The shimmery gray dress nipped at her ankles, skirting the tops of her feet with a sassiness.It had been an easy find, unique and affordable.It brought out her inner Roman goddess, accentuating all of her attributes and masking the flaws.
A company Christmas party.What could and should be expected?What was the protocol?Who was there to impress?It didn’t matter because this night allowed her to step inside of her comfort zone, to be someone that she wasn’t during the 9-5 monotony of Corporate America.This was her night to be herself.
Company Christmas parties…what was the protocol?Bring a date or go solo?In the end, she talked her roommate into coming along.They agreed on a few hours at the buttoned up Corporate America shindig before heading out to a much more laid back, casual atmosphere of a friend’s Christmas party.
Her clear acrylic heels adorned with rhinestones clicked on the staircase as she made her way to the next party.The shoes elevated her normal 6 foot frame allowing her to look out above the masses.She was at ease, all pretenses of being someone else released its hold upon her and exited through the closing door after gently taking a bow.She smiled as she was relieved of her shackles of dissimilation and could be with her friends, her chosen family, her village.
The drinks flowed, the music caressed her soul, and the card games stripped her of any monetary satisfaction, but she was content.Her body melted into the sofa as she engaged in friendly banter among her co-partiers.The evening was quickly becoming a propitiation to what had been a mentally taxing week, and just when she thought the night could not become more blissful, the door across the room opened.
A trio of males, past the age of being called boys, but still exuding a slight level of immatuturity that prevented them from being referred to as men, entered the apartment.They were all strangers to her, not one face exuding any sense of familiarity and just when she decided that the three were too mundane to warrant anymore of her curiosity, the third one came into view.
He was tall, dark, and handsome.Every fairytale cliché of Prince Charming was wrapped up into him.Tragic love stories were written about him, with tortured hearts and damsels in distress.It was at that moment in time, with the opening of that door, that her life would change forever.From that point forward in life, each step, each decision would be made with a new perspective.
Did he see her?Could he sense the quivers in her belly, the skipping of her heart beat?Could he possibly notice her, one girl in a sea of beautiful women?
She should look away, she thought to herself.How mortifying would it be if he caught her staring, but she couldn’t tear herself away from watching him glide into the room, a smile spreading across his face as he met each person.He was tall, black hair, with a slight little cleft in his chin.He was broad shouldered, muscles clearly seen beneath the sleeves of his shirt. He was the exact opposite of the skinny, non-athletic nerdy types she’d always been attracted to.He couldn’t possibly be interested in her.
Finally she decided it was time to look away, to not be quite so obvious, but it was a little too late.He’d seen her and shock of all shocks, he was walking over to her.
He introduced himself and she reciprocated.He took a seat alongside her on the couch and the conversations never seemed to lull.There was always something to talk about, something funny to be told, and there was no place else either one of them could imagine being at that very moment in time.
As the night waned, many of the partiers, her roommate included, decided to go elsewhere.She uncrossed her legs and begin to rise, in doing so she lost one of her shoes.At that moment, he knelt down and while grabbing the shoe, he cupped one hand behind her shin and slid the shoe back onto her foot.
“It looks like Cinderella lost her glass slipper,” he said with a smile and that is how the greatest love story came to fruition in 2003.
One of my newest endeavors that has taken me away from this blog, is actually one of my most favorite past times. I thought today, of all days, would be a great day to fill you in on this adventure. For those of you who may be unaware to the significance of the day, today marks the 10th anniversary of my brother’s passing after fighting leukemia for 3 years.
A year ago today, as I sat in my rotary meeting, I listened to a speaker discuss a new park that was (and is) under construction in Greenville. It is to be called the Cancer Survivor’s Park, and it’s to be a place of rejuvenation, a place of learning, and a place of healing for everyone who has experienced some form of cancer directly or indirectly.
As I sat in that meeting, I learned that I was considered a survivor of cancer because I am a survivor of my brother. The executive director, Kay Roper, spoke so eloquently and passionately about this park, what it meant to her and what it would mean to the community. Within moments, I had a lump in my throat and tears at the brim.
I’d spent a good year and a half before meeting Kay, trying to find a place for me outside of being Davey and Henry’s mom. I looked for something that would be an old semblance of myself, the creative, hard-working, career oriented individual I always thought I would be. I knew what I was looking for was volunteer work as I didn’t have the band width to handle a full time job and still be the mom my boys had grown accustomed to. Problem was, as I’ve always said, it couldn’t be just any volunteer work. If it was going to take time away from my boys then it HAD to be something more worthwhile than padding the bottom line of corporate America. AND it had to be something I could passionately feel good about.
As with most things in my life, there is always Divine Intervention. Even when I think the Lord doesn’t hear me, He is always listening. When He brought Kay into my life on the 9th anniversary of my brother’s death, I knew this is where I was supposed to be and that my patience and faith in Him had finally paid off, as it always does.
When I started volunteering with the Cancer Survivors Park Alliance, I was intimidated. As I’d told my husband on countless occasions, I felt like our children were sucking me of any brain cells I had. My mind, that part of me I once coveted which perhaps wasn’t the smartest in the world, wasn’t feeling challenged anymore. The wheels were always turning but I wasn’t learning something new. For a while, and even now, it’s felt like the boys had drained me of any intellect I’d had and I hadn’t been able to replenish that.
I joined the Communications Committee and listened to all of these people who were still in the working world, mostly in marketing and advertising, and I was in awe, enamored, and as I said before, intimidated. What could I contribute? I worried that the Lord had answered my prayer, but perhaps I had prayed incorrectly. Again, I just needed to have patience and faith in Him.
A couple of months ago, the opportunity arose for me to help out with a series that had become stagnant. There just were not enough people to get the series going again, to coordinate, organize, and even help write and edit. I didn’t hesitate. I immediately spoke up during that month’s meeting and said I would “own” the series, and it’s been a whirlwind ever since.
It is known as the Sunday Survivor Series, and is a bi-weekly story published on the park’s website every Sunday evening. The stories feature someone within our local community who has been impacted by cancer, either directly or indirectly. In most cases, the interviewees are survivors of some form of cancer, with the occasional relative of someone who has passed mixed into the shuffle of stories.
As an introduction of me joining the team, I was photographed with my boys and the creator of the series interviewed me. When I was being interviewed, I was amazed at how raw the emotions still were, nearly 10 years later. I found I could still feel Brian’s last hug, his last tug of my ponytail, his voice as he spoke to me, and even the raspy sound of his last breaths as he squeezed my hand. As I went through that interview, I was overwhelmed with a sense of joy that I would be able to help so many others tell their stories, that I will be able to offer that compassionate touch, that vessel for emotions and stories to eventually unfold.
So, here’s the link to the stories. Our newest one is out and what a wonderful young man and inspiration he is. The second story is mine.
Please take a moment to read it and then take a moment to read some of the other stories. Follow the Facebook page for the Cancer Survivors Park. Sign up for email notifications so you’ll always know when a new story is out. You may get to read some of my words there, even when they can’t always be here on this blog, and you may find an additional person who needs your prayers.
God Bless all of you for following me, for encouraging me, and for giving me your love in some way. I’m hoping 2017 will be full of great new adventures and insightful words to share with you all.
So, it’s been a while since I’ve posted here. Months to be exact. You see, I’ve stumbled across a bit of a problem or maybe it’s problems?…writer’s block, distraction, raising my boys, volunteering and even joining a women’s Bible Study (which will be a whole other post on its own). I’ve also sat back and begun evaluating my blog. Do I want to keep it? Are the words I’m writing entertaining, spiritually rejuvenating, educational, or just plain fun anymore? I mean, who actually reads these words? Who takes time out of their busy days to read my humdrum, my stories of dysfunction and insanity? Who? I have no earthly idea, but I’m back.
I’m back because I need this outlet. I need this place where I can complain, brag, whine, and just plain disgust everyone with the stories of my life and that of my children. I need the release. I need the feeling that someone else feels me, that someone else sits at their computer, reads my words, and says, “I feel your pain” or “I’ve been there before” or “your child really is the spawn of satan.” Yes, even that last one I need to hear.
I’m back because for a while my only thing to look forward to was writing, sharing my adventures, misdeeds, and disasters with you all, and then I left that fall to the wayside. The only thing I started looking forward to was my cocktails in the evenings, which isn’t always bad. I’m back because I feel like I’m becoming ignorant to the world around me, that my children are continuously sucking me dry of any brain cells. I’m back because I need to feel like there are other adult voices with which I can communicate even if it’s just through the written word. I’m back because I need you all and I need to feel that you’ve missed me, that you’ve questioned at least once where I was. Yes, I do have a bit of a narcissistic personality.
I’m not sure where to start anymore with my blogs. I’ve sat back and attempted to revive my blog, to find new things that will compel people to come to me, to read me, but I’m drawing a blank. After all, how many mom blogs are out there these days? Hundreds. Thousands. Millions. Perhaps more than that, I mean if I haven’t had the time to sit down and write then Lord knows I haven’t had the time to research the number of mom blogs out there. So, what do you all want from me? What makes you come to me? What makes you miss me? What do you want to read about? It’s not a rhetorical question. I REALLY WANT TO KNOW!
I can give you a teaser of what’s to come…my volunteer work with a wonderful cancer alliance and my new roles there, my two children and how dramatically different they are with school and my pains with how to get one to progress, and then my latest adventure that I’m super excited about…a Women’s Bible Study.
So, stay tuned. I am back. I NEVER really left, at least not in my heart and mind, and I’m hoping that 2017 will bring on my best blog to date. I might even learn a bit more about WordPress and make this site super groovy (sorry. I was on a bit of a Brady Bunch binge watching kick today).
The ball soared through the air, end over end, somersaulting its way into the open arms of the receiver. The kicking team chased feverishly after the ball as it headed towards its destination, with the receiving team defending the one who would be responsible for bringing the ball into play.
It was a normal kick off, one that plowed its way deep into the end zone and into the receiver’s hands. In most cases, the receiver would take a knee, or if he felt that his defenders could protect him he would bring it out onto the field, eager to gain some better position in the quest to score some points. That was not the case for this particular kick off. We all watched, many in horror and shock, others in excitement and jubilation, as the receiver tossed the ball behind him towards the referee. Why was that a problem? Because the referee hadn’t blown the ball dead nor had the receiver taken a knee. The ball was live and in the end zone, Clemson’s end zone to be exact, where a Tiger pounced on it and we were rewarded with a freebie of a touchdown.
I stood in silence as my fellow Tiger fans cheered with excitement. I watched the player on his hands and knees in the end zone, his head hanging low, and my heart broke. He was on the enemy’s team, the team we wanted to beat, the team we wanted to redeem ourselves with, but I couldn’t celebrate this touchdown. I couldn’t celebrate his pain. I couldn’t celebrate his embarrassment.
Perhaps it is because I am a mother, or maybe it’s because I’ve just matured and the game doesn’t matter to me as much as it used to, or as some would say, I’ve just become soft. Whatever the reason, I felt genuinely heartbroken as I watched this player in the end zone. When he finally rose and made his way to the sidelines, his coach was waiting for him. Words were spoken and the player took it, whether it be because he felt like someone should berate him for his own mistake or because he was still in shock over his goof up. I didn’t see the point after attempt. I didn’t see the celebration from my Tigers. All I could see was this young man and in him I saw one of my sons, and my heart broke even more.
How many of us have been there? Not a one of you can say you haven’t! We’ve all made mistakes, bone headed decisions, committed acts that were detrimental to not just us, but those who were and are depending on us. In most cases, we do them in front of a few people, not a national stage with nearly 60,000 live fans, with thousands more at home. If the fans at home were anything like the ones surrounding me in the stadium, then there was no mercy. I heard this poor kid laughed at, made fun of, and name called for what truly was a mistake. He was treated in a way that I can honestly say I hope I’ve never been a part of.
I continued to watch this kid and I couldn’t wonder if he were like me, continuously dwelling upon mistakes. Would he be able to shake it off and keep going? Would he file it into the never spaces of his brain, hiding it away never to show its ugly head again? Would he use it as determination to regain some of what he and his team had lost? He kept going, but whether he shook it off, I don’t know. His entire team seemed to have taken the fumble hard, almost looking as if the life had been sucked from them and I wondered how many of his teammates were ostracizing him. I wanted to go out on the field, clad in all of my orange and purple and hug the kid. I wanted to tell him to not let this moment define his performance in the game. I wanted to tell him to shut it all out, to drown out the noise from the crowd. I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t the end of the world, which I knew he knew, but at that moment in time, I’m sure his world was crumbling.
I’ve listened to some of the sportscaster laugh at him. I’ve watched as they’ve replayed the fumble over and over, attempting to offer some new creative and comedic take on it. I’ve listened as they, and some of my fellow Clemson fans, treated this kid as if he’s the only one in this world to ever make a mistake. I’ve wanted to take these same people and put them in instances parallel to this young man’s and see how they would feel. Would they be able to hold their heads high and continue on with the game or would they simply tuck tail and run? I’m ashamed of these people and I’m ashamed of my fellow fans who went beyond basic celebration of a touchdown and took it to a whole new level of demeaning a kid’s spirit.
How would I react if I were in his shoes? That thought crossed my head and I can tell you, not well. I have a self-deprecating personality. When I let people down who are depending on me, I don’t bounce back as quickly as I should. That doesn’t sound like a good role model for my kids, but I am who I am. For me, I continue to relive my mistakes over and over, as if it’s a looping projection in my brain. Mistakes I’ve made in the past, I’ve allowed them to consume me, and much like I hope that my sons don’t have my personality in this respect, I hope this young man is also, indeed my opposite
So, to close this post, I want to shame all of you, Clemson and SC State fans alike, sportscasters and fellow fans of college football, who through your words and actions have in one way or another sought to tear down this kid’s spirit, regardless of whether your words or actions have directly impacted him. It’s a game. He’s a kid. He’s human and not immune to making mistakes. I’m praying for this kid and his team. I pray that God finds a way to use this to not just help this kid, but everyone else. I certainly hope this kid has a redeeming season and I genuinely want to apologize for the human race and how poorly he was treated for being nothing more than human.
We all suffer from it, some more so than others. It starts out with a feeling of fogginess and disorientation and then almost as if by the snap of the finger, I feel as if I’ve been hypnotized and suffer from some form of amnesia, at least this is how it all began for me.
It started early, in the first trimester of my pregnancy with Davey. At that point, I blamed it on lack of sleep, which could have been a factor in feeling like I was sucked dry of all brain cells. As the months and years rolled by, one child became two, and I found that it wasn’t just from lack of sleep. It actually had me wondering if “mom brain” is a legitimate condition and if so, what causes it.
A couple of years ago, The Journal of Experimental and Clinical Neuropsychology examined evidence around reports of memory loss in pregnant and postpartum mothers, finding that your ability to organize and plan is disrupted during pregnancy and postpartum. I knew it!
There can be various reasons for “mom brain” including biochemical and situational, but there are also pregnancy hormones affecting brain symmetry. In other words, when a woman may have once been left brain dominant (logical), chemical imbalances can distort that and she could become right brain dominant (sensitive). As we all know, most of us don’t think logically when we’re sensitive.
Most studies I’ve read have stated that moms go back to their normal cognitive functions after they stop breastfeeding. Unfortunately for me, I seem to be in the minority of this case. My mom brain has gotten worse as opposed to getting better and I’m going into 2 years since I last breastfed a child.
Why write about this now? I suppose it’s because I’ve become less and less patient with myself as I continually suffer from mom brain. What are some of the signs I experience? Well, just last week I had an encounter with my youngest. He told me his name was Henry, not Davey. I knew that. Then why did I continue to call him Davey, he asked. I told him that he and his brother have sucked me dry of my brain cells, to which he responded with, “do you want them back?” Yes, my son! I would LOVE to have them back, but it appears mine are quickly dissipating, never to return especially if all of these studies I’ve been reading are true.
It’s not just that I call them by each other’s names, but I’ve also been known to call them by the dog’s name.
I have conversations with my husband. Not unusual, I know, but most of these “conversations” I have are in my own head. He’s at work all day, I can’t immediately talk to him about what’s on my mind, so I have the “conversation” with him and I portray how I think he will respond. The problem with that is I completely forget that the conversation didn’t happen with a willing and participating second party. This in turn leads to arguments of, “I told you that” and “we’ve discussed this already.”
I find myself wanting to say something, knowing in my brain what it is and how I want to say it, but it’s almost as if the spark isn’t there between my brain and my speech. I know that’s a doorknob that’s broken, for example. I can see it with my own two eyes, and I can see the word in my head, but I can’t for the life of me spit it out of my mouth! I’ve never had a problem with speaking, especially speaking my mind, at least not until I had kids.
Then there’s my coffee. My coffee intake has dramatically decreased for various reasons, but mostly because I get distracted by one of my kids and completely forget not WHERE the coffee is, but that I even HAD coffee to start with!
I lose my keys at least once a week, forget my YMCA membership card periodically, and I’ve even been known to forget to pack my son’s lunch before! What the heck has happened to me? Mom brain, that’s what.
I’ve even managed to sit down to write a blog and completely FORGOT what I wanted to write it on. I lose my train of thought mid-sentence, leaving me longing for the days when I could have intelligent conversations about our country’s state of affairs, the economy, and anything NOT child related. I no longer think logically, but have instead been reduced to a scatterbrained version of my former self. Could I even handle it in the working world again?
I’m sure many of you have suffered from this phenomenon. And if you’re like me, almost 5 years into being a mom, you STILL suffer from it. Unfortunately for me, it appears I will be stuck with it for quite some time. There have been zero signs of improvement. On the plus side, while frustrating to me, mom brain has proven to be humorous to others. I suppose you have to find that silver lining somewhere.
Birthday parties! I have a love/hate relationship with these. I don’t like planning them and for the most part I don’t like going to them either, but I know that they are an important part of my children’s youth.
Before I had Davey, the trend of themed parties was starting to come to light. For his first birthday, I somewhat jumped on that bandwagon and planned him a nautical themed party. I didn’t go all out with decorations and I most certainly did NOT have little goody bags for the guests. Most of the guests were family anyways, while others were people who I had just met since becoming a stay at home mom. It was a great birthday, but definitely not up to a party planners’ caliber.
The following year, I had a Mickey Mouse clubhouse themed party and while I went a little bit further with it, I still didn’t go to extremes. I even managed to tone down the guest list. By the time Davey’s third birthday came around, I had Henry who was 10 months old and I’d learned a few things regarding parties, what I wanted and expected out of them, and what was really and truly worth the effort.
I decided that I no longer wanted to have the parties at my house. It’s a bit stressful preparing for a party and keeping a clean house with two boys, one grown man, and a dog. I also decided that I didn’t HAVE to invite those family members who I only see once every other year. In most cases, they were invited to save face, but every time they declined to show. Now I just don’t bother.
I also decided that theme parties are ridiculous, at least for me they are, and truthfully my kid isn’t that concerned. He just wants to have fun at some place he doesn’t go to everyday and with kids he can see outside of school. For Davey’s third birthday, I had his party off site and we invited a ton of people. My heart literally shattered when only 4 kids showed up. Davey didn’t care so much, but I did. I was pissed (still am to this day) at friends who didn’t show up. Again, it bothered me more than Davey. After that 3rd party, when I reserved a spot for 15 kids, with less than a third even RSVPing (come on, people, you’re adults. A simple yes or no works), I decided to reevaluate what may be keeping parents from bringing their kids, which then had me thinking, “what makes me NOT want to go to a party?”
First thing is gifts. I have enough stress in my life, enough things to keep on a calendar, that trying to go out and buy a gift for a 3,4,5 year old, whom I don’t know very well, is just a bit daunting. I spend what feels like a lifetime in the toy section trying to find something not too dinky, but within my budget. There are a select handful of kids who I will do this for, but really I don’t like doing it. I have enough toys in my house, so many in fact that I had to shuffle them in and out. Of course the necessity of buying a gift doesn’t keep me away from going to parties, but it’s still a pain in my ass.
So, what do I do with the gift headache? Last year, I implemented a new policy where gifts are concerned. There are people who feel they MUST by a gift. I had a few people tell me they were disappointed that my child wasn’t getting gifts. It’s a celebration, a party, a chance to have something that lasts longer than toys…memories and friends. Since I knew people would want to buy a gift, I encouraged them to go to one of my favorite charities, the GHS Children’s Hospital, and a buy a gift for a child who is in the hospital, a child who doesn’t get the luxury of going out for parties. I had thought it would be a hit, but alas only one set of parents bought a gift for a child in need. That genuinely broke my heart.
Second thing is food. I try to schedule my parties around a meal time so that encourages parents to want to bring their kids, because at least they don’t have to worry about dinner. I make sure to have enough food for the parents as well. If it means you will bring your child to my child’s party, then I will supply you with a meal. All my kid wants is to hang out and have fun.
Third, has to do with activities. When I was a kid, we had birthday parties at our house and my friends and I played out in the backyard barefoot with whatever toy was there. We created our games, played sports, and ate cake and ice cream. The parents were always on the porch or patio, not hovering over the kids trying to dictate what the kids should be playing. For some strange reason, it seems that this day that just a big fat no no with parents, so I just have the parties off site at some sort of activity center where I don’t have to beat myself senseless trying to come up with activities. Yet another thing that’s a pain in my ass.
I know, a lot of you are asking me about the gift situation right now. I can see you telling me it’s not fair to deprive my child of an essential part of his childhood by not giving him gifts on his birthday. To that I say, “back up and hold the phone.” My children do receive gifts. We have a small little birthday dinner, with my parents, aunt, and cousin, along with my mother-in-law every year where my children receive toys. They have gifts to open, so I’m not taking away their chance to open gifts. I know this is something that will keep me from attending a child’s party (not every child’s) and if I feel this way, I know other parents do as well. If I can alleviate that stress (usually the biggest headache for a parent taking their child to a birthday party), thereby encouraging more of my children’s friends to show, then I am a happy mom.
Birthday parties are a dime a dozen. When you become a parent, there are so many of them to attend, more than I ever recall attending when I was a child. It seems as if we’re receiving invites to a new party at least once a week and I know that’s only going to get worse as Henry is officially old enough to be in school and have friends of his own. Yet another party to plan and another whole set of parties to attend. It comes with the territory of being a parent, but why not find ways to be considerate of the other parents when planning the party. I know it’s the child’s special day, but even on his special day, consideration for others is always a must, at least in this household.
As I continue to expand my blog and community Facebook page, I devote a certain amount of time per day perusing through Flipboard and a few of my favorite pages to find things to blog about and share. One of the articles I came across today was about mindsets and how you speak to your children can encourage them to be successful. Normally, I would have shared this article on my Facebook page and moved on, allowing for the discussions to begin, but since I’m now focusing harder on getting Henry up to speed, I find myself needing to blog about this article, which I will include at the end of this post.
As many of you know, my children are with me daily, even though they are both in school. I had the opportunity to put them both on the same days of the week, thereby allowing me some alone time, a chance to recharge, and even accomplish a few things I’ve put on the back burner since becoming a mom (MY BOOK that I’ve desperately attempted to edit over the past 4 years). My husband and I discussed this option and we decided it best to separate the boys and allow for me to have individual one on one time with them. So, as I’ve stated before, Henry is a T/Th student, while Davey is a MWF student.
When Davey was 4 months old, I quit my job and decided to be a stay at home mom. I immediately jumped into my role, taking him to the library for story time, reading to him profusely, quizzing him on animals and their sounds, and even stepping out of my comfort zone to join a playgroup with other moms and their children. I perused through the internet and pinned like crazy on Pinterest all sorts of ideas to get my child ahead of the game. I’m not one for wasting time. I have to be productive in everything I do, even if that productivity is only perceived through my eyes.
By the time, Davey was almost 2, he was enrolled in a Mother’s Morning Out program. I was in the final trimester of my 2nd pregnancy and eager for a little breathing room and to get Davey into a routine that was all for HIM before Henry came along. He was well ahead of the game when he started. He was speaking at a 3 year old level, enunciating words, and learning how to grammatically speak correctly. He knew his letters in order and randomly as well as numbers, shapes, and colors. I was proud of him and my ability to get him there.
When Henry arrived, for obvious reasons, I was unable to devote all of my time to just one child. I still worked with Davey, especially during the first couple of months of Henry’s life when he was nothing more than an eating, sleeping, drooling, and pooping mess. I continued to build upon my foundation I had started with Davey and by the time he started actual preschool, he was ahead of the game, and still is. As for Henry, I’ve struggled.
It’s hard to teach Henry the same things that I thought Davey, because Davey is always there and he wants to answer the questions. He wants to please me and he wants to show me that he knows his stuff, displaying his fixed mindset, which discourages Henry from answering my questions. When I ask Henry what color this is, I get, “I don’t know,” but he really does know. How do I know this? Because when I’m NOT trying to sit down and teach him, he’ll pull out a yellow crayon, for example, and say, “mom, I color this sun yellow.” He knows his stuff. I just haven’t figured out how to get him to sit with me and let me teach him or to show me that he is just as smart as I know he is and can be.
Henry has been in school for 4 days total so far, meaning that I’ve had 5 days (not counting Labor Day) with which he and I could work on the basic concepts every preschooler should know. I had started the approach of the fixed mindset when teaching him, since that’s what worked best with Davey, and as a side note, Davey displays characteristics of both mindsets dependent upon what he is doing or working on. Unfortunately, it appears that the fixed mindset doesn’t work with Henry and he needs to be challenged instead of taught in a basic setting.
He told me this week, while shoving flashcards of letters and numbers across the table, “I not want to do this.” We’ve bought him a LeapFrog, but he doesn’t use it. Davey loves ABC Mouse, and so I set Henry up with his own Avatar for it as well. Nope, he’s not a fan, so I’m finding that I have to step outside of the box and find ways to be interactive and that includes walks in the park where I may take leaves and make a letter “L” out of those leaves. He then will find rocks and make letters out of those, so you see he knows his stuff.
It doesn’t go in depth nor is it judgmental, it just helps with finding other ways to encourage your children to be successful.
Of course, dealing with Henry, has given me a new level of respect for teachers as I never really looked at the fact that each child is different (it’s obvious, I know, but I haven’t really considered it) and what these teachers must do and go through to reach each child, to help them to be successful and to learn.
We are ending our 2nd week of school for Henry. 2 weeks, or more specifically 4 days. He’s in K2 and being his first time in school we have enrolled him as a T/Th student. Again, let me repeat, we have finished 4 days and I can’t help but wonder if it will get any better.
For 4 days, I’ve dealt with a child who clawed his car window screaming for his Mimi. For 4 days, I’ve dealt with a child who has attempted to lock me out of the car when I’ve tried to drop him off at school. For 4 days, I’ve dealt with a child whom I’ve had to drag out of the car kicking and screaming and hand him off to his teacher all the while he’s reaching for me and screaming “no”.
I had hoped that we just needed to get into our routine, but it appears that drama at the car line drop off will be our routine for this school year.
This morning, Davey and I talked up school to Henry, as he fought me while I was loading him into his car seat. Davey, my mini-me dork, LOVES school. He reminds me of myself and how much I looked forward to school everyday, how I wanted to see my friends and my teachers, how I wanted to learn and become smarter, and experience new things. Henry? Yeah, to quote his words, “I not care about dis (his speech) stuff.”
So, after all of our playing up school and it’s many, many benefits to Henry, I thought for sure Davey and I had crossed the bridge and that Henry would be excited, or at least more willing. Obviously, I thought wrong, as once again I’m holding up the carline to the empathetic faces of all the other moms, while getting Henry out, his arms gripped tightly onto his seatbelt while I’m pulling him by his legs.
I try encouraging words, tell him his teachers are going to be so happy to see him, or that they’ll be sad if he’s not there. I talk about his friends and all of the fun he’ll have with them. I talk about all of the cool toys they’ll play with and crafts they’ll make. Finally, I’ve ended up with, “You will survive, Henry.” Obviously, he doesn’t understand what I mean.
I don’t get it. I don’t understand why going to school is so torturous, especially when I pick him up, he’s so eager to tell me about his day. He has a smile on his face, tells his teachers “bye”, and climbs into the car already talking about the day’s adventures. I want to tell him, “i told you so,” but I’m told that’s not appropriate.
My mother has her own theory as to why my youngest acts as if he’s going to the slaughterhouse when I drop him off at school. He knows Davey is with me and he feels left out, anxious about what he’s going to miss, and not exactly eager to know that Davey is getting one on one time with me. I want to tell him, that he gets three days of one on one versus Davey’s two, but once again I don’t think he’ll understand.
I suppose I will continue to fight this battle and be thankful that my youngest isn’t my brother incarnate. My brother once locked my mother out of the car when she got out to get him out for school. I can see this same scenario playing out for me one day.
In the open spaces of my heart, live two children, each equally loved, but cataclysmically different. They both have the same portion of my love and my soul, each with their own physical traits and characteristics forever linking them to me, but alas I only comprise 50% of their make up, so it’s only natural for them to be so much alike and yet so different.
My oldest is outgoing, loving, methodical, and eager to please. My youngest, not quite so outgoing, a bit more calculating and manipulative, and while he may be a bit standoffish at first, he is quick to love and be loved. They both have my chin, one has my nose, and they both suffer from mom’s recessive gene of fair hair at such a young age. Their personalities are different, at times polar opposites, but they definitely share mom’s dominant stubborn gene.
With the start of school last week, I was eager to see how both of my boys would do and since we were milking our last few days of summer vacation for all of its worth, we missed meet the teacher and student orientation at their school. This meant I would need to walk the boys into their classrooms, since neither had any idea where to go. Also, I’m THAT mom who will walk her children into school the first day, regardless.
For this school year, my husband and I decided it would be best to have Davey attend MWF and Henry on T/Th. I am well aware that this means for me I will be on the road a lot, but it also means for me some individual time with my boys, something I have wanted for quite some time. I must also add this disclaimer…it was technically my husband’s idea for the school year set up, I believe so that I would NOT have any personal time to myself. He deals with “children” himself in the adult world and I suppose felt that since he couldn’t get a break from the adults behaving as children, then neither should I. Just my theory. So, with this being our set up, I felt compelled to leave Henry with my mom and dad on Davey’s first day and then vice versa for Henry’s first day. And here, my friends, is where the Tale of Two Children picks up.
First day of school for Davey goes something like this…
As I am walking Davey into school, he sees he’s old teacher’s assistant. This woman has been a blessing to us, she’s worked with Davey since he was in K2 and I quickly learned she would also have our Henry for this year. Unfortunately, that meant that Davey’s security blanket would be gone, as if he ever really needed one. Once Davey saw her, he stopped in his tracks and turned around to me, “mom, can you believe this? Look who it is! It’s Mrs. Whaling. Oh boy, I bet she’s missed me.” Nope, does not have a humble bone in any corner of his body. After hugging Mrs. Whaling, Davey then proceeds into school, where he sees his old K2 teacher and as if he’s a politician going around shaking hands and kissing babies, he must hug Mrs. Norwood before saying, “I’ll see you around this year, Mrs. Norwood.” Big Man on Campus then proceeds down the hallway where lo and behold there is Mrs. Scott’s classroom. We must stop and hug her as well, and as we are looking for his classroom, Davey says, “I bet Mrs. Scott missed me a lot.” Again…humility? Nope!
Once we find his classroom, I introduce myself to his teacher, apologize profusely for being at the beach instead of meeting her, and then introduce Davey who immediately holds out his hand, shakes her’s and then says, “nice to meet you.” His current teacher gives me the rundown, asks if I would be willing to assist with anything and then as I walk out the door, hug and kiss Davey one more time, I hear, “it’s gonna be a great year, mom, I just know it.” Easy peasy for this mom.
First day of school for Henry goes a little something like this…
I drop Davey off with my mom and dad, calling as I’m around the corner, so she can meet me outside, grab Davey and I can go. I need it to be as painless as possible, especially since I know how attached Henry is to his Mimi (my mom). My hopes were dashed when Henry went into Stage 4 meltdown once he realized that Mimi was taking Davey and not him. His chin began to tremble, the lower lip started protruding and I don’t know who was going to cry first…him or my mother.
For the entire 15 minute ride to school, I had to endure bellows of, “Mimi, don’t leave me.” and “Mimi, save me. I stay with you,” all the while he’s clawing his window as if he’s a caged animal heading off to slaughter. Really, my son, do you think mommy would do that to you??? The thought has crossed my mind of some sort of torture, but nothing like what his mind was developing. Kidding, folks, just kidding!
Once we arrive at school; however, life is grand. Henry sees Mrs. Whaling who is now his TA and life is good again. Now, flash forward a week.
Yesterday being Labor Day, there was no school. So, Davey couldn’t go, but Henry could today. Davey? He’s bummed, but he’ll survive. Henry? Let’s just say that I had to drag him out of the car crying and while not at his stage 4 meltdown, perhaps only at a 2, hand him off to Mrs. Whaling as he cried while being carried in. Davey finds it undignified to be carried inside. Henry? He needs that attention. Of course, once I pick Henry up from school, the world is rainbows and unicorns and has been since the moment he stepped foot into his classroom. I ask him, “would mommy ever steer you wrong?” And with his thumb in his mouth, nods his head and says, “yes.” The child knows me too well.
We’re only one week into school and I can already imagine the scenarios that will play out in the story of A Tale of Two Children.
Y’all know me and most of you know me well. My blood isn’t your typical red, my blood runneth orange. If you’ve read my blog in the past, then you should know this. I’ve even had a couple of nurses tell me my blood has an orange tint to it! Ok, perhaps, I’m pushing it just a bit, but for most people who’ve met me, it’s pretty obvious I’m a diehard Clemson fan.
Yesterday, my husband and I took our boys to Clemson, SC to visit the illustrious and intimidating Memorial Stadium, better known as Death Valley where the Tigers play. It was Fan Day, an opportunity that allowed for the chance to meet the football team and to get their autographs. It was also a time for mama here to reminisce about her so-called “glory days” and to get my boys drawn into that wonderful culture with seas of orange and purple.
We’ve been to Clemson before with the boys, even taking them to a couple of football games last year. Davey and I have been to see the Homecoming floats on Bowman Field well before the days of Henry. Davey’s even been to a basketball game in Littlejohn, all be it, still in the womb. It’s something I’ve dreamt about since I first became pregnant, getting my boys inundated with Clemson early, and getting them to love it as much as I do. Yesterday was just the key to that!
When we arrived in Clemson, I giddily navigated my husband around town, pointing out various structures, in total awe at the number of new buildings being constructed and even shedding a tear for Clemson House, which will soon be demolished for more student housing. My boys were anxious to get out of the car, to be on that sacred Clemson ground to explore, so we had to find a parking space quickly. We managed to arrive three hours early, but that didn’t seem to be good enough as most people had been there two or three hours more! We walked around the stadium, pulling out our map before making our way to the West End zone, where we’d hoped to get in line and get an autograph from Deshaun Watson, our star quarterback and I’m convinced Heisman winner for this season. Unfortunately for us, it was apparent that you needed to arrive by 5 AM if you wanted to get Deshaun’s autograph. The line snaked from the gate at the top of the hill, winding is way down the hill, beneath the occulus, towards the police station, before looping back up the hill and towards the cemetery. My husband and I dutifully waited in line, in the ravaging heat, while our boys made friends and played soccer. A little side note, it makes me extremely happy and proud to see my boys able to go up to children who they don’t even know and start playing. It makes me feel as if I’ve done something right.
Checking out Howard’s Rock and Death Valley.
Asweat drenched hour later, a member of the football staff began walking the line and at a cutoff, literally five people in front of us, he informed us that it was highly unlikely we’d get Deshaun’s autograph. My husband, appearing a bit dejected as he had hoped for that signature on the boys’ footballs most of all, began to reevaluate our situation. We walked around the stadium again, enjoying for the first time what felt like a nice Fall breeze, and surveyed the lines at the other gates before deciding to stay in the shade and wait to meet the linebackers. So for an hour and a half, while our kids ran up and down the steps of Gate 9, and played Angry Birds, we waited.
Finally, at 2:30 precisely, the gates swung up and the wave of fan crashed and spilled through, like water rushing through broken levees. Dave took Davey and immediately got in line, while I threw Henry on my shoulders and surged forward towards the free autograph books and the posters. A few moments later, after finding Dave we got in line and waited once more to finally meet some of the players.
Dave give each of our boys their footballs and we explained what they needed to do. Henry took to the task at hand, quickly placing his football in front of each player before moving on. He made me smile. He had been given a job and he was doing it with much perseverance, even at times trying to usher those in front of us along, my efficient little boy. Davey; however, was a bit more meticulous and careful with his job, gently placing his football in front of the players and at times showing where he wanted each signature. He’s a bit OCD like his mother.
We only had the opportunity to make it through one line, as the lines were atrociously long. The sky has also begun clouding up, with dark gray clouds coming in off of the lake. We knew our time was limited and I’d promised my boys they could do something.
Since the first days of Davey watching Clemson play, he’s been enamored with the hill. For those of you who are unaware, there is something called The 25 Most Exciting Seconds in College Football. Our players get off a bus at the top of the hill in the East Endzone. They then rub Howard’s Rock, a rock given to Coach Frank Howard from Death Valley, California by one of his former players. It’s a bit of a good luck piece and a reminder from Coach Howard, “If you’re going to give 110 percent, you can rub that rock. If you’re not,keep your filthy hands off of it.” After rubbing the rock, the players then run down the hill into Death Valley to the Tiger’s fight song, Tiger Rag, the song that shakes the southland. Any and every time, Davey gets the opportunity to see this, he stops and watches. At two, he told me, “mama, I run down that hill one day.” I’m not going to lie, it brought a tear to my eye.
So, yesterday, with the breeze kicking up and the thunder rumbling in the back ground, I took the boys to the top of the hill and let them run down it, not once, but twice. For Davey, I think it was truly the greatest. For Henry? Well,right now, whatever big brother does, he feels he must do as well.
With that little treat out of the way, we began to leave the stadium just as the announcer came on and told people to get inside the stadium concourses, lightning had been detected only a few miles away. We made it to our car just as the rain started coming down. Not eager to leave this place I love so much, I told my husband I would take over the driving, and I used the opportunity to drive us through portions of campus, allowing waves of nostalgia to crash upon my heart’s shore.
As we drove by various buildings, I would call them out to the kids. “Look that is Fernow Street Café. Mommy used to eat lunch there, and that building over there, well it was my favorite, it’s Cooper Library. And that building, why it’s Hardin Hall, where mommy had all of her history classes and the one right next to it? That’s Brackett Hall, where I took all of my political science classes. And look at that big clock tower, that’s Tillman’s Hall. Do you know they have something like a huge piano inside where you can play Tiger Rag for all of Clemson to hear? We then made our way downtown, where I pointed out Judge Kellar’s General Merchandise store, that’s been around way longer than I have, and Tiger Town Tavern where I spent most Friday afternoons. I showed them where I used to live and how you could get a pizza and PBR at Backstreets on Monday nights for a $1. There was the old movie theater, where I first saw U571 for $1. While I enjoyed Fan Fest, this was truly more exciting for me, showing all 3 of my boys about the few years of my life, that rank as some of the greatest.
Our day in Tiger Town complete, we decided to make our way back home, the giddiness starting to wear down and wear on me. Truth be told, I was like a kid at Christmas all morning, much like I am every time we are going to Clemson. It’s a magical place, full of wonder and excitement, adventures and memories to be made. Joe Sherman was right when he penned “There’s Something in These Hills.”