Being a grown-up can seriously suck your will to live sometimes.
Like today.
Today marks three days that my husband has been out of
town. Three days that looked like this:
SUNDAY EVENING:
The boys and I deposit my best friend from high school at the
airport so she could go back home to Seattle. I went ahead and cried during our lunch that
day so I could do something different on the car ride home. Get lost.
In Burbank and eventually North Hollywood. Because I have only been to Burbank airport
700 times and refused to pay for the navigation option in my car and refuse to
use the Garmin Jeff bought me.
Moron.
We finally arrive home later than expected to have dinner (and
by "dinner", I mean there was bread, a knife for spreading something, and
a plate); then practice piano; then read together, during which I accepted and lost
a $1 bet to Vince that the image of a snake we were looking at on page 15 of SNAKES
CLOSEUP swallowing something large and scaly was swallowing not another
snake but a fish. Have you ever had a seven-year
old turn back page after page in a book to make a point, his point, and in this
case, settle a wager?
"See that? See THAT?
Do you see those? Do you see that?
Now, look at THAT. Do those scales look ANYTHING like THOSE
scales? Do those scales look like SNAKE
scales? I don't think so, mommy. Those are fish scales, mommy, and you owe me
a dollar!"
Small time gambling and verbally dressing down your mother
in the living room…is this really what learning to read is all about?
Fortunately, Nick chose Dr. Suess' What
Was I Scared Of? for his reading and I was able to convince him, with a
15-minutes-of-TV-before-bed-bribe, that it was best just to sail through the
pages sitting right there on the couch.
This versus taking the time to go upstairs to my closet and climb under our
favorite quilt so we could read by flashlight, turning the flashlight off at the end
of each page so we could see the pants, the moon and the Suess-creature glow in
the dark. Ahhh, the at-times completely
exhausting magic and wonder of phosphorescence.
Brush, floss, rinse, jammies, bed for them. Pick-up, do laundry, prepare for new client
meeting and tend to existing client campaigns for Mommy.
MONDAY
By some miracle, I have a beautiful friend right here in my
neighborhood who does things like agree to watch my boys from 9:30 a.m. - 1:30
p.m. on the second to last day of summer when I have to drive more than 80
miles to a new client meeting. She also does
things like call me at 8:45 a.m. that morning to say things like, "Should
we come over a little earlier? Is 9:30
enough time for you to get there because we're ready now?" Then, when you're leaving your meeting and
walking out to your car, she texts you an image of your boys and her darling
daughter jumping into the pool so you know your children are not only in the
BEST care possible but also having FUN!
After returning home at 2 o'clock and relieving
aforementioned wonder-friend , the boys and I actually had the opportunity to
lay down together and decompress. Our chosen
method of decompression was none other than a viewing of "A
Charlie Brown Christmas". Their
pick. And it's still great the 15th time
around. Even in August. My sister gave them the Charlie Brown DVD
pack including Halloween, Thanksgiving, This is America, and Christmas a few years
ago. They're all good. Who am I kidding? The Constitution and The Mayflower drag but
the others are entertaining.
Our dog Stitch wanders over to join us by the couch around
the time the Woodstock family was doing their candy-cane number and I am
reminded again that his bad breath is now complimented by a foul smell in
general. It's time to book a grooming
appointment. I am up, on the phone and
in front of the computer, and while I'm at it, booking some grooming appointments
for Vince and Nick. Their long,
sun-kissed locks are borderline screaming Spicoli
at this point, especially Nick's.
Decompression quickly ends and appointment making turns to
email checking and email checking turns to conference call scheduling and the next
thing I know, it's almost 5 p.m.; the boys have become one with my iPad and I
need to order a pizza.
Next, razor-riding without helmets up and down the sidewalk with
neighbor kids until sun sets, brushing, flossing, rinsing, jammies. Short, pinot noir induced talk about being
independent and making new friends. Aaaaand SCENE!
We all go nigh-nigh.
TUESDAY
I actually felt slightly in control for most of the day. I woke early to send emails before the boys woke
up. Dishwasher was emptied. Guest sheets washed and dried. The boys and I had breakfast together. We delivered Stitch to the groomer by
8:45. Piano was practiced with little
prodding. All exercised personal hygiene
fundamentals without prodding, including me.
Work was completed. Afternoon
haircuts were uneventful. I take that
back. A faux-hawk request was made and approved. Why not?
It's just product.
We made the highly anticipated trek to our elementary school
in the late afternoon hours to find out WHO WE GOT. And as sad as this sounds, I was more concerned
about classmates than teachers. And
they're only seven! It's not like any of
the student body is racking up misdemeanors at this point. Not that I know of, anyway. We headed to five o'clock piano lessons with a
skip in our step. Even though Vince and
Nick wouldn't be able to look across their classroom and see their brother for
the first time tomorrow at 8:25 a.m., they felt comfortable with the kids'
names I read to each of them from the list posted on the wall in the
Multi-Purpose Room (MPR). I need to
re-name every one of the rooms in my home that, by the way.
I sent the boys off to their piano instructors at the music studio
somewhat hurriedly, I'll admit. I had to
run back to the car to grab one of Nick's books. But they were off. It gave me the opportunity to "talk
teachers" with some of the other moms for 30 minutes. The moms I had on text, anyway. And then, much to my delight, my dear friend
Germaine rang through. She has recently
started her own business AND has three kids, the two eldest of which are
pubescent young women. Kind of a busy
gal, this Germaine. She ALSO has ideas
and good will as it relates to my book ever seeing the light of day (that's
right, there's a book, of course there's a book).
I stepped into the parking lot to not annoy the other
waiting moms with my yammering. Germaine
and I were not four minutes into our conversation, had barely covered summer
catch-up and gotten into the nitty-gritty of career goings-on, when Nick
appeared alongside his instructor, both smiling and offering thumbs-up. One broad smile and returned thumbs up from
mama later and Nick was in the music studio lobby watching cartoons.
And then it happened.
Vince flew through the music studio front door and into the parking lot
like a bat out of hell. Red-faced and in
tears. The proverbial shit had hit the fan.
"Germaine, I gotta go!"
Did I really think something was really wrong? Not really.
Did I understand by the scene alone that the time had finally
come for Vince to say fare thee well to an instrument he had had a love-hate
relationship with for the past two years?
Ab-so-smurfly!
But did I still want to climb out of my skin because I knew
deep down that my sons' unwillingness to do things he doesn't "feel like
doing" on any given day could color more important aspects of his
development and life. YES! Of course, yes! What kind of moron do you take me for?
He's only seven. He's only seven. He's only seven.
It didn't matter how many times I repeated this in my head,
I could still feel the vertical line between my eyebrows growing longer and
deeper. I was not pleased.
After a long conversation with his instructor-come-therapist,
standing right there in the parking lot, we decided it was time to "take a
break". Vince overheard us use the
word "quit" once and nearly had a coronary. My exceedingly willful son has yet to
understand that "quitting" is not always a dirty word. Especially when you are frustrating the shit out of your piano instructor.
"He reads the notes fine. Some weeks are great. We have really fun lessons and he plays
beautifully, and others…" Don
trailed off.
The two of us had had this conversation before, just a few
months ago in the spring. I know Don didn't want to "give up" either. Vince would always come around quickly and
say he wanted to play.
"This is supposed to be fun. This is supposed to be about enjoying music,
interacting with music. It just isn't
working and it's not fair to either of you," I told Vince. I was all calm, cool and collected as far as
my words went. "Now give Don a hug
and say thank you."
Don isn't creepy, by the way. He's a young guy with a family. A Steelers fan, always wears a Steelers hat. My dad made me wear a Steelers snowsuit as a young kid so Don and I are like kindred spirits. In my mind.
Don isn't creepy, by the way. He's a young guy with a family. A Steelers fan, always wears a Steelers hat. My dad made me wear a Steelers snowsuit as a young kid so Don and I are like kindred spirits. In my mind.
I quickly peeked into the window to find Nick sitting
alongside some boy and the two were sharing a game on the boy's iPhone. I am reminded again that my sons' own,
individual natures; the way they are "wired", seems to far exceed the
impact of any "nurturing" we have attempted these past seven years.
We say our good-byes and I lead the boys into the car. Next stop: grocery store. I try not to talk as I pull out of the
parking lot, then:
"Is Vince in trouble?" from Nick.
"Yea, am I in trouble?"
"No, Vince isn't in trouble. Vince, you're not in trouble. You're just not doing piano anymore."
"I'm taking a break." I see Vince's small smirk in my rearview mirror.
Is he smirking because
he thinks he won or because he really doesn't enjoy it? Was he only playing because he felt Jeff and
I wanted him to? I guess time will tell.
Small wishes for treats at the market are granted. We even rent a movie that we don't have time
to finish once dinner is over. Marie
Callendar's microwave lasagna was a real crowd pleaser. The boys seem to go to bed easily but Nick
joins me in my room while I am talking to Jeff on the phone.
"I just can't sleep, mommy."
"I understand.
Here, talk to Daddy." I hand
him the receiver and he hops up on our bed.
I walk Nick back to his room and tuck him in again. Another kiss goodnight. Another big hug.
Now I'm done. Right now,
I'm done. But I'm not done. Tomorrow is a big day. My boys start second grade. And I separated them for the first time. Which classroom door will I linger by longer? 10 or 11? I don't want them to see me cry. I know I'll cry. I always do. They're my babies.
And Jeff isn't here. I have no Jeff to just pull me off the campus
and say, "Jesus Christ, Lizzie.
They're seven. They're second
graders. This is what's supposed to
happen. This is what they're supposed to
do. It's not the end of the world. And you get to be there to stand right outside
their classrooms when they get out at 2:30.
My mom couldn’t do that. My mom
was at work. They're lucky and you're lucky. Shit, I'm more worried that they're going to
be a couple of mama's boys."
"You mean like they never leave home and hang out with
me until I die? Do you think we could
actually facilitate that happening? Like
who they'll be is really all nurture and has nothing to do with nature? Do you really think that?"
These are the conversations I am now having with myself, in
my head, as Tuesday quickly turns to Wednesday.
Liz I love it! Give those Mama's boys a hug from Ray Ray (non creepy style of course) Your writing style cracks me up and makes me want more.
ReplyDeleteI love this. I hope your Wednesday went well.
ReplyDeleteHey Tonto and Big Perm, it's a comfort to know Seattle is in the house. We are officially second graders!
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