Saying Goodbye

Every day that I drop Paddy off at preschool I feel a profound sense of sadness. On June 8th Paddy will graduate and later this year he will begin a new chapter in his life, kindergarten.

Growing up there was no discussion of what school we would attend. There were no options or decisions to be made. I did not live in a school district that was labeled as "under-performing" and that had been taken over by the state of Massachusetts. I do now.
 
Yet, we were still ready to enroll him in our city school. And then we heard stories of extended school days. We heard that good teachers were leaving the district in droves. We were told that our son's education would be focused on passing standardized tests.

Even so, I wasn't worried. I was confident that Paddy would be able to attend the school in the next town over. I thought school choice would be an easy option. At the end of March, however, I learned that there were no openings for him. I panicked.

Patrick and I called a realtor. We went to the bank to get pre-qualified for a mortgage. We started looking at new homes in South Hadley, Hatfield, Florence, Westhampton. Anywhere but here.

I also started filling out school applications, learning I had missed many of the deadlines for the much sought after programs in our area. I began to feel like a failure. It is my responsibility to make sure he gets a good education and I had dropped the ball.

But then, about 2 weeks ago, we learned that he had been accepted into a wonderful new pilot program in our city. The answer to our prayers. We were elated, or at least my husband was. We went downtown and registered him for school. "This is exciting!" said my husband. "Yes," I calmly agreed.

It didn't make any sense. Everything had worked out the way it should. We are able to stay in our home and our son is enrolled at a fabulous school. Although I had panicked about so many things over the last few months--the state taking over our school district, the longer school day for my 5-year-old, having to put Gabo in the car twice a day, five days a week to ferry his brother to school, Gabo not being able to take afternoon naps, Gabo not being able to attend the preschool we would want--everything had worked out, hadn't it?

Yesterday, as I drove Paddy to preschool and we looked in awe at the clouds touching the mountain, it hit me. We stopped to watch a groundhog eating in a field and talked about the large red tailed hawk that had just flown over the car and I started to cry.

All of the panic and let down I have been feeling boils down to one thing: I am sad.

I am sad that my little boy is growing up.

I am sad that my little boy will be away from me 8 1/2 hours a day, 5 days a week.

I am sad that Gabo will be separated from his "Bo" 8 1/2 hours a day, 5 days a week.

I am sad that Gabo won't hear his 2-year-old buddy Anna calling as we walk into preschool: "Where's Gabo? Where's Gabo?"

I am sad that we won't see the splendor of autumn in the mountain leaves every fall morning.

I am sad that I won't be showing my boys eagles and hawks as we drive to school.

I am sad that we won't stay after school to play with our friends in "nature play."

I am sad that I won't see the friends I have made.

We are losing something as we make the transition from preschool to kindergarten and no matter what I am freaking out about in the moment, it really comes down to one simple thing: I am sad that we are losing it.

The Deafening Sound of Silence

I remember a night when I was about 25-years-old. I went to NYC with a friend to go dancing. We checked into a hotel and around 4 a.m. we tried to go to bed. All I could hear was the street noise below and the sound of a flag banging on a flag pole, bang, bang, bang, bang.

My friend, born and raised in the city, slept peacefully in her bed. I slept on the floor, head in the bathroom, the fan on, cotton balls in my ears.

Years later I found myself in the kitchen with my two small boys running around me screeching and playing. My mother had slept over the previous night and stood there pouring her first cup of coffee. She was in a bit of a daze.

"It's different, huh? Than it was with us?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "I have to admit it was different." She had raised two girls.

She wondered whether buying them dolls and doll carriages would help. Would they play quietly? No, they would not. The would use their dolls as ninjas and the carriages would crash into the walls.

While the noise at 7 a.m. is admittedly intense, it is normal to me. I wash dishes while they sword-fight and run screaming from one end of the kitchen to the other crashing into the refrigerator.

Even though the noise is my new norm, I felt giddy when my husband decided to take both boys out hiking this morning. A whole hour alone in a quiet house on a Sunday morning. I could do so much. I would take a shower, knit, post some pictures on Facebook.

The first thing I did was take a shower, with the door closed, alone.

A few minutes into the shower, though, I found that instead of relaxing I was anticipating. When would my 4-year-old barge in to pee? When would my 18-month-old start banging on the door yelling "mama, mama!"? When would something crash to the floor?

I finished my shower and listened to the silence. It was deafening. For a brief moment I wondered if this is what it feels like when your kids move out? It was a sad thought.

As soon as I left the bathroom and sat down in the living room I saw the car pull into the driveway. They had been gone less than 20 minutes (you learn to shower quickly when you have two children under five).

The door opened and my husband walked in, our 18-month-old yelling in his arms.

"Not happening," he said. "He won't get into the backpack. He just flailed and screamed. But Paddy still wants to go."

With that he turned and walked back out the door leaving me with a wailing child. "Dada, dada!" he screamed and cried. I brought him into the living room to soothe him.

I took a deep breath and realized that now things felt right.

Unsolicited Advice to My Childless Self: Be Selfish

Before I had children I took so many things for granted. I read whenever I wanted, curled up on the couch for hours after a bad day at work, didn't think twice about running to the store to buy just one thing.

Friends and family members with kids would offer me one piece of advice: "Enjoy it," they'd say. "Once you have a family, everything changes." I've never really appreciated unsolicited advice (although I am guilty of giving it). I probably should have listened a little more.

Now I am sitting here, listening to Teletubbies and my two young boys yelling at each other. Every so often I notice the pile of popcorn on the floor growing as my 18-month-old methodically empties his bowl, one handful at a time.

And I wonder, what unsolicited advice would I give my childless self?

• Sleep: Forget the idea that you "sleep enough when you are dead." Sleep now. Sleep whenever and wherever you can. I haven't had a full night of sleep since 2010. It is now 2015.

• Call in sick: Don't be a martyr. If you are sick, stay home. Curl up in bed, drink hot tea and sleep. Once you have children (and I speak as a stay-at-home mom) there is nobody to call in sick to. If you are sick, your children and spouse are probably sick too and you will live in the land of "suck it up."

• Don't be so hard on yourself: Don't focus so much on your weight or compare yourself to others. Enjoy every piece of chocolate that touches your lips. Once you have kids your hips will spread and your belly will be mushy. But, none of that will matter so don't let it matter so much now. 

• Enjoy the quiet: Every day sit in a room, by yourself and just be quiet. Once you have kids you will live with a perpetual wall of sound. Not complaining, just saying.

• Close the bathroom door: Every time you walk into the bathroom, close the door. Even if you are just going in to wash your hands or grab the towels to wash. Close the door and memorize what it looks like. Once you have kids you will never see the back of the door again. 

Trying to close the bathroom door.

• Don't complain about having to clean: It is hard to understand now, but you will miss being able to clean. You will miss the smell and look of a freshly mopped floor. You will miss walking through your house without tripping on toys or stepping on a freshly chewed and spit out apple peel.

So, childless self, I have one piece of unsolicited advice for you: Be selfish.  

Coping with the Incomprehensible: Kids Found Trapped in Hot Cars

After an hour and fifteen minutes of playing at the library the boys and I left to get back into our black RAV4. I had tried to park in the shade at 10:05 am but the only two shady spots had been taken. Paddy suggested a shadier spot farther from the entrance. It's early I thought and parked in the sun.

I returned to the car saddled with my 15-month-old, my purse, and a bag of library books. I opened the driver side door, started the car to blast the air conditioning and opened all of the windows. After then emptying my hands and buckling my boys I got into the driver's seat. The thermostat on the dashboard read 97 degrees. I put the windows up, started to drive and started to sweat.

As I traveled down a windy and shady road the thermostat reading dropped to 85 degrees. After about five minutes it felt more comfortable in the car and I stopped worrying weather the kids were too hot.

What I did was start thinking about a video I saw on Facebook recently of a toddler being rescued from a car in a Costco parking lot. The mother returned after the police had broken the window and extracted the child. Her older daughter was at her side and her cart was full of groceries. My stomach turned.

There are many things in this world that are hard to make sense of but this is incomprehensible. Why would anyone leave a child in the car in a hot parking lot with the windows rolled up while they shopped? I don't even like returning a shopping cart on a hot day or leaving the kids in the car long enough to unlock the door to the house. But long enough to shop for shoes (as in a recent case) or go grocery shopping?

Something needs to be done. I was happy to see a sign as I walked into Walmart today. It reminded shoppers to look in their cars to make sure that you haven't left your child. This seems to be a drop in the bucket though.

Whether children are left in cars because caregivers forget, are somehow ignorant to the dangers or are abusive does not matter to me. Charging a caregiver with a crime after the fact does nothing, the harm has been done. What matters is what is being done to prevent this. Fortunately the child I saw recently on Facebook survived. Many others don't.

I don't often use this blog to talk about issues like this but I don't know where else to place my anger and sadness. Yet.

Grandparents Around Every Corner

Last week I attended the funeral of a dear family friend. More than that, he was like a grandfather to me. I grew up on a very short street, 5 houses total, bordered by a large paper mill and a cemetery.

Our neighborhood was a tight-knit community. We had ice cream parties in the summers, saw each other on Christmas day, and attended each others' big life events. The neighbor who recently passed attended my college graduation and my wedding. He was beyond himself with joy when he met my first born son.

I don't often think about my children needing surrogate grandparents. Paddy and Gabo are blessed to have five doting grandparents (and for the first three years of his life Paddy had six). But I find that we are surrounded with surrogate grandparents just as I was when I was a child.

Earlier today Paddy, Gabo and I walked next door to one of our next door neighbor's homes on our not so short, but pretty quiet street. She is retired and lives there with her partner. She invited us in and gave us cookies and milk. She helped Paddy write his name on a piece of paper and hung it on her refrigerator.

After lunch our neighbor in the other next door house asked Paddy if he would like to plant some flowers. I sat in the nursery putting Gabo down for his afternoon nap and listened to them chatter as she first taught him, then allowed him, to plant her flower garden.

My husband and I often talk about moving from our home. Eventually we would like a little bit bigger home, a little more land, a slightly better school district. After being reminded the importance of community and watching Paddy with our neighbors today, I wonder--- is it worth losing so much for a little bit more?

The Worst Advice to Give a Breastfeeding Mother: Just Cover Up

I'm at the bagel shop. Doing my thing, throwing things on the floor and watching my mommy and brother scramble to pick them up. Then, mommy pulls me onto her lap and I get excited. I know what's coming. 

But, mommy gets nervous. I feel her heart beat faster and I see her looking around the room. 

Where is it? Why is this taking so long?

Then, the lights go out. I know it's there, but I can't find it. And it's hot. And I can't see mommy. 

This is how I imagine my son feels when I "cover him up" to nurse. He flails. He pushes the wrap off of his head. He struggles to latch on. This is why the person who advises--whether with good intention or not--to just cover up is not considering the feelings of the mother or the baby. If he were, he would know that the mother is left feeling shamed and the baby, anxious and disconnected from the mother.

Recently this issue hit home when a local business tried to institute a policy stating that breastfeeding was only allowed in the play area if a cover was used. The business caters to children up to the age of six. The outrage on social media was swift. By the end of the day, the owner had recanted the policy, but the damage was done.

Opinions on whether a breastfeeding mother should cover her breast and subsequently her baby's head while nursing ran rampant, varying from supportive to ridiculous. After a local newspaper ran an article on this business' attempt to institute the policy and the subsequent nurse-in that took place at the business, one comment at the end of article likened breastfeeding to men pulling their penises out and urinating in public. Needless to say, this was one of the more ridiculous--and disturbing--statements.

Yet, throughout this debate, voices were heard but feelings were ignored. Many commentators--wanting to offer a quick fix to the nursing-mother-problem--repeatedly said "just cover up," but they failed to even think about how a woman feels when she is told that feeding her child is a shameful act that needs to be hidden.

Meanwhile, women are celebrated for exposing their bodies in the media, on the beach, on the streets, but they are corrected for showing a small piece of breast when feeding their babies, and women are the ones left to deal with these mixed messages.

And what about the baby? How many grownups would want to eat a sandwich under a blanket? It's not only uncomfortable but dark and hot. Also, when under a cover, the baby can't make eye-contact with his mommy and this is scary; if you're out of a baby's eyesight, you don't exist.

So, after reading those responses in the local newspaper, I felt outraged, shamed, and disappointed. Yet, I also felt somewhat empowered. My reaction varied from feeling like I should never breastfeed in public again to wanting to burn my nursing wrap and whip out my breast to feed my child in every restaurant in the Pioneer Valley. (If only my husband and I had the money.)

But I also felt confused. It is common knowledge that breastfeeding is recommended by the medical community. So, while doctors tell us to breastfeed, the public shames us for nursing when we do it in the wrong place or in what society deems the wrong way.

I started to breastfeed four years ago, when I had my first child. Now, I have a nine-month-old, and rarely do I feed my son in public without using a cover; and I never have. I cover up not only for my comfort, but for the comfort of others. If my 22-year-old nephew is visiting, I cover myself. If I am in my father-in-law's home, I cover myself. If I am in a restaurant, I cover myself.

And, when I cover up, I duck under the cover with my son to keep him company.

Luckily, I do not always feel I have to cover up. I am supported by many in my community and I am fortunate to live in an area where a policy telling nursing mothers to cover up or leave the room is an anomaly (as well as against the law). Unfortunately, I also walk away knowing that there is still an incredible stigma around breastfeeding. I walk away knowing breastfeeding is misunderstood and the feelings of women and their babies are often ignored.

The recent event will not change my breastfeeding practices. I will continue to use a cover in restaurants and I will continue to duck under with my son so he's not alone. I will continue to nurse openly in places where I feel comfortable and supported. The only thing that may change is that I will not patron establishments that do not support me feeding my child. I will not give money to an establishment that supports a point of view that says such a natural act as breastfeeding needs to be kept under wraps.

Life as a Mom: Being a Little Less Graceful Under Pressure

"Momma, what does fuck mean?"

I was four months pregnant, sitting on the floor in my basement, bawling. My three-year-old was standing over me. I had just attempted to call my husband at work to no avail. Our septic tank was backing up into our washing machine.

I am no stranger to crisis. I spent four years as a therapist for adolescents in residential homes and eight years as the clinical supervisor for an adult mental health crisis unit. The name of the facility even had the word crisis in it.

At work I had my own pair of pink rubber boots so my feet would stay dry when the new bathrooms flooded. When I wasn't unclogging toilets and cleaning up vomit I was standing up to angry men and convincing suicidal people not to hurt themselves. I could handle a lot at the same time.

All of that seems to have changed. Now that I am home with two small children the stakes are higher for me.

When I am driving my car and it lurches or when I am exiting the highway and the brake light comes on, I panic.

When the carbon monoxide detector starts beeping at 4:20 am and the fire department tells us to leave our home with our family on one of the coldest days of a New England winter, the adrenaline rushes.

If my husband and I had been alone when the detector beeped, we would have changed the batteries or moved the monitor. But we weren't. We were staggering around our home blurry-eyed looking at our small children. We dialed 911 and walked outside, blankets wrapped around our boys.

I am lucky to have a partner who I can lean on during these times. He understands my anxiety even when I don't. He forgives me for teaching our toddler how to swear and wipes away my tears. He helps me develop evacuation plans so I don't to lie awake panicking about what I would do in an emergency.

Yet, as I think about all of the normal every day emergencies--breaking-down cars , temperamental septic tanks, beeping alarms--I realize how differently I react to stressful situation. Now that I have two little lives in my hands, I don't cope with things quite as easily. Every difficult situation is a little scarier.

Today, I can no longer face a crisis head on without a little cursing and crying on the side.

And I have to accept that when I have water from my septic system mixing with my laundry my son may learn to swear. And that will have to be OK.