Best Choice

I'm a nurvous mother.  I always have been. I worry about being too passive and raising a brat, or about being too militant and creating a child with the same anxieties that I have.  I waver on cow or soy milk.  I occilate on various parenting philosophies.  I am constantly battered by what-ifs and possible regrets.  Few choices are easy for me to make.  Even before I had kids, my husband worried about me and a menu, wondering how many times I'd make the poor waitress scratch that order and take a new one.  Choices are tough for me.  I don't want to make a mistake.  I want my choice to the best one.  And in the end, I often out-think the situation and no matter what, believe that it was my bad choice that precipitated my bad circumstances. 

I've always worried about public school, especially having been a middle school teacher for eight years in one of the finest schools in the state, and experiencing exactly what goes on in a public school with regards to foci, curricula and overall motivation of educators.  I know the limits, the frustrations, the interruptions, the distractions, and the culture of public school. I've always said we'd homeschool.  That was until we moved in July right next door to the best elementary school in the whole city, and I wondered if God had actually given me a sign or a test to send my oldest off to public school. 

Then AJ started preschool at our church, and although he had a terrific year with his teacher going two half days a week, this year his teacher was more militant and negetive.  So much so that we felt we needed to pull him out and I've been teaching him at home his ABCs, handwriting, numbers, counting and some basic math.  At first it was painful. He hated it.  He was so damaged by that one month in preschool that I had to do a lot of triage to get him willing to learn and eager for school at the dinner table. 

But after three months of doing school at home with things I've printed off the internet or workbooks I got at the grocery store, AJ and I have found it to be a really rewarding time together.  I give him lots of praise and my motto has become "if you work as hard as you can, I'll do anything for you."  There are limits to that, of course.  But he's never requested anything (so far) that is outragous. It's usually along the lines of watching Scooby-Doo, or Star Wars.  But he's made a ton of progress in learning, and our relationship is stronger than ever. 

What I know about him is this:  he's brilliant.  He's creative and his capacity to daydream or doodle and become social is his distraction and academic downfall.  He's eager to impress other kids, and when he was going to preschool last fall, he was way too busy horsing around to learn.  It got him in a lot of trouble.  At home, he has the freedom to focus on the task, and his only distraction is himself, and that we can learn to manage.  I also know that he needs a lot of external direction right now until he's developed enough to hold his own. 

The kindergartens here are full days.  That's seven hours a day for my five year old child to be spending his time with another person, and other people.  Hey, I'm all for socializing a child, but my question is how much of those seven hours are educational?  I know.  All of them.  Every hour away from home he is learning how to behave from his peers.  He's learning social injustices on the playground, either for or against.  He's learning the politics of making friends and learning the gore of losing them.  All these things are great for human growth.  I don't want him to be raised in a bubble.  But I have strong reservations about sending him away for seven hours. 

I'm still praying about our choices.  I woke three days ago with a horrible anxiety about him starting school.  Part of me really feels that this is my job.  I'm home and why shouldn't I homeschool him?  Why should we lose those seven precious hours to a faulty educational system when we could be learning and growing together?  I do feel it's my calling.  And it horrifies me.  If he could go half days, I don't think I'd have the same feelings.  But if he goes half day then he'd be truant. 

Our school district has a homeschool academy that offers supplemental classes to homeschooled students.  It can meet as often as 14 hours a week to as few as 75 minutes a week.  When I found this it did give me some relief.  It would be a great middle of the road answer.  I would still be his primary teacher, and our time would be home together, school would last one hour or two tops, then he could play with his other friends that are homeschooled, or attend outside supplement classes.  I'm not worried about his social life.  I think the notion that public school is a better option because it socializes kids is dangerous.  Some kids need to be in public school because there are gaps at home.  But I feel it's my job to introduce the world to my children.  Socializing happens at church, at home, at the grocery store, on play dates, in sports, at family events, at camps, etc.  And his models are us as his parents.  And I worry that the idea of sending kids to public school to socialize them undermines the relationship a child has with his or her parent(s).  What is more important to a five year old?  The relationship he has with his parents or the one he creates with his peers? 

I'm trying really hard right now to talk myself into getting behind the idea of public school, and researching hard for evidence that points to public school offering more in the way of confidence and higher academic scores as children develop.  Haven't found any yet.  I feel my job is supposed to set him up for success.  Many many kids find it in public school.  I don't believe it's the best match for my AJ.  I'll continue to pray about this.  Right now, I'm loving his attitude, and our tightening relationship.

On a Saturday

I have never been a fan of Spring, frankly. In my adolescence there were about five years that something tragic happened between Valentine's Day and Easter. As I grew up, I watched Spring come around the corner and felt an overwhelming desire to run for cover. This is the season that marks the anniversary of my parents gory divorce, my miscarriage, a cousin's suicide, facing my weight issues, failed relationships, and tragic loss.  Failure and depression. Spring was not about bunnies and robin nests, flowers and butterflies, but a harbinger of sorrow. I learned to hate Spring. I hated it all. From pastel-painted eggs to yellow tulips. Even the sunshine became my enemy.  It was all one prettily wrapped package that when opened exploded in my hands. 

I resented recovering from the coziness of minty, frosty, sparkly Winter, to adjust to the aloof and "diva" attitude of spring. I hated the tank tops, the shorts, the moody weather, the longer days. I waited impatiently for June when, according to my math, Summer, with his dreadlocks and tie die T-shirts, smelling of coconut sunscreen and barbecues, was a friend with whom I would blare Bob Marley and muddle some fresh mint for mojitos.  But in our part of the world, Spring means rain, and long dark days inside. It means you know that worms squish and slugs crunch. Spring is the color of moss and mold. It's the sound of sloshing through puddles and windshield wipers scraping across the glass. It's the smell of decay. This time last year I was immersed in the deepest of depressions that was as lonely as it was dark. 

So I admit I tremble when this fine-tuned philosophy surfaces altered this year. I have been guarded against the black doors of depression. I've had my bottle of St. John's Wort ready since New Year's Day. I've given my dirty looks to all manikins in the mall displaying shades of pink, mint green, sky blue, and butter yellow. I've kept busy. Too busy. I'm looking for a week off, actually. But it's different this year. I'm different. Something is happening. 

Aaron stumbled quite innocently upon a wonderful park south of our home.  It's only around the corner from us nestled in a lovely neighborhood .  The park has a serpentine paved trail that loops around the children's toys, to a shallow valley field that is fringed in poplars, firs, old growth oak, and aspens, with earthen foot trails meandering throughout.  Twice I have spotted the sunshine peaking from behind the clouds and I have rushed the boys to this secret park.  AJ rides his Big Wheel down the hill to the toys where little R is playing, and I stroll behind them both, once even laying on the warm grass dried by a firm, warm breeze, and watched--for the first time in at least twenty years--the clouds change shape in the high winds in the sky. 

Today, a cool but clear Saturday, we started off at the pool, then after lunch and nap, headed to our little secret wooded park.  I heard the strangest noise there, bubbling up from my own mouth.  Laughter.  It startled me.  I glared at a robin singing on nearby branch, for good anti-spring measure.  How could I not relish the sight of my boys in the labyrinth of trails under the trees?  It was a genuine laugh, and although alarmed, something was released.  And feeling lighter and freer than I have ever on a sunny spring day, I watched my boys.  Collecting all that I could on this moment, this bright spring day in their lives.

AJ has my vivid and overactive imagination.  He saw an arrangement of moss covered boulders and sitting squarely on one that resembled an arm chair, used a small bit of soggy bark as a remote to change the channel of the TV boulder in front of him.  I remember doing the exact same thing on a pile of lumber on my grandparents' farm.  I had a house in the pile.  I had a living room, steps down to a basement, steps up to a bedroom and haunted attic.  Seeing this in him warmed me through. 

R was a real outdoors man, running into the undergrowth, hiking far (too far) ahead of us as scout, picking up impressive sticks and whacking them against the rocks, trees, or ferns.  He's accoutstically sensitive like his father, and listens to the noise he created with keen ears and unblinking eyes.  He offered to taste test everything he found, as a toddler, that is really the only real test of something's worth, I suppose.  He loves nature and activity, and he encouraged his big brother to find the fun in the woods.  And Aaron and I sat back and watched, smiling.  Then I look to him and I see this man whom I've been with for 16 years, and marvel at how deeply I respect him and love him, as we stand with linked arms, watching our young boys play.

Persephone has lifted her sleepy head and touched the earth with the tiniest green hints of new buds and regrowth. Winter with his burly beard is finally stepping off the stage and Spring, dawned in flowing green gowns, inhales deeply before releasing a most tender soprano chanson. This is the inhale. The world smells like wet earth, feels like dewy grass, sounds like birdsong, and carries with it an impression of hope and rebirth.  

I smiled, and laughed at the sight of them, our feral, noisy boys boys barking like puppies in a field on a cool spring day, frolicing in the light.   And I wondered if, after all these years, Spring and I were finally making peace.

Off-Center

It's been one of those days where it feels like all I've accomplished was wash dishes, cook meals, and damage my precious offspring.

I was haunted by nightmares last night.  A good friend and fellow English teacher I spoke with before bed was grieving a student's suicide.  It affected me bone deep.  What causes a junior in high school to give up on life before he's even tasted it?  Then I see my little guys, and I'm horrified by the tests they'll face in the world as they grow up.  Can I do enough to save them?  To instill in them a constant fountain of hope?  After this disturbing and sad phone conversation, to relax and escape from the hard real world, Aaron and I popped in a movie that had just come in on Netflix, in the hopes of somehow disconnecting from those horrible realities that wound us and others.  Sometimes life is just too dark to look in to.  It was a spy thriller that had been sitting in our queue for a while.  Pretty graphic and bloody.  No wonder I had evil dreams.  I woke up feeling unclean in my mind.  Like I had seen something I wish I never had.  It was such a strong feeling, I rose from my blankets feeling tired and off-center.  It didn't go away all day long. 

I wish I could rise in the morning before they do.  I have waken before them in the past.  I can do it.  I know how to set an alarm or respond to my husband's gentle nudge as he slips into the dark hallway to jog at the gym at five in the morning.  But my kids (and I wonder if this is true of others') can sense me walking down the hall.  As soon as my toes land on the carpet in the hall outside their door their antennae quiver and their little dark eyes roll over like sharks, they throw off the covers, launch from the bed, to tackle me en route to the office where I write my morning pages.  This account may be only slightly exaggerated.  On more maternal days I absorb AJ's morning smell, his gangly, floppy limbs shaking off the sleep, his crazy hair poking out all directions.  Today was not one of those days.  I felt robbed and raged at him.  "Stay in there until I tell you to come out!"  I huffed like a quarterback in a huddle.  My time, albeit brief, in the morning was stolen from me. 

Coffee. That's what makes a day a bit brighter.   A jolt of caffeine in the system is warming and cozy. Should level me out.  I ground the beans then yanked R from his crib none too gently, and changed him.  My adoring husband had gotten pull-ups rather than diapers for him and overnight had wet through everything.  I was cranky and getting worse. 

It didn't help that when I dragged the boys downstairs, slammed them into their seats and commenced making breakfast did I notice the waterfall of coffee pouring from the machine to cascade onto our floor.  The lid hadn't opened on the thermal pot, the grinds and hot brown liquid drenched everything. 

Ten minutes later (coffee grinds, right?  IMPOSSIBLE to clean easily!) I throw the boys bowls of cereal, stomp up the stairs spitting mad at this point to get dressed and take Aaron to work.  Aaron listens as he buttons his shirt and loops his neck tie.  He must think I'm crazy.  I think I may be.  But he's quiet and I finish my diatribe, and stomp down stairs again to wipe the boys off from breakfast, load them up and take them to work. 

The rest of the day was a list of events that kept me half a step off.  The worst part was the boys.  I was so unfair to them.  I was cranky and moody and didn't show much love or understanding.  I feel like my cup wasn't even half empty today, but barely wet.  And I put them to bed with tired eyes, limp arms, and a cold heart.  I had nothing to give at all.  I hope they forgive me for being human someday.  When they have their own children and have days like this.  I pray they love me anyway.  And know that even on days like this when the rain is constant, the wind is cool, and the worms cover the cement, I loved them so much it physically hurt me knowing I couldn't pull it together enough to show it.

First Born

Son, do you know how humbled I am by your spirit?  Can you see it in my eyes the unbounded hope and love I have for you?  Can you feel it when I wrap my arms around you?  Do you sense it when I tell you how grateful I am that God gave you to me and that I'm the luckiest mama in the world because you are my son, my child, my family, and I get the immense honor of raising you and watching you grow into a man and walking beside you in life?  You are a marvel.  You are amazing.  You slip on R's rain boots and as he flops around on the floor like a large doll you shove his pudgy hands into his coat sleeves and zip him up, then standing back admire your work and declare "mama, we're going outside!" 

Where did this instant maturity come from?  Is this responsibility for your little brother innate or a byproduct of the profound love you have for him?  A big brother thing?  An oldest child thing?

I see you, Son.  I know you so well.  I know you're intelligence is advanced far ahead of your development, and that gets you in trouble.  You argue like a fifteen year old.  You possess an elephant's memory.  I see your heart.  It's good.  Strong.  Remember, I saw you in my belly on that gray-tone screen, and I heard your heartbeat when you were only three inches tall, and your Papa and I, tears streaming down our cheeks, knew then that your spirit was strong.  With that comes a heart that is soft and tender.  I saw you at 19 weeks jumping around in my womb like an elk, or a gazelle or some wonderful, wild  beast that is tiny and mighty.  You still are a wild and wonderful beast, and I sit back to watch you, and feel myself holding breath at the sight of something so magnificent, so raw and wholesome, it moves me to tears.

You are headstrong, and that's a great attribute to have as and adult.  But hard to manage when you're five.  I see you suffer for that.  In this way, you're just like me.  We learn best by learning through pain, you and I.  My prayers are always that you learn faster than your mother, so your life isn't heavy with regrets and scars, such as mine.  Oh, you will overcome them, and become your own champion, but the mountain is steep, and slippery, and you will struggle before you conquer the summit.  You and I are the like this.  I see you.  I know you so well.

You have an imagination that doesn't stop, no limits, no ends.  I see myself at five years old, my hair in pigtails and my Barbies in hand, when you play your imaginary games, your capacity to lose yourself in your play and fictional world.  I confess, I still do this through my writing, and I pray that you hold tight to your imagination.  The world will try to take it from you.  Grip to it with white knuckles.  You are a creative spirit.  God help me raise you in your own beautiful bend. You are blessed and challenged with this atypical artistic streak.  I've recently given you my palette of water colors.

This week you graduated from Crayola to Windsor Newton.  And the lame plastic bristle brush is replaced by a real sable hair Richardson's, the kind the pros use.  And you have learned to make "pigment mud," as we say, mixing just the right amount of water with the paint in the wells.  You paint like an apprentice.  You tell stories like an old man.  An old soul.  You are, as I've known all along, ancient. 

You are helpful.  You break eggs like an expert and help me read recipes.  You like to take care of R and are always generously sharing your art with us, giving us tokens of your craft.  A small scrap of paper with a Batman or T-Rex drawn on it.  A leaf or dandelion from outside.  A feather that poked through the pillow. You give.  You're a giver. Your heart is a magnanimous one.  In my rush to do and clean and cook and wash and organize, your gifts may feel wasted.  They're not.  Let me assure you.  Every tiny bit of thread, of paper, or fabric, or even the way your lids lower on your eyes to give you a distinct soft look of adoration that you get from your papa, is not wasted on me.  I absorb it.  I inhale your gifts and your help, and feel such pride in you.  If lifts me on days that I'm dragging.  You are my wings.

A mother's eye knows her son is beautiful.  When I look at you I know that you will outshine your parents with your extraordinary good looks.  A movie star.  A heartbreaker.  You'll make the dames weep with your dark sparkly eyes and deep-dimpled grins.  I pray around this often, because it can be a difficult and confusing life being so attractive. 

I see you so tall, so smart, already five and a half, and I am humbled by you. You've been my greatest teacher. I have learned so much from you, and you will never stop teaching me. Ever.  I prayed for you, for a long time, from when I was too young to even understand what it meant when my heart cried out for boy child, and God was gracious.  He was so generous.  He gave me you.  Your name means strong and masculine.  You share names with the saints.  You named for both a man who walked beside Christ, broke bread with him, drank wine with him, as well as honoring your great grandfather, also named after a saint, a man who labored hard and cursed in Spanish only to crumble on his knees before God.  You are wonderfully amazing.  My heart can't contain the love I have for you.  I know God has big plans for you.  I always pray you hear his voice.  Listen.  He's constantly speaking to us.
You are a marvel, Son.  I'm so glad you're my boy.  I know you will be an awesome man because you are an awesome person.