Kate Goes to Kindergarten!

Kindergarten is scary.

Not for Suttie. All he has to do is sing some songs, not get tagged first on the playground, glue some scraps onto some other scraps, burn through about 15 “girlfriends,” and keep track of his Lego Chima notebook.

I mean that it’s scary for me and not just because my baby is going off into the world to explore his big kid potential while I sit at home smelling his hospital blanket (although there’ll be some of that). I know that he’ll be fine; he’ll make some friends, he’ll learn some stuff.

No, kindergarten is scary for me for two other, completely selfish reasons.

First, it forces me to admit, encourage, and even insist on my son’s independence. Of course, I mean the wipe-your-own-butt, open-your-own-fruit-cup type of independence. I’m not asking him to pay the cable bill. 

And I know that this is a good thing. I see it as such. Except when I watch him struggle to open a go-gurt or when that bastard of a tear-tab finally breaks free and he slings fermented goop across his face. In those moments, I cringe…right before I grab my camera and post that shit all over Facebook.

Thus, over the course of this summer, our pre-kindergarten regimen has been something akin to a mini boot camp for self-reliance. It’s involved exercises in consumption procedures (“If you want to open the string cheese, you’re gonna have to pull those two tabs apart. No, not that end. The other end. Yeah, pull them apart. In opposite directions. Like away from each other. GAH!…just give it”); tactical dodgeball training (“Son, in six days, you’re gonna take one straight to the face if you don’t learn how to scoop and pivot”); and conflict resolution (“Violence is never the answer…unless somebody takes your cream pie and then you put that punk on his back”).

The second reason is that I like change about as much as I like fat-free mayonnaise.

As Suttie embarks on this new adventure, I am, too. I realized this when I was preparing his school supplies to turn in at orientation. I found myself stressing over whether his teacher would want the supplies in their original packages or not. Should I open them? Won’t it be harder for her if I don’t because then she’ll have to open all of them during class time? But what if she wants them to stay neatly packaged? What if something gets lost when they’re loose? OH DEAR GOD, WHAT IF THE EXPO MARKERS DRY OUT?!

And then there’s the terrifying friends element. Like most kindergarteners, he doesn’t know anyone in his class. He’ll have to make new friends, and as he does, so will I. How else will I know how Justin’s mom gets her cupcakes so springy or that Connor’s dad hides fireworks in the basement (“Son, if Connor ever asks you if you want to see something cool, call me, and I’ll come and get you”).

What’s even the protocol for making friends based on your kids? Walk up and say, “Hi, I’m Sutton’s mom. I have an acerbic sense of humor and a potty mouth. Want to be besties and raise our kids together?” I’m still working on my sales pitch.

At this minute, if you ask Suttie if he’s ready for school, he’ll say, “I’m nervous. I don’t know what to do.” Immediately I tell him, “Don’t worry; you’ll be fine,” but I feel like I should say that into a mirror.  Because what I didn’t realize about my son going to school is that his going to kindergarten is my going to kindergarten. His first day is my first day. His fears and nervousness are my own.

In the immortal words of my husband, words that he said to me after I called him at work crying on the first day that I was home alone with a newborn and a three-year-old, words that I have vowed to make him eat over and over again until the end of forever, “It’s been done before.”

And it (i.e., kindergarten) has been done before….by me, like 26 years ago. So why in the hell am I having to go through this again?

Read ahead for the alternate feel-good ending:

He’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Yada yada yada. School’s awesome.

The Beauty in the Beep

I live my life through a series of beeps.

Beep. The alarm’s going off. Time to get up and attempt to squeeze in a workout before Sutton leaves and the kids look to me alone for their survival.

Beep. The dish washer’s done….or the washer…or the dryer. I was going to sit down and enjoy a few breaths, but that sound reminds me that there are jobs to be done and that I’m already behind for the day…the week…the month…you get it.

Beep. I left the fridge open. I was grabbing Suttie a juice pouch when I noticed that Molly was trying to ride the dog (who shouldn’t be inside anyway) while simultaneously throwing goldfish like she’s on a parade float.

Beep. I’m spaced out at the green light at Publix. Sorry, dude in the sky-high pickup with off-road tires that have never seen dirt. I was trying to devise a way to bend the space/time continuum so that I could fit in Suttie’s haircut, lunch, naptime, and dinner, all before ball practice tonight. But I hear ya. That Natty Light isn’t going to buy itself.

Beep. Dinner’s ready. It’s okay, but not great. I’m going to have to make the kids count bites on this one. “Three more bites or no pudding for dessert. Two more bites or you’re on iPad restriction. One more bite or we kill the dog.”

The days are filled with a thousand other beeps, some real, some imagined. A thousand other demands on my time, my energy, my mental resources.

They are all blessings.

Beep. The alarm’s going off. I’m healthy and able-bodied enough to work out. I have a husband who will handle the morning chores so that I can.

Beep. The dishwasher’s done. We had food to eat that left dirty plates that are now effortlessly clean. The washer’s done; the dryer, too. We have clothes to wear, to shield our skin from the harshness of the sun or cold. They reflect who we are and what we like. We chose them freely and paid for them without worry or guilt.

Beep. I left the fridge open. Where we store more food than we need and where nutritious staples mingle with treats. Since day one, it’s never been empty, never left the kids wondering if there would be something inside. It even beeps to remind me to shut the condiment-laden door.

Beep. I’m spaced out at the green light at Publix. We just finished buying more food for the fridge. My worries consist of the timing of a haircut and eating this food and letting my child play a game. And I bought beer yesterday.

Beep. Dinner’s ready. It’s hot and it’s filling. I had time to prepare it. I tried hard. I’ll try harder next time. It opens a discussion with the kids about being thankful for what you have. It reminds me to be thankful.

Yesterday, we celebrated House Day. We hung home-made construction paper chains and drew pictures of houses and made cupcakes (because all celebrations require cupcakes). A week ago, I didn’t know what House Day was. Now I do. Suttie explains it best. “It’s a day to celebrate your house and that you have a house because some other people don’t. It’s like your house’s birthday where you say ‘I like you, house.’”

He came up with the idea after we had a talk about the child we sponsor and his living conditions in post-earthquake Haiti. He told me about his festive plans, and my first thought was, “Oh no, this is gonna be a lot of work. One more thing for me to do…” It was a weak moment. A moment I regret, but that I choose to carry with me to remind me that I’m blessed. And if I can’t respect my blessings enough to celebrate them, then I deserve them even less than I thought.

Beep. The alarm’s going off. No workout today. It’s house day. Today, we decorate and draw and sing and dance. It’s hokey. It can’t be like this every day. But today it is.

Beep. The cupcakes are done. They’re delicious. The kids don’t like them because they’re key lime, which means more for me. #blessed.

Beep. The computer is up and running so that we can look at pictures of houses from around the world, marveling at how other people live. It’s the first time that I’ve ever seen a yurt.

*****************

I live my life through a series of beeps.

They are all blessings. They aren’t the beeps of monitors attached to a sick child. They aren’t the beeps of a smoke alarm as our house sits ablaze and our belongings turn to ash. They aren’t the unwitting beeps of the mail carrier’s horn as he drops a foreclosure notice at our door.

They are friendly, and they are welcome.

A week ago, I didn’t know what House Day was.

Now I do.

House day pictures

The one that made me cry.

Tomorrow Suttie turns 5. It’s impossible to digest that it’s been 5 years since I was cleaning my baseboards, anticipating being induced the next morning, and thought, “Hmmm…am I in labor?” 5 years since I called my friends who’d already had kids and my mother to ask them if I was in labor. 5 years since I called Sutton at work and told him to meet me at Burger King because I was, in fact, in labor, but had waited to take a shower, apply makeup, and straighten my hair, thereby putting us into a bit of a time crunch. 5 years since I met a chubby-cheeked, completely snuggable little boy who, thank the Lord, still likes to cuddle with his momma.

And while today and tomorrow will be days of remembrances – “remember when he pooped while you were giving him his first bath, remember when he was terrified of that stuffed cow, remember when he used to say ‘Bee-ya’ instead of ‘Bailey,’” there will also be days of looking forward, which is something we do all the time anyway: “He’s so sweet and sensitive; I’m already dreading his first broken heart.” / “The kid’s crazy smart. We have to make sure that he uses it for good instead of evil.” / “He’s going away for college. That’s final.”

5 seems big to me; 5 marks a change. He’s transitioning from little kid to kid. He’ll start kindergarten in the fall. He’s losing all of the lisps and language hitches that sustained his babyhood. He says “dominoes” instead of “donimoes.” He wants to take showers and apply the shampoo himself.

This post seems sad, and, of course, in a way, it is. I’m his mother. My chest clenches tightly when I hear him say “Mom” more than “Mommy.” My eyes mist when I watch his toddler videos and realize that he’ll no longer play with “Tono the Train”; it’s Thomas now.

But it’s happy, too. He’s 5. He’s healthy. He’s happy and blessed. He knows love, how to give it and how to receive it. I am so immensely proud of him. He’s caring and good and kind. He’s no longer afraid of a stuffed cow, and it’s been weeks since he’s slung mashed carrots on the walls. He makes me a better person by reminding me of what gentle innocence can be.

So, tomorrow, when he blows out a giant #5 candle with his eyes closed and makes a wish for more Skylanders or for a later bed time or for the end of all human suffering (each equally likely), I’ll be making a wish as well. A wish for his continued happiness, a wish that, as he grows, he doesn’t lose the qualities that make him essentially Suttie, his goodness and his compassion. A wish that he will grow up strong and confident, but that he won’t do it too quickly. That we’ll have a few more years of Legos and Ninja Turtles and wanting to hang out with Mom and Dad, years of just being a boy who should be in no rush to be a man.

Take one step closer, my friend, and find out what Lemon Breeze tastes like…

I’ve been on mommy blog hiatus because, when I add teaching into the mix of my already hectic schedule, I have to save all of my creative energy for writing comments like, “Do you even come to class?” or “Your incorrect use of there, their, and there makes me want to drink bleach” on student papers.

But I’m breaking this self-imposed interval for an important public service announcement: Keep your #%$% germs at home!

This has been the sickest year in the O’Neal household to date. And it’s not because we’re unclean…I scanned the first few lines of a study with a bunch of statistics and other maths that said that our lax bathing schedule actually increases immunity.  And it’s not because we don’t take vitamins…since they came out with gummies, we’ve been all about the supplements.

No, it’s not any of these things. It’s you. You who stood behind me at the grocery counter sneezing into the ether. You who coughed on your hand and then used it to open the door at work. You who *gasp* waved at my toddler when your stomach was doing noxious flips.

And, unfortunately, it’s me. Because I have also made the unwise decision to grace a public forum with a snotty nose and a sore throat.  But no more, I tell you! Because I’m a firm believer in you get what you give, and maybe if I don’t give anything, I won’t get anything. Karma is law.

The worst sick moment of the year for me came when my son and I struggled with a weeklong bout of H1N1. SWINE FLU, people! The entire week I had to rely on my husband and thank my husband and grovel to my husband. It was excruciating because, if anybody insists on being the martyr of the family, it’s me. And here he was heating up towels and making soup and running out for Gatorade and just being all kinds of obnoxiously caring.

I will NOT go through that again.

So the next time you get the sniffles, and you think, I’m just gonna run up to Publix for a bottle of wine and a free cookie, DON’T. You hear me? Because if I’m there and I see you wipe your nose with your hand and then open the freezer, I’m gonna start shouting, “Unclean! Unclean!” and spray your ass with Lysol.