continued to sit and talk. If it weren’t for our long drive home, I could have stayed for hours more. My boys were teary-eyed when we told them it was time to say goodbye to their cousins.

            So today is marvelous and mellow day. Leftover cornbread for breakfast followed by a day of reading, playing games with the kids, a little writing, and maybe an afternoon cuddled up watching a movie together. After that I’ll be spending a little time in the kitchen whipping up a batch of tortilla soup (perfect dish for a rainy day) and another apple pie (I was just too full to fully appreciate my favorite dessert yesterday). I wish you all a happy and unproductive “National Buy Nothing, Drink Tea and Wear Sweatpants Day”.

It isn't Thanksgiving without a chorus or two of "Alice's Restaurant"