Feeling Fallish

I am -- feeling fallish, that is. After a lovely September heat wave, the soupy weather finally broke yesterday with a rather cool storm -- loads of rain, Noah's Ark style. The air conditioner is finally off, the windows are open, and a fabulous breeze is pouring in, along with the sunshine (magnifying my dirt-streaked windows). And here I sit on this beautiful Sunday morning ...

At home with my sick girl.

Aidan is fine, thank goodness -- a quickie virus that came and went, with only one missed day of school. The chocolate chip cookies I baked Thursday night for his class party (celebrating his birthday last Monday) are still tightly sealed up in the container in his backpack, ready to go for tomorrow. Don and Aidan left a while ago for church, and Grace is doing all she can right now -- lying on the couch, watching Veggie Tales. Poor thing woke up at 6:00 a.m. crying, fever and aches clutching her sweaty little body. And when Grace is up, everybody is up. Hopefully the route of this virus will mimic her brother's -- in and out like a flash.

So I'm feeling fallish now. I guess it's because school has started, roads are clogged with stop-and-start buses, traffic is a nuisance, kids are swarming everywhere. The sun is beginning to look different, its slant, its tone. And, of course, nothing signals the change of a season quite like sick kids! I got a folder full of papers to sign for school -- do I want to be a part of the PTO? Do I want to be a Class Mom? Do I want to be a playground monitor? Do I want to order hot lunch? Do I want to order $50 worth of milk for the year? No to all of the above -- not this time around (well, hot lunch every once in a while is OK). Ah, but then the gem of all gems -- the order form for Scholastic books! I remember getting these when I was in school, perusing the pages and ticking off the ones I wanted. Aidan and I did the same thing, circling the good ones. The only problem is that, for me, all books are good books -- how to decide?!

It's definitely starting to be fallish -- allergies are rearing their ugly, frustrating, annoying heads. Aidan's "snotties," as he calls it, have begun, and poor Jack has been licking and gnawing his raw little paws non-stop. I'm trying to put off a visit to the vet, sick of the creams and sprays and steroids to combat doggie allergies, but I also don't want him to be miserable, which he clearly is.

Yes, I'm feeling fallish. I'm getting a bit tired of my summer clothes. I'm getting tired of my wilted tomato plants, my thin herbs. I've already pulled out the dried plants in my fence pots, and the straggling burned-out zinnias in the planters. My eye is drawn to all the mums for sale now, the fall colors calling me. Our marigolds are still going very strong, though; our geraniums are still brilliantly blooming. No mums yet.

My fallish feelings spilled over onto my blog this morning. I loved the fallish colors of this background, orange being a favorite of mine (believe it or not). I'm just taking it easy today, feeling a bit of twang in my own sinus cavity, hoping that my own run-down feeling doesn't persist. I don't feel bad -- I just don't feel like myself. I have zero-energy, no desire or gumption to do anything. We have a busy week coming up -- Grace visits the pediatrician tomorrow for her 3-year well visit (and yes, her second Hep A shot to boot -- cast on one leg, shot in the other one); it's Back to School Night on Thursday; on Friday we travel to PA once again for Grace's cast removal and acquisition of the new brace. A busy, busy week ...

That's it, really. Just a bit o' rambling this morning. Time now to dispense more medicine, pour the liquids, and get comfy ...

Another Year ... Another Dose of Tylenol

Today marks the completion of Aidan's first full week of school. It started out with a bang, and ended with a ... well, a bang of another sort.

Tuesday brought a barrage of tears and wails and breaking hearts. By the end of the day, Aidan was completely fine, and I was left whirling and wondering what the heck happened ...

Wednesday dawned bright and new. "No tears today, Mommy!" -- the best news of the day.

Thursday brought a new reality as exhaustion finally set in. He was flying the first two days on a steady diet of adrenaline, excitement, and all things new. By Thursday, though, it caught up to him. He was still happy but oh, so terribly tired.

And today, Friday ... well, school starts in about 10 minutes, and Aidan is in his PJ's, lounging on the big chair watching TV. Sick as a dog.

I'm having flashbacks of last fall, when each week seemed to bring on a new illness. Blog post after blog post had something to do with fevers, sore throats, runny noses, and pitching a squatter's tent in our doctor's office. Is this really happening again?!

I knew something was wrong the minute the bus pulled up in front of our house yesterday afternoon. His little head wasn't bobbing down the aisle as sprightly as it had been. His head hung down, his shoulders slumped a bit. He struggled with his backpack in one hand and his lunch box in the other. He looked dazed as he made his way down the steps and shuffled over to me. And when he raised his head to look at me ... there it was, in his eyes. Glassy, rather unfocused, dark circles shadowing his already big brown eyes. "Hi, Bobby," he said quietly. Bobby? Ohhhhh ... that horrible, horrible congestion.

He was dehydrated. He said he forgot to put his juice box on the edge of his desk during afternoon snack time, so he missed having it. On such a hot day, he had nothing to drink?! Oh, those stupid class rules! Well, he did have some water from the sink, he said. That's why his lunch box was out of his backpack -- he wanted to drink his juice on the bus. When he came indoors he was parched and sucked down another big cup of juice, then crumpled on the big chair. I got him some Tylenol, and sure enough -- within about 15 minutes he perked right up and seemed his usual self, albeit still stuffy. OK -- maybe it's just allergies, I thought.

In the middle of the night I heard him. I went into his room and he was sitting up in his bed. He wanted a glass of orange juice. I was half asleep, until his hot, hot little hand touched mine as I gave him the cup. That jolted me awake immediately. He was on fire. 103 degrees-worth. And still so terribly congested. No school today, my boy ...

I called the school this morning and told the secretary what happened. She said another little boy in his class is home today too with the same thing. I was so proud of Aidan the other day when he told me had made a "bus buddy," a little boy in his class who rides his bus. He said he saw Billy sitting alone, so he went over to him and asked if they could sit together. He was all smiles.

Guess who's also out today ... little Billy.

Here we go again, another school year and all that comes with it ...

Dis-Orientation

The role of a mother is indeed a strange one. It is not one that is static, for it shifts and changes and morphs constantly. One moment you have a brand new, squalling, red-faced, mysterious infant on your hands. Then you have a tiny mobile creature that gets into everything. Then he (or she) is suddenly going off to school, leaving you alone. One chapter after another, just like that.

Yesterday was a very strange day for me. I had written in yesterday's post that it was oddly quiet in my house, and indeed that was the case. I had a few chores to do, so I tackled them fairly quickly, not sure what else to do with myself. My four loads of laundry seemed to get finished faster than usual; the dishwasher was emptied and refilled at an Olympic pace; toys and things and whatnot were picked up and put in their proper places. All was done in that strange quiet.

When my chores were finished, I found myself wandering aimlessly from time to time around my house. Thinking about doing one thing and then winding up in a different room. I wasn't sure what to do with myself. If I was a thumb-twiddler I would have twiddled. If I was a hair twister I would have had dread-locks by that point. I felt a kind of nervous, or anxious, energy -- not for anything in particular, but just in the waiting. In the afternoon, around 2:00, I found myself glancing at the clock more frequently. I wasn't sure what time Aidan would be home, so the open-endedness was a bit unnerving. I found myself very, very eager to have him back.

And then there's Grace ... a little girl so completely and utterly different from her brother, unique in her own right (as of course it should be). I looked at her a little differently yesterday, as if she was a stranger in my house. She got out all her Little People, set them up, held conversations, surrounded herself with the house and the circus and whatever else she could find. For a long, long time she played so nicely -- she didn't need me. She didn't need me. Aidan always needed me, but Grace had a more "whatever" attitude. I tried talking to her but at that moment she wasn't interested. Aidan always wanted to talk, and about pretty interesting topics too. I didn't see a single car or track or boy thing all day, and I'm actually really great with cars and tracks and boy things. Now I have ponies and Little People and Barbies about my feet. Aidan was very self-sufficient -- he got his own snacks, he poured his own juice, he even worked the (very complicated) remote control. Grace ... well, she's in a different world. A world I'm really not familiar with yet.

Grace doing her thing as only she can do, in her favorite spot in the house.

The dynamic here is soooo different. I know I will come to love this phase, this one-on-one time with my girl that we've never had before. I feel like I have to get to know her, though -- to really know her -- and that's a good thing. But this odd quiet ... it's still unnerving to me. I have to sort of get over this part first. Lunchtime especially is the strangest part of the day, just the two girls at the kitchen table. Sometimes she'll chatter but it's about ... nothing, really. Just silly chatter, gibberish even. I'm not used to that. It will be wonderful, I know, this new chapter.

I just miss the old one a bit.

In Just 24 Hours ...

An eternity flew by in just 24 hours ... Was yesterday really a day full of sobs and grief? Was yesterday really as painful and gut-wrenching as we thought?

Well, yes ... but in just 24 hours, we're all smiles.

Grace and I sat on the front steps yesterday afternoon waiting for Aidan's bus to round the corner. I saw his little head bob down the aisle, then a flash of a smile -- albeit a tired one -- as he bounded down the steps. And the first thing he said was:

"I had a really nice lunch! :)
Loved that little tribute ...

We gathered around the kitchen table as he sucked down some juice and answered our questions about his first day. He wasn't very chattery -- he was really, really tired. He said he was a little bit sad after I left but he got better. "I washed my tears away!" he said. He sat with a new boy named John, he played "races" on the playground (uh, oh -- more competitive running ... not his forte), he climbed a rock wall which he'd been dying to see ever since he saw it, he saw Miss Jacie in music class ("But I can't call her Miss Jacie anymore. I have to say her last name now"). He was OK ... just like everyone told me he would be.

He crashed when his sweet head hit the pillow, and I hated waking him up at 6:30 this morning (heck, what am I saying -- I hated getting up myself at 6:30 this morning!). His eyes were puffy, that worn out kind of puffy from an extremely busy day. He was cranky, too -- not a great way to start the morning. He didn't want to wear the shirt I had out because it was green instead of blue (ummm, what?), his cup was too full of the smoothie Don made but when Don emptied some out it then it wasn't enough ... you get the idea. I was getting nervous with this rocky start.

But after a time he leveled out and said eagerly, "Let's go outside and wait for the bus!" So Grace, in her giant cast and still pajama'd, sat on the top step with her new Disney Princess purse and make up kit, pink diva sunglasses on, applying lipstick and whatever else she had there (not real, of course), while Aidan and I chatted. "No tears today, Mommy. It's gonna be OK now." What a boy.

The bus came up the street and Aidan's face beamed. He was ready. He grabbed Don's hand and the two boys walked across the street. I saw his big smile as he got on the bus. He chose his seat (the same one as yesterday -- no surprise there, Mr. Habitual), and looked out the window at us. His smile lit up his face, both hands waving, then his famous two-thumbs-up. He was off.

I feel tears again this morning, but these are happy tears.
What an amazing child.
And all in just 24 hours ...

First Day of School (OR: Could It Get Any Worse? Ohhhh, it sure could ...)

I did not see this coming. At all.

It's the first day of school -- a full day school -- for Aidan. For weeks he's been talking about this, bubbling over with excitement. He paid two visits to his classroom during the summer, meeting the teacher, getting his bearings. He already knows 4 other kids from church in his class, so he completely by-passes the dreaded adjustment when you don't know a single soul. He was happy, confident, excited.

Last night he could hardly contain himself. It was his birthday, we had a splendid party in the back yard, he was chattery before he went to bed. This morning he woke up at 6:00 a.m., eager and excited. He got dressed, ate his breakfast, made sure his backpack was in order. He was confident, relaxed. We sat together in the living room and prayed together as a family before we went outside to wait for the bus. Grandma and Grandpa came down too for the big send-off. He couldn't stop smiling.

Mommy, however, couldn't stop crying. Sheesh. Pull it together, girl! I kept smiling at him, telling him it was OK, that Mommy was silly, that Mommy loved him very much, that these were happy tears. I thought he was convinced.

Finally the bus came up the street. All chatter ceased and my boy went into serious mode. That's OK -- I expected that. He quiets down and turns reserved when he's about to embark on something new. I held his hand as we crossed the street, then helped him onto the bus. He didn't look back. This is great, I thought -- I might be a mess, but at least he's confident and OK.

I hopped in the car, planning on following the bus for a while (just to check out the route) and then go to the school so I could be there when he got off the bus. It was suggested that I do this, that lots of parents do this, to greet their child and ease them into the routine. A good idea, I thought. As I stood waiting outside the school my cell phone rang. It was Don.

The bus driver just called him. Aidan was crying, inconsolable. He wants to come home.

W-w-w-what??!! Crying? Inconsolable? That's supposed to be me ... not Aidan! Oh, no, what is happening ...

Finally his bus came. Be strong, be strong, be strong. Don't start crying. Don't let him see you cry. Be strong. The doors opened and the kids piled out. Maybe he's OK now. Maybe he calmed down. My hopes of seeing my smiling boy never materialized. There he was, standing on the top step ... huge brown eyes red-rimmed, his cheeks tear-stained, his sweet little mouth pointing downward. He saw me, ran into my arms, and burst into tears.

Oh, no ....

My internal commands of "Be strong!" were drowned out by my boy's sobs, his gut-wrenching cries. "Mommy, take me home! I don't want to be here! I miss you! Take me home, PLEASE!" I was not prepared for this ... at all. My boy is confident, outgoing, not shy in the least. He has never once cried for something like this. What do I do? What do I say? How do I comfort him when his sobs are piercing their way into my own weakened heart? I sat on a little bench with him, and we cried together.

His teacher, the loveliest of all teachers -- soft-spoken, kind, compassionate, and experienced -- sat down with us, next to Aidan. She spoke gently to him but it didn't work. We tried another tactic, as we walked over to the playground where all the kids were playing before the bell rang. Two of his friends walked over to him -- "Hi, Aidan! Let's play!" He wanted none of it. Our friend Jacie, the music teacher there, came over with a big hug and tried to help. Not even "Miss Jacie" could console him. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't speak, because if I said something I would make more of a scene than he. The principal then joined our little desperate throng (a young woman who I just learned that morning had been a classmate of my older brother). She whispered to me, "It's time to go."

Those words ... It's time to -- what? Leave my sobbing boy? Every fiber of my maternal being wanted to stay there with him, hold him, wipe away his tears. But it was time to go. Time to leave him behind. It was truly, truly unbearable.

He started screaming then -- yes, it's true. I was mortified. People were starting to stare, and if you know me, "incognito" is my code word. I hate being the center of attention, and this was my own personal nightmare. He screamed and cried, grabbing on to my arm and as I walked away my arm slipped from his grasp. His small, desperate hands then landed on the strap of my purse. The principal was holding him tightly, trying to gently drag him the other way. I didn't look back ... but it was one of the hardest thing I've ever had to do. To walk away from my son.

I walked quickly to my car, craving the interior where I could let go and cry out loud. As I approached my haven, I heard someone behind me say, "Excuse me!" I looked behind me to see a woman scurrying after me, waving. Oh, no ... I don't want to see anyone. Who is this? A former classmate? Someone I haven't seen in 18 years? This isn't the kind of reunion I want ...

No, it was a stranger. A kind, understanding woman who said, "My son is in second grade. I just wanted to let you know that he was the same way in kindergarten. It broke my heart. But it will be OK. He will be OK." She understood. That was nice.

When I got home I saw a message waiting for me on the answering machine. It was Jacie. She had just peeked into Aidan's classroom to check on him and she wanted to me know that he was OK and having a great time. For the first time today, I smiled.

It's quiet here in the house. I have my laundry going and Grace is playing with her Little People. But it's quiet. It feels very, very strange. I find myself wandering around a bit, not quite sure what to do with myself. Aidan always had trouble playing by himself, and more often than he not he was glued to my side. It drove me nuts, really, but now ... it feels strange. Very strange. No chatter, no questions, no observations, to talking together. It's quiet -- and right now it's not a good kind of quiet.

It's the kind you just have to get used to.

It's Official: I already miss my boy

It happened. I knew it would -- it was just a matter of time. I was putting it off, stuffing it down (wwwwaayyyy down), smothering it ... but today at lunch the dam broke.

We were sitting around the kitchen table having our "birthday lunch" for Aidan, and he just smiled at me one to many times. He said something cute just one too many times. Then when he was finished he said, "Excuse me," then got up, walked over to me, and hugged me hard.

That was it. My baby ... my boy is just so big. He's my love, my friend, my child, my buddy, one of only two blood relations that I know of in the entire world. He's going to school tomorrow -- a full-day class for the very first time. He has to get on the big, big, big school bus at 7:23 a.m. I'm not sure when he's getting home -- close to 4:00 p.m. I imagine. An entire day without him -- day after day after long day.

I hugged him back, hard. I wouldn't let go. The tears rolled down my cheeks (as they're doing right now, wouldn't you know). I sniffed, which drew attention to what I was doing. Don looked at me and I could see in his eyes that he felt the same thing. Grace looked across the table at me very, very warily as she ate her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Aidan broke away from the embrace and looked me in the eyes, worried at first. I smiled at him through my tears, trying to show him it was OK because my voice just wouldn't work. He smiled back, reassured, and gave me a kiss.

"It's OK, Mommy. I'm excited about school."

After lunch he told me he wanted to take a little nap, something he doesn't do often anymore. But every single day after lunch we at least keep up part of our tradition that has lasted for the past 5 years or so. We read a story first, cuddled on my bed, and now instead of napping (as we used to do), he gets up to play a computer game while I try to snooze for a few minutes. But today he wanted to rest. His birthday party is tonight after dinner, tomorrow is school, and he said he needed his energy. He put his pillow on my bed, he picked out a story of a firefighter, he jumped into bed next to me as we settled down together. As I read the story his little sandy-colored head touched my arm, as he fingered his old, worn Blue Blanket. I turned off the light and we snuggled on the bed. He threw his arm around me and hugged my neck, nose to nose, smiling. That's the last time ...

I'm not good at letting go. I'm not good at saying good-bye to things, people, or chapters in my life. And this chapter ... well, this chapter was written in gold. I know more wonderful chapters are ahead, but now -- well, I'm grieving, I guess. I do a lot of that, it seems. It's OK -- it's a part of my life, of who I am. This is far, far more emotional than giving away baby clothes ... I'm giving away my baby, in a sense. But what a beautiful boy he's grown into.

Another Year: Happy Birthday, Aidan!

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

Happy, Happy Birthday to my beautiful boy.
I love you, Aidan, with all of my being.
Thank you, God, for one of the greatest gifts of my life.