We have survived the first week back to school. You should know this looks something like my 9-year-old crying every morning because he is not ready to wake up and crying in the evening because he hates homework, my 12-year-old falling asleep on the couch by 6pm and melting down when I have to work the weekend, and me sitting here typing this as piles of books lay at my feet because I impulsively cleared every shelf in the homeschool room to transition it back to a library. We are works in progress. I should also tell you that they love school. They love making friends, being independent, and exploring this world through a fresh perspective. They are happy, and that is all this mama heart needs to know. If you need me, I will be furiously knitting socks while I ignore these book piles.
I’m Growing It Out
I’m finding myself in another state of transition, resigning myself to another shift, accepting the uneven ground it brings until time smooths the path once more. There is beauty here, yet it sits in the shadows. I am eager to see it in daylight so I can breathe a sigh of relief that my unstable footing was temporary…and necessary.
As a child, my hair was always long, usually in braids or a ponytail. My dad preferred long hair and so this is how my mom kept it. As I grew older, whenever my life underwent a significant change, I cut it…short. I didn’t realize I was doing this at the time, but as an adult, I can see that the more difficult the transition, the shorter I cut my hair.
I now realize that this is a thing. It’s not that I was angry with my parents, it wasn’t a display of rebellion, but it was something low-risk that I could control. Last week I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, grabbed my shears, and unabashedly cut several inches off my hair.
It’s human nature to find ourselves in situations where we have to make a choice, a choice where neither option is “the right one” or “the wrong one”, but one of them is the right one for the moment…the right one for us. While I now have the autonomy to make decisions in my life, subconsciously I knew this decision was about my children, not me. As a mother, I incessantly worry about making the right choice for them.
We have experienced many blessings at the hands of homeschooling. For almost three years we’ve had the time and freedom to anchor our family in love, while fostering the beliefs and morals we hold sacred. I have watched our children grow, experience, learn, accept, be challenged, navigate adversity, and advocate for themselves. So when my daughter approached me with tears in her eyes pleading for more structure, to return to school, I trusted her to know her needs.
I had been frustrated with my schedule for weeks, craving a regular routine for all of us. As a nurse, I am not guaranteed routine. I am fortunate to not have to work full time, but I am still required to work weekends, holidays, and some weekdays. For the majority of our time at home, this worked for us. We traveled and explored, we learned how to be flexible and self-disciplined. Now, it is no longer working. They need more, and I want more for them. Homeschool served us well, and now I hope this new adventure will serve us just as well. We are all a bit apprehensive because, well, change is difficult. I’m hoping by giving them the autonomy over their education, they will choose to keep their hair. If not…I knit great hats.
No More Strings
in archives
Dear Sammy,
The changes you have made from three years to four years are mind-blowing. Today you asked, “Mom? Can you call Max Moms’s so I can go to his house to pyay?” If you know me at all, this would normally make my insides twisty and my head go foggy until I inevitably would say, “sorry, Honey, Mommy doesn’t do play dates”. It’s not that I don’t want you and your sister to have friends, I do. But Home is my safe space, and leaving it to hold conversation with a stranger for two hours while you play with your new, sweet friend feels like climbing a slippery, icy mountain wearing tap shoes smothered in coconut oil. But if you knew your three-year-old self, you would know that at the end of the year your teachers were concerned that you were not as verbal as they would have liked and suggested you might need extra help making friends. I don’t know how they came to that conclusion at all seeing how playing with your pretend friend, Nolan, is a perfect example of imagination at its best, and isn’t parallel play normal for three anyway? I kindly rejected their concerns and told them how well you spoke at home among people you actually liked and how you have plenty of friends, thank you very much. I insisted that this was a personality trait and that you took after me. I said this in the nicest way possible, of course, and I left out that part about how I would rather sit by myself in a room full of books than socialize with a room full of strangers any day of the year. No one needs to know about my hermit tendencies, or my need to remove myself from the stimulation of a party just so that my ears will stop ringing and the carbonation in my brain will stop fizzing.
“I really want to play wif Max at his house. Can you call his mom on this day?”
I don’t know Max or his mother, and I don’t know their phone number. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to jump up and whisk you over to their house this very second. The truth is, this is the first time you have asked to play with a real person who isn’t a family member or “Nolan” or Mario or Luigi. You are forming relationships with real people and becoming a real boy! I’m imagining an interaction with a sly fox and cat in the middle of a dirt road and I’m feeling anxious at the thought of all the decision-making you will encounter along this path. But you are not made of wood and I don’t have a blue fairy in my back pocket, so let’s make a promise to one another. I promise to never hold you back in this life, if you promise to never sprout donkey ears and grow into a full-fledged ass, okay?
“Yes, Baby. I will try to find out Max’s mommy’s phone number so we can get together to play.”
And just like that, we’re growing up.
Love,
Mama
Growing Pains
in archives
Dear Antonia,
This has been your first year riding the school bus. Every morning, we talk about the day ahead as we watch out of the living room window for the bus to round the corner of the next street over. We open the front door as quietly as possible so we don’t wake your brother, although, he usually is making his way down the stairs with his blankie as we turn the knob. As we cross the street and walk several houses down, we hold hands and hug against the cold morning air. These precious minutes are ours. No matter how many times I have to nag you to “get dressed” or “put on your shoes”, or “hurry up!” –once we are out into the day, the morning chaos vanishes as we take in the scenes of our quiet street before the sun presses the start button on Today.
On this particular morning, you look up at me with your big, 6-and-a-half-year-old eyes and ask, “Mom? Do you think I can wait for the bus by myself?” I am not shocked by this question. You have been testing your independence frequently in the last few weeks. Just yesterday you managed to wear makeup and shoes with heels to church while I was at work; even though you knew these things are reserved for playing at home. You ride the fence between wanting to be a little girl and wanting to be a grown up. I am comforted by the fact that the grown-up moments are much fewer. But they are increasing, quickly. I am not shocked by your request, but I'm not ready for it either.
“Well, maybe that would be okay, but I have to look to see if I am able to watch you from the window. If I can’t see you, I will have to walk to the end of the drive, but as long as I can see you, I am ok with you crossing the street and standing at the stop by yourself.”
You are silent for a moment, and then, “I don’t know, let me think about it. “ (Little Girl Moment)
We see the bus on the next street and open the door to walk outside.
“What do you want to do, Miss?”
As we near the end of the driveway, you turn and wrap your gangly arms around my waist in a hug. “I can do it. I love you, Mom!”
I tell you I love you and remind you to look both ways before crossing the street. I watch your confident stride as you make your way to the bus stop. We are facing each other now, on opposite ends of Sawmill Bend. I can’t help but wave and smile. You wave back. I hear the bus travelling toward us and I feel a rush of something in my chest. This is when we usually get one more hug and kiss in before you board that yellow school bus, before I hear Miss Barb bellow, “Good Morning, Nia! How are you today?!” I wave one more time, hoping you can see me before the bus separates our view of one another. You see me, and wave back. I can see your little feet underneath the bus, climbing the steps. You did it (Grown-Up Moment). Tears are sliding down my face, and I realize I did it too.
Love,
Mama
Brick by Brick
Dear Nia & Sam,
You know what I'm going to say so I am tempted to not even continue. I'm late. Very late. Should I go on with the excuses and let the begging for forgiveness commence? Neither one of you have letters from me on your last birthdays, but you did turn three and six. I swear, I saw it happen with my own eyes. Sammy, you are going to be turning four in a couple months and I am thanking God for two things:
1. You finally stopped pooping in your underwear
2. I see your Ujak in your sweet face often
He passed away ten days before your third birthday, and while my heart held so much love for you and I had so many feelings I wanted to document for you, his death crippled me for some time - and still does - in a lot of ways. But the most important thing for you to know is that the reason it is so difficult for me to process is because of the love I have for him. It's a love that you and your sister will have forever. I am so overjoyed for you both that you get to receive such a blessing. Don't ever take it for granted. I see so much of us in the two of you. God blesses me with this moment after moment.
You are best friends, and Nia, I know he tries your patience at times, but he is the first one to remind you how much he loves you when you are sad. He is the first one to run to you when you get home from school, and sometimes he even makes you laugh harder than Daddy. Now THAT is something! Sammy, I can't wait to see what this year brings, but then again, I can. I can wait. Because I feel like I have been in a fog this past year, and I want to soak in every single second of this next one.
My Antonia, when did you get to be such a little lady? When did you learn to read chapters and dance the actual steps, and know them by name - in French?! You are such a sensitive soul and I absolutely love your heart. You woke up yesterday morning with fangs, and I tried my best to keep my distance lest you drain me of life. And then, out of nowhere in the early afternoon, you turned to me and said, "Mama? I was mean when I woke up and I hurt Sammy's feelings. Do I have to say my sorry, or can I just feel it?" After I choked down my tears I said, "Oh honey, I am so glad you are feeling better. I bet Sammy would love to hear that you are sorry so that he can forgive you." You didn't say anything right away, to me or your brother. This is where the pieces of me have collected inside of you.
You had to feel, and you had to think about how you made him feel, and then you had to feel badly about it. You had to feel so sorry in your heart, repeatedly, and then come to the slow realization that if you didn't get it out it would consume you. I know this process well. People think it is stubbornness, and maybe it is, I don't know. But maybe it's that the feelings are unbelievably strong and they reverberate painfully in your brain and they're so loud you can't speak over the silence right away. You can't make sense. It's not until later that your words come into focus and you realize there isn't anything that could possibly stop you from making it better. And that's when I heard you from the other room.
"Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry I was rude to you."
"ok"
"Do you forgive me?"
"Wanna pyay Mario Brudders?"
And all was right with the world.
You both should know something in reference to yourselves and the place we call home:
This little house was built brick by brick. It crumbles in places where the seams are weak and it wears with time. But God makes firm, this house, from the foundation up. It will continue to be a work in progress. A beautiful mess. A constant renovation. And if you let the light in (and maybe a friend or two), it won't be dark for long.
Love,
Mama