Thursday, February 28, 2013

School Choices


As I mentioned in my last blog, this week is pretty much dedicated to exploring kindergarten possibilities for Ash.
This basically includes looking at classrooms and making uneducated first impressions about teachers based on what they are wearing and the cadence of their voice. It’s becoming increasingly apparent that there is NO WAY for me to really guess how my child will integrate (or not) into any of these varied scenarios.
If I had to concretely define what I’m looking for, I suppose I’d say:  a school that feels homey.
In other words… a learning space that feels as closely aligned, philosophically, to his home environment as possible.
Of course - no matter what - it will still include a group of 27 other children who are all acting out child-versions of our totally wack adult society. And it will all be contained in a large-ish building with tile floors and florescent lighting. And they will be at the whim of many, many adults making decisions based on money… because there’s no other choice within the public-school-framework.  
But yeah… homey.
I have a permanently nagging feeling that I should NOT be sticking my kid in an institution… even if it turns out to be a hippie institution. But I simply don’t have it in me to take on the responsibility of homeschooling my kids 100%... or even 50% for that matter. And I don’t have the energy to create my ideal educational cooperative.
So. School it is. Regular ol’ bullies and popularity…. cubbies and cafeterias… school. The whole, entire, smelling-of-clay-and-canned-green-beans shin-dig.
 I keep telling myself that on some level it’s a good life lesson. Just like, on some level… so is circumcision and getting arrested.
It’s occurring to me that I sound very negative. I’ve actually got a little excitement fizzing up about this.
I’m excited to volunteer at the school, meet new people, and create for myself the cooperative feeling that I am afraid of missing.
I am excited to watch Ash grow, socially, in ways that he never would if I kept him contained in our own little social bubble.
 And, personally, I’m anticipating how I might grow… when I have to let go and let my kid learn how to face challenges on his own.
I think I might curl up in a ball, as soon as Ash falls asleep, and cry until Benjah explains to me that he will be a tougher kid after this.  And that, ultimately, he’s doing ok.
Are you reading this Benjah? Is there some area in your smart phone to record those words for the future? …“tougher kid” and “ultimately doing ok”… That might potentially work for me….
I always remind myself that all the coolest adults had problems in school. But… seriously… who didn’t have problems in school?  If you weren’t fat, you sucked at math. And if you had all that under control, your parents were probably getting divorced. Otherwise you had a nervous tick, head gear, or someone taped a love letter you wrote to the inside of a bathroom stall.
And as soon as you’d reasonably recovered from all of that… it was time for the yearly, school-wide scoliosis check.
Whatever…
Really, I just need to let go and leave it all up to that long table of guardian angels who hash out our pasts, presents, and futures and then set us up to receive a generous dollop of our karma lessons.
I wonder if they use a consensus process to make those decisions.
Thanks, everybody. For listening.
I really appreciate you,
Jes


Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Efficiency


This February, I’m attempting to resemble a functional human while living completely outside of my normal routine. Three days ago I returned from a 2 ½ week trip to Kentucky.
Now that I’m back, I’m allocating about 2 hours a day to touring Ash’s kindergarten potentials.
This means that most of my usual “self time,” which is also my “writing time,” is not happening. It also means that my family has spent many, many hours in the car, on airplanes, and sleeping in unusual places.
Maggie B wakes up around 4:00 every morning to ask, “Where are we?”
I also experience that "dislocated" sensation, except it happens periodically throughout the day…  usually while I’m checking the laundry, chopping an apple, unloading the dishwasher, changing the water in the fish bowl, taking out the recycling, and unpacking a suitcase... simultaneously. In other words… doing absolutely nothing.
In the two days that I’ve been back, I’ve noticed myself obsessively hovering over the same square-foot of my kitchen floor. It’s a relatively central location for delving into the afore mentioned tasks – but instead of plunging on ahead, I am stunned... motionless… unable to recall how I ever came to arrive here in the first place.
When this happens I usually turn on the burner under the tea pot (because caffeine is the vice I revert to when my to-do list begins revolving like a drunken Lazy Susan). 
Don't worry mom. You don't have to freak out about me having an excessive caffeine intake. Inevitably, before the tea pot whistles, I will check on the kids, wipe milk off a chair, and pull a wad of oatmeal out of someone’s hair. The teapot will make that shrieking sound, and I'll mindlessly turned off the burner. That’s where it ends.
Yesterday I made a list. I imagined that if I got it all on paper, I could remove it from my brain and therefore, clear enough space to regain some efficiency.
Today, “find-the-list” is cycling through with the rest of it.
But really I’m like this anyway… even when it’s not a short month… half spent in travel, and the rest spent determining my child’s future…
Efficiency has never been my strong point. If my day was a twelve course meal, each course would arrive at the same time. I’d nibble off every plate and then retreat to the bathroom where you’d discover me standing in front of the mirror… composing monologues about why I might not make my 4-blog-quota this month.


Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Endurance


I want to tell you something, from the trenches of parenthood, before I forget.
Parenting young children can be physically excruciating.
I don’t like to emphasize negativity, but I know that in a few years all this will dissolve into a nostalgic mist of squishy cheeks, warm bellies, and endearing phrases (like “Mommy, I love your heart”).
Soon enough I’ll become a sweet, grandmotherly type who coos over children, reminding parents to “enjoy this time… because it all goes by so quickly.” Don’t get me wrong… I want to be one of those ladies. But before the haze sets in, I’m want to make it clear that if these sensations were not associated with child rearing, they might be classified as torture.
Here are a few examples:
1.       Having to hold your pee for hours and hours because there just isn’t time.
2.       Eating every single meal one-handed while supporting a nursing baby in the other arm.
3.       Getting car sick on every road trip over 15 minutes because you have to keep looking backward to pick up dropped toys, hand out crackers, hold a tiny hand while making supportive sounds and ridiculous faces to assuage all the screeching.
4.       Pulling your shirt askew and laying awkwardly in a tent, during freezing temperatures, to nurse a fussy child ALL NIGHT LONG.
5.       Being awakened at 5:30 every single morning by a non-nursing child who yanks on your nipples. This child is not daunted by aggressive hand-batting. She continues to grab and twist, screaming, “I WANT TO TOUCH YOUR BOOBAS! I WANT TO TOUCH YOUR BOOBAS!”
Here is a description of today’s most memorable discomfort:
My family is currently visiting Mammoth Cave (I write this from a Days Inn in Cave City, Kentucky).
Today we arrived several hours early for our tour. This was a result of some uncharacteristic let’s-be-early impulses, combined with the fact that we unsuspectingly drove over a time-zone border.
While we waited for the tour, we decided to take one of the many above-ground hikes in the area.
The hike we chose was all downhill but, because we allowed Maggie B to do a lot of self-guided walking, it took much longer than anticipated. On the hike back up we really had to book it, so I wore Maggie B on my back in the carrier. 
I should have taken off my wool sweater before adhering a 2 ½ -year-old to my back and then running up a hill. I also should have peed. To add to the aforementioned discomforts, Maggie B kept grabbing the back of my necklace and yanking on it, giving me the slightest sensation of strangulation along with some rope burn.
To top it off, she kept repeating, “There are bats in the cave mommy?”
And each time I responded (in rhythm with my steady trudge uphill), “Yes. There are bats in the cave, but they are sleeping.”
For the 3rd time… 5th time… 11th time… “Why they sleeping mommy?”
Each time I’d answer: “Because bats sleep all winter.”
“Why they sleep all winter mommy?”
Seventeen times… 24 times… “Because it’s cold.”
“Why it’s cold mommy?”
32 times… “Because of where we are in relation to the sun.”
And then she’d bring it back around… “There are bats in the cave mommy?”
I think this would be an entertaining Olympic event: performing athletic activities, spontaneously, without proper attire, while entertaining children. The most similar event I’ve ever heard of is a race, sponsored by Gorilla Glue, in which the contestants run 3.5 miles in a full Gorilla suit to raise money for endangered species. I’m certain that the winner of this event has small children at home.
Obviously, at some point, I emerged from my hot, hurried, bat rambling, upward plodding, stupor. I reached the top of the incline, regained my senses, and said “stop touching my necklace Maggie B, and I will not answer another question about bats!”
From my current location: on a double bed in the Day’s Inn, the kids sleeping on the next bed over, Benjah half watching the newest version of Karate Kid… I am completely unfazed by this morning’s arduous experience. If I hadn’t been pressed for some blog material, I’d probably tell you that it was a gorgeous day and I’m so glad I was able to be in the woods and get some exercise (because that’s true also).
I’m loathed to give parenting advice, but here’s one valuable suggestion: Get really good at those out-of-body stupors. You might leave the tea water boiling too long, or respond to questions like, “Can I slide down this staircase on a giant Tupperware lid?” with an answer like, “Sure baby.”     
But if you can just tune out the pain, it will preserve your sanity.
And you should probably also sign up for some yoga classes.
So let’s take a minute to remember the words of our grandmothers… it all goes by so quickly.
I just can’t wait to meet up in five or ten years, after the amnesia has set-in. We can eat an uninterrupted dinner together. Our laps will be empty, and no one will bark from under the table, plopping partially chewed green beans onto our knees. We’ll reminisce fondly about the sweetness of bed time, and how fun it was to take the kids on camping trips.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

An Ode to my Stroller



I bought my stroller two years ago, and since then it’s become an extension of me. I generally take my stroller to any walkable destination, whether my kids are with me or not. To put it bluntly, I’m a glorified bag lady.
At first I felt a little awkward, pushing a childless stroller about the Friendly Street Neighborhood, but I gave that up pretty quickly in the name of convenience.
From this Yuppie Bag Lady perspective, I’ve learned something new:
When passing adults make that “OH he is SO CUTE!” face at your kids, it doesn’t necessarily mean that your kid is cute. I know this because, at least twice a month, someone (usually a grandmother type) makes that face in the direction of my kid-less stroller. She makes the face in anticipation of seeing a cute kid. Then she bends to glimpse under the sun-visor and discovers two bags of groceries and a 12-pack of Sessions. It’s kind of awkward, but I just keep rollin’.
My stroller is a true miracle of storage. I’d say that it’s on par with Mary Poppins’ carpet bag. It holds anything a person could reasonably need… or at least a counterpart that any resourceful human should be able to adapt for the job.
Here’s a categorized list of everything that is on my stroller right now
Clothing
1.       A pair of kid’s socks. One has been used to sop up a coffee spill.
2.       A once-worn, but not-peed-in, disposable pull-up
3.       A kid’s jacket
4.       Kid’s fleece pants
5.       Two beanies: One is nondescript wool. The other was knitted to look like a pink cupcake with a cherry on top, but my daughter insists that it’s actually a boob.
6.       Stretch gloves (adult)
Nature
1.       A Pine cone
2.       A segment of bamboo
3.       Four seed pods off a Gum tree
4.       Three buckeye seeds.
Food
1.       An unopened jar of raspberry jelly
2.       A zip-lock baggie of corn chips (possibly stale)
3.       Five individual-sized packets of cream cheese
4.       An unopened container of Rice Dream
Entertainment
1.       A Harmonica
2.       Two matchbox cars (one white sedan, one blue monster truck)
3.       A Spiderman Bat
4.       A Medium sized bouncy ball
5.       A toy backhoe
Survival
1.       A mason jar of water
2.       Toilet paper
3.       Two umbrellas
4.       A Handkerchief
5.       A Star-Wars blanket
6.       A butter knife
7.       A fork
8.       Two beer bottles (one full, one empty)
9.       Mosquito netting
Miscellaneous
1.       A dog leash
2.       A seed catalogue
3.       Orange peels
4.       A decorated paper plate stapled to an unidentified, bean-type, seed pod.
5.       A garbage bag
6.       Green-tea eye jell
These items, with a bit of rotation for health reasons, are all stroller stand-bys. They dwell in the pockets, the cup holders, the folds, and the crevices before I pack up the sand toys, the grocery bags, or the library books, depending on the nature of our journey.
On top of all this I can still force both two-year-olds, the 4-year-old, and the 5-year-old to sit in the stroller, simultaneously.
On the days that I find myself pushing a full-load of groceries along with my child menagerie, I imagine that a couple of goats would fit perfectly into our scene. Then we could really get our pack on.
On one occasion, last year, at the Oregon Country Fair, I found myself personally dependant on stroller transportation. On the day before the fair “officially” opened, my foot was stung by a bee. Over the next 24 hours, my foot and leg swelled so large that quarter-sized blisters emerged all over it because there was no more room for the fluid inside my skin.
The White Bird Medical booth expressed, very seriously, that if I didn’t keep my foot elevated over the next three days, they would send me to the ER for intravenous antibiotic.
How do you spend three days at a festival with multiple kids and one foot in the air?
Lots of friends and a Bob double stroller.
That stroller carted me and my kids all over the woodland trails of the OCF for three days.
I don’t have a lot of resistance to the kids growing up.  I’m willing to trade the warm squish of baby fat for the opportunity to read The Chronicles of Narnia each night before bed.
But how do folks move from place to place with kids, coats, toys, blankets, groceries, and library books, after the stroller has been retired?
I’m pretty sure that when my stroller goes, we will have to get goats.