But Am I Doing Enough?

As a parent, I sometimes experience a near-crippling fear that I’m not doing enough for my children. It’s a nagging worry that creeps into the pit of my stomach and coats my insides with a heavy blanket of dread. And it’s always worse in the summer, when I know that their progress, or at least the maintenance of their current milestones, falls squarely on my shoulders—no teachers, no school support, just me and two sets of wide, expectant eyes.

This evening, we tried for the 10 millionth and 475 thousandth time to teach Suttie to ride his bike without training wheels. It did not go well. There was lots of crying, lots of under-the-breath swearing, and lots of falling. And that was just his dad (ba-dum-tssst).

The whole experience made me realize that this is going to take a lot of time and a lot of practice. But where does that time come from? Last night, we spent nearly an hour signing him up for a program meant to keep up his math progress over the summer…and then there’s sight words…and reading…and science camps…and swim lessons…and baseball…and basketball…and time to just wander around the house looking for something to deconstruct because he’s 6 and that’s an essential part of your childhood: taking things apart and feverishly putting them back together before your parents realize what you’re doing.

And I know what you’re thinking: you shouldn’t worry about this when he’s only 6. He has his whole life to learn this stuff. And you’re right. Except that right now, this moment is part of that whole life, and the longer that I let him sit staring at an iPad, the longer I delay the important lessons that he needs to learn early:

• That you will fall off the bike, that it will hurt but you won’t be hurt, that you must get back on.
• That the things in life most worth doing are the things that are often the hardest to do.
• That your growth is at once physical and intellectual; cultivate them both.

And it’s not that I’m trying to overbook him, although I can easily see how it happens. When your child has diverse interests, you want him or her to be able to explore all of those; to live a fulfilled, happy life…even at 6. We’ve had to say no to karate, soccer, Minecraft camp, and a thousand others, and it wounds me a little each time I have to deny him an experience, but I also know that there are only so many hours in the day, that our time as a family will suffer if we are constantly on the go.

Suttie might pose more of a challenge than the average bear. The intellectual stuff comes naturally to him. He’s a lego genius, great at math, reading well, and self-composed. I shouldn’t ask for more. But he likes baseball and basketball, and he’s scared he’ll be the only first grader who can’t ride his bike. The physical stuff just doesn’t come as easily for him. He’s still growing into his body, which is in a state of serious change as he sheds his considerable baby weight and tries to gain coordination. He’s timid about trying things that he fears will hurt him, and like his poor, stream-of-consciousness blogging mother, he’s a worrier extraordinaire with a penchant for an “I’ll do it when I know how” line of thinking. These are the trials that take time; the areas where practice and hard work pays off in small steps. I can see his frustration, and again I ask, am I doing enough?

And poor, sweet, intractable Molly. I’m afraid she’s going to have to learn her shapes through stolen moments at Suttie’s activities: “See the bases form a diamond. Di-a-mond…This 4x2 lego makes a rectangle.” Yes, two children make it exponentially harder, doubling the amount of guilt that is generated by that silently asked question that hangs stale in the air, “Am I doing enough?” She starts preschool in the fall, and I often wonder, is she ready? Will she be behind because she’s been with me to this point? Am I failing her now by writing a blog post instead of setting up some station for her to count macaroni and sort pinto beans? Probably.

I feel like this dilemma is one that parents are constantly facing, over and over again throughout their children’s youths. If you’re there, you are certainly not alone. And I suspect the answer to that unwelcome question is a lot of yes and a little no. You could always do more, but the question suddenly morphs into its sister wife: “Should we?”

I have no succinct way to end this post, no wise-beyond-my-years solution to creating the perfect mix of purposeful growth and childhood frivolity. But I find comfort in the knowledge that we’re trying. Even when we’re failing, we’re trying. And I hope that the kids see that and know that we think they’re worth the investment.

But I'm Afraid of Mice: An O'Neal Disney Odyssey

Well, we did it. We joined the ranks of Superbowl winners, selfie-stick wielders, and the entire Asian continent and spent a week at Disneyworld. And now, only one of our kids can go to college.

Originally, my plan was to set up cardboard cutouts of Mickey in the yard, take pictures when the kids were still too dumb to remember anything, and years later say, “See, we did go to Disneyworld! What? Yeah, we took the shed with us.” But we waited too late, and now Suttie is almost able to tell the difference between the cardboard characters and the real ones.

Now, it’s not that we’re anti-Disney, as the kids’ playroom and DVD shelf will attest, but before we had kids, Sutton and I were purposeful world travelers. When we dropped that kind of money on a trip, we got to see the Acropolis or the Roman Coliseum or some weird French dude making out with a street lamp. So the idea of sacrificing Molly’s bail money (cause let’s face it, that’s where it was going) for a saunter down Mickey’s Main Street U.S.A. wasn’t the most appealing. There would be crowds, afternoon storms, the height of merchandising, plus our kids would be there. So in the days before the trip, Sutton and I had tempered our expectations to a mere wish for survival, which, for the first two days of our journey, I wasn’t sure would be granted.

First, everyone was freaking tired. We had to leave the house by 5 am to catch a 7 am flight out of Huntsville, so by the time we got to Orlando, all four of us were short-tempered, and Molly tried to get on a bus for SeaWorld. Once we got to our resort, we felt better, ready to change clothes and hit the magic. But O’Neal luck had other plans. You see, somewhere back in time, an O’Neal ancestor committed a Stanley Yelnats level of dumbassery and cursed the rest of us with constant inconvenience.  The bad luck is never dire; it’s just annoying.

So, when we stepped up to the check-in desk, it was only natural that we’d be the “special family” selected for a suite at a different resort. Now, being natural skeptics, Sutton and I weighed this option heavily, and I even went as far as directly asking the concierge if our “special” status was the result of our room not being ready, but he assured us (and the kids) that this suite would be amazing, themed from the Cars movie, and at a resort that was totally kid-centric. It would make their trip, y’all. And Suttie bought into it hook, line, and sinker while his dad and I exchanged sideways glances. It didn’t help that while we were standing there, hearing the full used car spiel, I received a text confirming that our room was indeed not ready. But we decided to have a little faith and, after making it clear to the concierge that we would be back for our original room if we weren’t 100% satisfied, we hopped in a taxi to the new resort.  

But upon opening the door to our “spectacular” suite, I turned to Sutton who hadn’t even made it into the room yet and said, “Nope.” The room was themed after the Cozy Cone Motel in the Cars movie, and it held up to that motel authenticity. The carpets were orange, the lamps were made of plastic traffic cones, the kids no longer had a bed but a fold out couch and the room overall was smaller than the one we’d booked. So there we were, in a crazy-looking room at a resort that was a lower value than the one we’d paid for on a trip that I’d planned for a year and been up since 4 am to go on, and I’m not gonna lie, I cried. Not a full boo-hoo cry, but a “I want to hit someone” cry (women reading this will know the difference).

But this is where Sutton shines: in opportunities for being a charming hard ass (I promise, it’s a skill). So within minutes, we boarded a taxi back to our original resort, where my husband demanded extra fast passes and meal credits and also forced the hospitality manager to admit that she had overbooked the hotel, all while wearing his patented “this is going to happen” smile. I know it well. It’s the same look he had when he first asked me out, when he proposed, and when I tried to bail on our weekly viewing of Ax Men. I honestly felt bad for her.

After all was said and done, we were treated with kid gloves, satisfied with the outcome, and finally on our way to the Magic Kingdom…where the kids rode two rides and fell asleep in the stroller before the Electric Parade.

On to Day 2, which we spent at Hollywood Studios. I blame the difficulties of this day on fatigue. Our entire family loves to sleep. We thrive on it, we depend on it, we are worthless without it. My six year old still takes naps, as do his parents on most weekends. So waking up early, staying up late, and removing naps from the equation was a HUGE adjustment. During the course of this day, Molly broke down a total of five-hundred-and-seventy-six times, including right before the Frozen sing along where she threw herself on the floor, kicking and screaming and making the poor Spanish family in front of us feel completely uncomfortable. Thank God for “Let It Go” or we wouldn’t have made it out of there.

Suttie was no angel either. His tiredness manifests as whines, so all day he was hungry, hot, itchy, bothered by Molly, looked at by Molly, breathed on by Molly, and generally uncomfortable. If his dad and I weren’t numb from schlepping the double stroller and three (yes, three) backpacks all day, we might have cared. Oh and make sure you ask him how he liked the Tower of Terror. He will tell you it was terror-ble because he’s little and still relies on puns for humor.

He insisted on riding it and was fine through most of the line until we entered a room showing a Twilight Zone-themed clip about ghosts in the tower. When I saw him cover his ears, I knew we were in trouble. And he kept those bad boys covered through the rest of the line, down into the “basement” where we waited to load an elevator. And waited, and waited, until they figured out that our elevator was broken (O’Neal luck, guys), so we moved in line for a different elevator, where Suttie cried and cried and cried until the entire free-falling experience was over, after which I thought, “Oh good, that’s done. He made it through.” But when we met back up with his dad and sister, he decided that he wanted to go again so that Sutton could go; in fact, he insisted on it. And this time, he cried through the whole line, from start to finish. I have to give it to him. He’s the only kid I know that will cry and cover his ears out of fear for a full twenty minutes and not give a damn about what anyone around him thinks. But they lived to tell the tale, and if you do choose to ask him about it, be ready to hear that tale in its full HD glory because the boy does not skimp on a single detail.

Yes, the first two days were a bit harrowing, but suddenly, Disney enthusiasts might call it “magically,” our trip turned around. We adjusted to the sleep deficit, we started to appreciate the grandeur of the parks, and the kids’ attitudes improved (for the most part, I mean Suttie still trended toward whiny and Molly threw fruit snacks at passersby, but it wasn’t anything outside the norm). We rode rides, we ate food, we saw characters, we ate more food. And most importantly, Molly got to meet ALL of the Disney princesses.

If you know anything about my daughter, you know that, apart from being, what are we calling it these days? spirited? Well, apart from that, she is also a certified princess of non-royal blood. The girl lives and breathes tiaras and dresses and ordering people around. So meeting Cinderella and her fellow elite was the highpoint of Molly’s life, today and always. When she would step up to hug these make-up laden locals, you could see that she was among her people (and by that, I mean young girls fighting off gropey grandpas while making minimum wage in Florida).

I could describe the rest of the week in detail—the shows, the parades, Sutton getting violently sick on Mission:Space—but I don’t really feel like it and I’ve got backed up episodes of Hart of Dixie to muddle through.

Suffice to say, we ended up having a wonderful trip. In fact, several times, Sutton and I would look deeply at each other, smile, and say, “This place would be a lot of fun if the kids weren’t here.” But they were there, and when they look back on their childhood, they can say, “Man, Mom and Dad screwed us up bad…but they did take us to Disney.”

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Special thanks to my sister-in-law Amanda Rochowiak, who allowed me to pick her brain for months in preparation for our trip and who pointed me in the direction of the spiked Dole whips.

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.

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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.