Holding On and Letting Go

We all hold our babies.
Rock them to sleep.  Wash them with sweet smelling soap.  Kiss the top of their fuzzy head.  Wipe the poop off their chubby cheeks.  Strap them to our bodies as we do necessary grown-up stuff.
Then they start to walk and talk and our touch becomes more instructional.
Stop their arm before they can smack their sibling.  Hand over hand as they learn how to print the wobbly letters of their name.  Brush her hair into pigtails.  Guide his hand as he throws the ball.
And soon they are learning with only your words guiding them. And the space between you grows.
"Put the bowls on TOP and the plates on BOTTOM."  "Buckle your seat belt."  "Keep both hands on the wheel."  "Be home by midnight."
And finally, they are fully functional without you.  They feed themselves, dress themselves, manage their own relationships.  And they don't need your touch at all.
And that is when the beautiful part happens.
The part where they seek your touch because they WANT to...not because they NEED you.
Like tonight when Hillary brought her homework to the couch...sitting close to me while she worked and I did a crossword puzzle.  Or later when Parker sat on the porch swing with me and snuggled under my arm talking about his day at school and a tv show he'd watched and his new motorcycle.
But you only get this part...this holding on...by letting go.
And it's scary because you are never sure that if you let go, they will come back to you.  There is a moment of free choice where they could choose to run far and fast.
But you hold your breath and take the risk.  And their turning to you is so much sweeter than your holding on.
 

Marching Band Friday

Friday was so Fabulous!  The weather was beautiful...it was "jeans" day at work...and it was the night of the first home football game of the year.  Normally, I don't get too jazzed about football, except when it means the marching band will take the field.  My trumpet boy would don the official uniform for the first time and march with the rest of the Wildcat Pride out onto our new and improved Field of Pride.  Sure, people pretend to come to watch football...but we all know it's really about the band!
The Queen accompanied me, causing men, women, boys, and girls to call out hellos to us as we made our way to our seats. We sat right by the Band Section.  Hillary leaned over and said, "It's so weird to be here NOT as a student."
I snapped as many pictures as I could before Parker gave me the "not cool anymore, mom" look, and Hillary and I watched as our usually not-so-great team actually scored.  We cheered and clapped and as boys pounded each other into the ground I secretly thought to myself "Thank GOD Parker quit football!"
And then it was time...

They went to the field...and I went to the fence.  No one would have to wonder what I was here for.

They sounded great.  I cheered and hollered like a Band Geek Groupie.  I congratulated the Band Director on a job well done.  I texted my husband, who was working the "chain gang".  And then I went home a happy woman.  Yes, there was still half a football game to play.  (They won and the crowd went wild...or so I was told).  But I had seen what I'd come for.  Marching Band Friday was over.  At least until next weekend.

Freshman..Part 2

Our baby girl is a Freshman...again.

It's off to college this time.  All by herself.

There will be no "meeting the teachers"...no walking her to her classroom.

I wasn't even home when she left the house.  

But she kept me updated with texts throughout the day.

"I would look so much cooler with a laptop ;)"

"...I already lost my car in the parking lot :)  found it tho...next stop PE orientation.."

"I think I'm gonna love Mondays and Wednesdays!"

And I loved it.

Could it be that I will actually know MORE about her day than I did when she was in high school, because she's an adult now and is allowed to text whenever she wants?

Change can be good, right?

Over dinner she entertained us with stories about new people she had met and silly things she had done just because she hadn't known any better.  And her laughter and enthusiasm made my own crappy Monday fade away.  It reminded me of what it was like to be at the beginning.  To have freedom but not full responsibility yet.  All fun and fresh and exciting possibility.

So maybe we will all stay Freshmen for a while after all ;)

Freshman...Part 1

My husband looked at me the other day and said, "You know...we have two freshmen this year."
To which I replied, "Is that a tear in your eye?"
He just shook his head and swiped at his "dry" eyes as he went downstairs to play a football game on the Xbox...which is his way of pushing his own emotional reset button.
So here is our youngest freshman.
Tall.
Confident.
Handsome.
PROUD of his shoes.
Loving.
Tolerant.
Dyslexic.
I wonder if he will be befriended by upperclassmen.  I wonder who he will invite to Homecoming (or if he will even go).  I wonder how his new teachers will respond to me and his diagnosis at the 501 meeting scheduled next week.  Every year I irrationally hope he has somehow outgrown his dyslexia.  But it remains, less obvious perhaps, but persistent.
I know he looks forward to getting his driver's permit, marching with the band on football fridays, and (he fervently hopes) getting taller!
So I hug my boy, who smells like a man, and take his first-day-of-school picture.  And I know that whatever happens this year will be what is supposed to happen.  And when it's over, none of us will be freshmen anymore.

Whose Fault Is It Anyway

Sometimes I experience moments of extreme doubt in my success as a parent.
Oh, there are days when I handle something well, and I think to myself, "Girl, you have GOT this!"
But more often than not, I am left wondering if I said the right thing...showed the appropriate emotion...gave enough support without being overbearing.  Much like the scientist who skews his experiment my very existence influences who my children become.
Like when my daughter is crushed because she finds out her "friends" are having a movie night without inviting her.  Do I talk to her?  Remind her that she has plenty of other friends and that no one has the power to make us miserable except us...that she has a choice to mope about it or to have her own movie night with people who WANT to be with her?
Do I leave her alone to practice the coping skills we've worked on all these years?
In the end, I do a little of both.  But later, in the kitchen, as I am analyzing it out loud to my husband I say something like, "It's probably my fault that she doesn't have many close girlfriends and has always had a boyfriend instead.  After all, you and I are each other's best friend.  Maybe we have been too happy together in front of her.  I should have gone out with the girls more."
And he rolls his eyes because of course that makes no sense and says, "It's not your fault."
I give him a look and reply, "I'm the Mother.  It will ALWAYS be my fault."
Has he never heard of psychology?  Geez.
But then again...if I'm going to take responsibility for the bad, then I might as well take credit for the good, right?
Like when my son leaves the extra grilled cheese on the plate for his dad to eat, and takes the majority of the tomato soup instead.  Character skill...thinking of others.  Check.  Nutrition skill...choosing a vegetable over carbs.  Tomatoes count, right?  I know they do...something about lycopene?  I'm giving that a check.
So maybe it's not a total loss.
I'll ask my therapist...it probably has to do with my mother.

No Place Like Home

Hillary and I just returned from the State Fair, where she participated in the Queen contest (part of her duties as Crawford County Queen).
After 2 full days of this...

                                    (our host family)

It was really nice to have this...

It was a good experience, and lots of learning took place.  And even though we didn't win another crown, our girl is still the Queen of Our Hearts.

And having traveled the entire Kingdom over, we found that there is really no place like Home.

One More Kiss

I woke this morning with a heavy heart.  Today would be a hard day.
Yesterday, two bus loads of band students, who were on their way to a back to school field trip were in a multi-vehicle pile up on the interstate.  I was working in my classroom when we got the news there had been an accident.  A co-worker rushed out in a panic...she had two daughters on that bus.  Hours later, one of them would be gone.  And many other students would be injured and shell-shocked.
I spent the evening with my eyes glued to the news footage...I couldn't seem to focus on anything else.  I attended a prayer vigil held at my own children's high school where the students expressed their pain and emotional support for these fellow band members from their neighbor-town.
How would we go back to work after this?
My family slept peacefully...I was the only one who was starting work today...and I gathered my purse and keys.  I walked to the front door.
"Kiss them goodbye," my heart whispered.
But they're all sleeping.  I don't want to wake them up.
"Kiss them goodbye."
I put my things down and went to my son's room.  He was deep in boy sleep all tangled in a sheet. He has a "loft" bed and  I chuckled at myself inwardly because I had to climb up on a tall stool to reach his forehead.  This was no incidental kiss.  It was intentional.  I kissed his cheek. "I love you," I whispered.  He stirred, "love you too" he mumbled.
Then I went down the stairs to Hillary's "apartment."  She snuggled on her side, bangs across her face.  I swept the hair aside and kissed her smooth cheek.  "I'm going to work.  I love you."  "love you too, mom," she said, never opening her eyes.
I went out the door and into my day, feeling so blessed to have my children within lips reach.  Because we don't always know when we give the last kiss.  I'm just thankful I've had one more...

Hands- Free Parenting

Hillary and I were riding down the interstate, sipping our Sonic drinks and singing to Kate Nash when it happened.
Her phone slipped off her lap and down in between the seat and the console.
She reached for it, but barely touched it with the tips of her fingers.  So she did the logical thing.  No, I don't mean waiting until we got home so she could move the seat back and retrieve it.  I mean she pushed and wriggled until her hand wrapped around the precious piece of plastic.
And like the monkey who reaches for the fruit cleverly placed in the tree trunk trap, she was caught.
"Mom, I can't get my arm out."
Whatever.  She was laughing and pulling halfheartedly on the apprehended appendage.  Surely she was joking.  After all, she got her arm IN there...so surely she could get it back OUT.
I kept driving.
She grunted and tugged and tried pushing her arm forward, then back.  She started to move the entire seat up a bit, but cried out when that caused pain.
Her laughter was turning panicked.
Our exit was in sight.  I pulled onto the ramp, then over to the side of the road and threw the car in park.
By this time there were tears.
I went around to the passenger side.
Leaning over her 18 year old body, I tried all the things she had already tried...to no avail.  The whole time she was offering not helpful suggestions.  No, I assured her, water would not help.  No, I didn't have any lotion.
She found a bottle of hand sanitizer in the cup holder and squirted it on her arm.  Which did nothing but make her arm stuck AND germ-free.
I grabbed the edge of the seat with my fingers, planted my flip flops in the gravel of the road shoulder, and PULLED with all my might...meanwhile grunting to her to try pulling her arm straight up.
No good.  I considered...fire department?  Police station?
I stood up, wiped the sweat from my brow, and said, "OK.  Look at me.  Tell me exactly what you did to get your arm INTO that spot."
"I just kept wriggling until I felt my phone."
"Alright then," I said.  "Keep wriggling and moving your fingers as you pull..." And I did my SuperMom trick of pulling sideways on the seat frame again.
And a minute later...she was free.
She cradled her now-creased arm and I got back behind the wheel.
Thank goodness at least one muscle in my body is strong (the one in my skull).  Cause I'm gonna need it to be a "hands-free" mama!

War and Peace

Something magical happens at the beach.  

From the moment my toes hit the sand the thing that's tightly wound inside me starts to loosen. My breathing slows and my heart begins to beat to the rhythm of the waves.

And it's not just me...the sand and surf brings out the best in my kids too.  The tangy salt air brokers a truce between siblings who were at war just five min ago in the cramped car.  

Instead of "Turn your ipod down!  I can hear it over MY music" and "I'm sitting there...I called it first...No, you didn't..." I hear things like "Hillary, when you walk up out of the water you look like that girl off the James Bond movies."  And "Parker, do that trick again so I can take your picture."

They actually PLAY together again.  They boogie board and bounce in the waves.  They build castles in the sand.  Even their movements become synchronized.

And while the truce ends at the boardwalk, for now they are building the castle and not storming it!

(Actually, this is a camera, not a castle, but that's not nearly as sweet :)