Go Band!

It's marching band season at our house again. This time, we have a baritone. That means early and late practices, pep rallies and football games, and marching band competition.

In Texas, your chance at State only happens every other year, because there are so many schools, it is impossible to have them all compete in one year.

This year happens to be the boy's first year in band. First year going to State (maybe). And they put him up front.

He's also following his sister, who is well-known among the band -- some of the seniors were freshmen when she was a senior.

No pressure. Not one bit.

He's risen to the occasion far better than we ever expected. He found his people. He embraced the hard work required. We couldn't be prouder.

The road to State started yesterday, and they put on a good show.  (He's at the 40 in the first movement, when they bend down to point at the bassoon soloist.) Enjoy:

Fifteen years later

Fifteen years ago was a gorgeous fall morning.

I got off the Metra at LaSalle and started my four-block walk to my office building; a Daniel Burnham structure from 1910 that was across the street from the Art Institute. 

I remember a beautiful blue sky as I cut through the plaza at the Dirksen Federal Building. One of those perfect days you get in Chicago before winter freezes the lake and you consider moving away from the frozen hellscape. 

I remember riding the elevator at about 8:10. 

I remember walking into my offices on the 16th floor. 

I remember everyone gathered around Doris's crap black-and-white portable TV that she kept at her cubicle. 

I remember disbelief. 

I remember horror. 

I remember panic as I frantically tried to pin down where our NYC and DC friends and colleagues were. They had no reason to be anywhere near the crash sites, and yet. 

And yet. 

I remember arguing with my spouse on the phone about coming home. I remember saying that if I left the Loop, the people who did this won. That if it were me, I'd bomb the Metra lines, because commuters would be packing the trains to rush home. I remember saying that walking toward the Sears Tower was dumb, and if they were going to bomb the Art Institue, they'd have done it already. 

I remember the surreal phone call from my OB/GYN nurse. She had no idea what was happening in the world. She called to let me know that after years of secondary infertility, my hormones looked good and that this time, finally, we had a chance of a baby that would stick. 

I remember the mental whiplash. 

I remember still looking for friends online. Searching for old sources from my days in Westchester and realizing that one most certainly was at CantorFitz. 

I remember the staff, myself included, tearing the magazine that was to go to press apart and trying to pull a piece together that was appropriate and on point and ready for press while we were all in the most surreal space. 

I remember friends checking in one by one. Some were scarred forever by what they'd seen. 

I remember walking to the station to go home. The silence. 

No planes to Midway or O'Hare overhead. No rush of commuters. 

I remember the conductor telling me I had been smart, because the morning trains out were a zoo. That he, too, wondered if there would be bombs on the tracks. 

I remember driving home and thinking that life has changed forever. That I was bringing a new life into it, and oh, God, had we done the right thing by trying so hard to have another child?

I remember hugging my husband and my daughter. 

I remember the anger. The tears. The worry. 

Fifteen years later, I remember all of it. 

I remember that we are stronger for surviving it. 

I remember that we did do the right thing by bringing a bright, funny child into the world who changes this planet just by being on it. 

I remember those who were lost, especially my source at CantorFitz. He was a funny, witty man who could have become a good politician. We're the lesser for those lost. 

We are the less for our collective bunkering. The bollards that went up around the Dirksen Plaza. The pervasive sense of fear that permeated the air.

Fifteen years ago, life changed.

We can, and should, remember.

We can, and should, grow older and wiser from lessons learned.

We can, and should, push back fear and embrace the beauty of a glorious fall morning. 

I remember. Don't forget. 

Image from www.chicagotraveler.com/sites/default/files/b10-art-institute.jpg

Challenges

I used to write more. 

I used to write more about the kids.

When they were small, the stories were funny and easy. Now, as they are teens, I'm writing less. 

The stories are theirs to share. I'm hesitant to do so. They have heartbreak and happiness. They have stress and fun. 

But they are on social media now. I am leery of sharing. It is their story. No longer is it only mine. 

That's bittersweet, but it is life. I'll share as I can, when I can. 

So, how's she doing? How are you doing?

I think I hear those questions about once a week. 

Back in August, we drove our oldest two states away, unpacked all of her essential needs for life, set up her room, hugged her hard, and then we drove away. 

 

"How's she doing?"

She's doing fine. We get random text messages during the week: "How do you clean up Tide that has leaked overnight?" Has been my favorite so far. 

If she's been homesick, she hides it well. I think she's probably too busy to be homesick: Her program of study is pretty intense, and she's in the marching band. She barely sleeps. 

"How are you doing?"

I'm fine. I think some parents have some sort of big existential crisis after they send a kid to college. 

That has not been me. 

She was so busy with school, band and work her senior year, we barely saw her. In many ways, that year gave us time and space to be used to her upcoming departure. 

That's not to say I didn't cry as we drove away. (I did.) It was strange not having her walk through the door at 10 p.m. each night with angst about her food service job. 

I still ask for a table for five at restaurants, which exasperates my husband, and cracks the other two kids up. 

But ultimately, she's fine. I'm fine. 

That's how it should be. You raise them to leave the nest. That's your job. 

Then you push them out, let them go, and watch them fly. 

Knowing when to let go

You know how sometimes you are in a relationship, you are completely committed, yet things aren't quite right, you know you should probably give up and cut the person out of your life, but you've known them forever and you just can't quite sever the relationship, even though you know it will probably be better for all concerned?

That's how our relationship with our son and his school has been since we moved to Texas. 

Note: I am a firm believer in the power of Catholic schools. I am a product of them, and I believe in what they teach and how they teach.  

When we moved here, we did what we always do: Tour the possible schools, buy in the best possible public school district, and enroll our kids in the Catholic school that seems most like family to us, because that place becomes our family. We live so far away from relatives, we need a support system like that to lean on. 

I realized this might not be the best fit for our son years ago, when we advocated advancing him a grade. He was beyond bored in class. That child, if bored, is a troublesome child who will invent ways to keep himself entertained. 

We made our pitch. We brought the gifted and talented program testing that he had gone through in Missouri, the IQ scores, the grade cards from the teachers. 

We were shot down. But the public school wasn't a better option: we did the tour and asked the questions. When GT teachers tell you straight-up that it isn't worth the stress of moving your kid because the program is underfunded and weak, you have to listen to them. 

So, we and he stuck it out. Some years were better than others. 

Middle school hit, and it all went to hell. 

He's a bright, funny kid. I've written before about how he asks questions about Supreme Court cases. He uses big words. He reads big books. He has big thoughts. He's competed in the regional spelling bee. 

He is not really a video game addict or a super-athletic kid. He plays some video games and he plays some sports as an average Joe, but he's no whiz at either.  And therein began the problem. 

Most of the smart, witty, funny kids left after 5th grade. 

Then the differences in families cropped up: We don't allow our kids to have TVs in their rooms. We are strict about electronics and the type of video games we own. You will find no first-person shooter games here. 

The boy isn't even interested. I can't watch CSI or Homicide or SVU or Person of Interest with him around, because that stuff gives him nightmares. I've missed out on entire shows because I didn't want to scare him. 

The other boys picked on him for it. They picked on him because they didn't get his humor (or were too cool to get his humor). They picked on him for being fat. (He's not.) They picked on him for a myraid of reasons. And my son, being my son, held it all inside. 

He just got sadder. And sadder. And sadder. His face showed no emotion at all. He never, ever smiled. 

It finally blew apart last spring, and we filed bullying forms and did all the things you are supposed to do. School ended shortly thereafter, and we figured the summer break would do everyone good. 

Then school started. And we filed bullying reports the first week. Things were done. Parents were called. Detentions handed out. 

It didn't help. He was crying every night about how he had next-to-no friends. He hated school. He didn't want to go. The other boys stopped picking on him. Instead they started flat-out freezing him out and not talking to him. 

You can't make kids be friends. You can, however, affect how they treat each other. Our school did not seem to be doing much to change the culture. 

After three weeks, we had enough. 

A Catholic education isn't really a Catholic education if the kids aren't actually acting like Christians. 

So we made a wrenching decision. We love this school, for the most part. It works for our youngest; she's happy and has a ton of friends. I love most of the teachers there. Heck, I'm friends with more than a few. I am a Girl Scout mom. My spouse coaches CYO teams there. We are invested in this place. And yet . . . 

It's like a bad relationship: You know you need to go, but you can't quite make yourself do it. You keep hoping it will get better, even though all evidence points to the contrary. 

It was beyond difficult to make the decision to pull him out. We found a public charter school nearby that had an opening. After a tour, we asked him what he wanted to do. He wanted to move. It was time to start over somewhere new. 

These teachers and kids are more his type of people. They sort homerooms not by teacher, but by elements from the periodic table. My kid is a Xenon. 

He had his first day today. He seems happier today. He actually smiled. 

The breakup was tough, but we have hopes that letting go was the best thing we could have done. 

A decade of cheerful

Ten years ago, we were blessed with a child who came out of the womb smiling.

She almost didn't make it. Her labor was so hard, so fast, that she practically raced to be born. In the process, the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck several times, a fact I was not told until much, much later. Post-cuddles and smiles, then my spouse broke that fact to me.

She's still smiling. It take a LOT to get her down. Unlike her siblings, she can rise above most events that depress others. She has an inborn resilience that I wish I could transfer to other kids.

She loves hugs. Hugs are something you do to make other people smile.

She loves pink things. Frilly things. Princessy things. Girly things.

That said, she'll turn on a dime to do sports like soccer and softball. We've nicknamed her Smity. That's a portmanteau for small, but mighty. She's petite, barely weighs 40 pounds, barely scrapes past four feet in height, but she'll steal that soccer ball from a kid twice her size and run with it, or slap a hit into the gap when it will hurt the most.

She's deceptively tough in a tiny package.

We've enjoyed every minute with her, and we can't wait to see what the next ten years will bring.

Trust me

Last night, my son and I were locked in battle.

He wanted to bail on the softball photography session that his sister was in and head around to the other side of the complex to play on the playground.

I would not let him go.

"Why not?" he said. "Don't you trust me?"

Good question.

It got me thinking: Why didn't I let him go?

I told him it is because he's had multiple broken bones this past year, including a broken wrist obtained on those very same monkey bars. I did not want to be so far away, just in case. There were two buildings between us and the playground. I had no line of sight.

But that wasn't the only reason.

I trust him, to a point. However, he is a boy, a pre-teen boy, and that age group isn't known for its stellar decision-making skills. Yes, I might have let his older sister go at the same age, but she was (and is) a mature kid for her age. Is he? Sometimes, but not always. Am I being reverse-sexist? Maybe.

There is a bigger issue: I don't trust society at large. Not alone with my kids.

I know there are other parents over there, many of whom I know and who would bring him to me if he were hurt. I still can't let him out of my sight.

I'm too scared to let him go.

Several years ago, the son of a person whom I know was abducted in broad daylight while walking home from his bus stop. It was my hometown. The stop is on my old bus route home. I could picture the exact area when the story hit the news.

It is an incredibly rural area. Everyone knows everyone.

If kidnapping can happen there, it can happen anywhere.

That story ended as well as it could have, thanks to a sharp-eyed teen and excellent police work.

But....

It has made me forever over-cautious with my children. I need to see them if I am with them. It is a completely irrational thing. The chances of stranger abduction are slim. My kids know the rules of what to do.

And yet.

I don't trust. I can't. Not yet.

I'm going to have to learn to let go, because I can't watch them forever. So maybe next time I'll let him go to the playground. And I'll try to trust. A bit.

My warped kids

We just went from this:

To this:

God bless Netflix and my strange children.

The Clothes Fairy

We refer to my mother-in-law as The Clothes Fairy. She likes to shop, has an uncanny ability to find insane deals, and has impeccable taste.

Every time my in-laws visit, The Clothes Fairy appears with bags in tow for the kids. I am grateful. I like shopping for myself. The kids, not so much.

My in-laws visited this weekend.

Tonight, the youngest appeared with scissors, asking for help to clip a tag from a new pair of shorts.

My spouse: "Oh, look, The Clothes Fairy must have visited."

The youngest: "Yes, she's the one that brought all of the clothes!"

My spouse and I, in unison: "Who." (Can you tell we are both editors?)

The youngest, with exasperated sigh: "Your MOM, that's who!"

I am crazy

Where have I been all these many months?

I helped start a Girl Scout troop.
I signed on to be Cookie Manager. 
We're only halfway through the sales.

Copyright, Girl Scouts of America.

Pray for me.

Also: Buy more cookies. I have boxes in my house. I want them gone. If you are at our church on Sunday, or even somewhat close by (in the city limits counts as close by), buy a box.

I am not taking them back home.

A reflection on a decade

Ten years ago, I was working from home. I'd had on-and-off contractions all day, but they were a tease, getting my hopes up only to stall out the minute the ten minutes of resting was up.

I plopped on the couch and started editing the legal journal (shout outs to Cindy and Lona here!). At some point in the middle of a Supreme Court opinion on takings, I dozed off. I woke up at 5, decided I'd get up, start dinner in the kitchen, and finish editing.

My water broke as soon as I stood up.

Those pregnancy manuals (I'm looking at you, "What to Expect") that say your water rarely breaks haven't met me. Mine breaks every time, in a hellacious mess, and then the contractions *really* start.

I called my husband, who then was promptly pulled over on Caton Farm Road by a cop. Thus begins the story of our son's birth, with a frantic husband waving at the cop, a kindergartener in the car ready to tell the cop all about her new sibling to come, and my frantic walk through the neighborhood to find someone to watch her, because our people weren't answering their phone and we had no relatives nearby.

Ten years ago at 8 p.m., I caved and took pitocin when labor stalled AGAIN. Plus, the Cubs game on TV was awful and I wanted out of L&D before the game ended (joking, joking).

Our son was born soon after. He was chunky. He was a good eater, unlike his sister.

He was a charmer. Still is.

Ten years later, I'm looking at my witty little dude, who pops out with the strangest things. He listens intently to Nina Totenberg on NPR, to the point that my editing a legal journal was a help in parenting.

He is a hoot. He loves sports. Loves basketball, which has resulted in an injury that has sidelined him to playing the Wii versions for now. He enjoys tormenting his sisters, both younger and older. Often with puns. Bad ones. He is his father's son.

Ten years later, I'm slowly regaining my stamina and body. I managed to run two miles at a 12:30 pace in 80+ heat today. I brag, a bit, because I remember those first few days ten years ago, when I would have sworn I'd never maintain my sanity, much less get my body back in some semblance of shape.

Nothing is forever. Not the lack of sleep. Not the newborn smell. Not the ten-year-old wiseacre sitting across from me.

Enjoy the moments.

The Five-minute Fix

Quick:  How many little, annoying things around your house could be fixed in five minutes?

Life intrudes. It piles up. The disaster of piles of stuff abounds.

Sadly, this is so true around here, I would like to cry.
Creators Rick Kirkman and Jerry Scott have nailed it. 

In our house, too many to count. I have piles of toys that should be packed away. They are already sorted. Ready for storage (if we had decent storage).

Dishes that are in the drying rack that could be put away.

Ditto for the clean load of laundry in the dryer.

So often, I look at the piles of stuff to do and I can't bear it. I rant, I shout. I force the kids to do something.

Five minutes. Like three rounds of commercials. How hard can it be?

This weekend, I decided I was tackling the five-minute jobs. Oscillating fan that rattled and just needed to be tightened = fixed. Toilets beyond gross = clean. Dishes and laundry = dealt with.

I'm fixing the broken strap on my sundress next. Five-minute repair job, soon to be done.

This is going to become a regular weekend thing. I'm bringing the kids in next . . . two songs, upstairs, we clean up. If anything, at least when Grandma and Grandpa arrive, hopefully it won't be a disaster up there.

Brilliant or evil, you decide.

Step one: Discover teen's best friend wants to see The Lorax, but is too embarrassed to go.
Step two: Convince teen and friend to take younger two as "cover."
Step three: Convince younger two to do all chores in order to go to The Lorax. 
Step four: Profit!

Moments of grace

The unexpected note from a friend.

Every person to whom I gave ashes at Ash Wednesday services today.

The traffic cop who noticed that we were two people short as we walked to our car this afternoon, and inquired where they might be.

The teenagers who took and promptly served our pizza and salad with a cheerful smile.

The neighbors who waved.

Illness and Mommy stupidity

This has been one of the worst years in a long time for illness in our house. We've had colds. Stomach bugs. Sinus things. Now strep. It's like we live in a petri dish.

When the kids were babies and in daycare, they caught every dang virus known to man. It seemed like we were home more than we were at work in the winter months. The eldest was susceptible to ear infections; we practically lived at the pediatricians office for years.

We've been so healthy lately that we've barely seen our pediatrician. I was lectured about that fact when I had to have them write a script for the eldest, who needed permission to take Advil at school.

I hadn't brought her in for a physical in two years.

Bad me.

This go around, I let the youngest fight a weird, spiky fever for three days before I clued in that it might be more than a run-of-the-mill cold. We so rarely get strep that while I know the symptoms, I didn't have the penny drop until I was on the phone with the nurse.

Pass that worst mother of the year trophy over this way, would ya?

So we're medicated now. (Yay, bubblegum flavoring. Walgreens, I hate that you make us pay for it, but it was worth the $2. This time.)

We're all bleached and washed. Everything should be normal, knock wood, from here. Yours truly will be more observant about that whole fever, sore throat thing from here on out, too.

Momma hates days like this

It is now 7:45 p.m.

Dinner is not yet finished. (almost there)

Dad is not yet home.

Laundry yet to do.

No chance to run. Probably doesn't matter because sciatica and arch of foot hurt so badly that I really shouldn't.

Up at 5 a.m. for no reason.

Long day at work.

Traffic in major metro area sucks.

Needed cereal, so had to make extra stop.

Eldest didn't want to walk home, so add another trip.

Crack open the pinot, baby. I need a glass.

Scarily addicting

The new Facebook.

Milano cookies.

Trash romance novels.

Gardening.

Shaun the Sheep.

Phineas & Ferb

Yoga.

Running, which, sadly, I can't do as much of any more.

Sleep.

Starving.

I am so hungry. Somehow, I managed to gain an insane amount of weight over the last few months. To my friends who see me all the time -- it hides on the hips/thighs, sigh. So I've started tracking what I eat each day, trying to make better choices. I am starving. Starving to the point that listening to my 7-year-old count down the timer on the oven is enough to drive me loopy:

". . . 3-2-1. Two more minutes!! 59-58-57 . . . One more minute!!!! 59-58-57-56 . . . . . .3-2-1!!! Waiit Zero minutes!!! 59-58-57 . . . . . .48-47-46 . . . 23-22-21 ..... 3-2-1 BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"

YAY! Food. Gotta go.

Premise of Perfection

Our oldest is much older than her younger siblings. For as long as they can remember, she's been the grown-up one. The perfect one. The one who does no wrong. She's put on some pedestal by them.

Tonight, my husband told the younger two the story of Uh-You.

For those who do not recall, C1 had speech issues as a child.

(Still does. Three years of speech therapy. Sigh. Try and get her to say synonym sometime. It is hilarious, trust me.)

When she was 3, my loving spouse was trying to teach her how to say the 23rd letter of the alphabet, which she insisted was pronounced "uh-you."

Scene: Casa Matthews, 1999, West Des Moines, IA. Kitchen.

Spouse: Double.

C1: Double.


Spouse: Double.

C1: Double.


Spouse: Double.

C1: Double.


Spouse: U

C1: U


Spouse: U

C1: U



Spouse: Double-U.

C1, serious look on face, very sincerely: Uh-you.

This story cracked the younger two up.

It is funny. Truly. Even C1 sees the humor in it. But it also proved to them that at least once in their lives, C1 was fallible. She wasn't always perfect. She wasn't always the best. And for today, for C3, she needed that most of all.

It is fascinating

to watch your child re-read one of your favorite books.

C1 has delved into Farhenheit 451 for pre-AP 10th grade English. She lost my copy (grrr) while on vacation at Camp Grandma -- I know it will turn up, but still -- so I bought her a copy tonight.

She's been completely sucked in by the story.

I love this because

1) This is one of my favorite books. I read it on my own in the summer between 7th and 8th grades.

2) C1 is not a reader. She is not a fan of books like this. So when I do get her to read one, I feel vindicated as a parent. She loved George Orwell's 1984. I felt a victory when she admitted she liked that book. She references Napoleon and Snowball to this day. I have an awesome kid, and because of her C2 wants to read it, but I've told him to wait a bit.

Speaking of C2, he's my reader. He is my Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Harry Potter kid. We have had to hold him back on HP, because C2 has a seriously overactive imagination. He isn't capable of reading past 4. Not yet. I enjoy sleeping at night and SPOILER WARNING . . . . Cedric's dying gives me nightmares to the point that I won't watch the movie. C2 isn't there yet. He'll be up all night if we let him watch it.

C3 is a tougher nut to crack.

Of all our kids, she has taken the longest to learn how to read. She seems to want to deny her smarts, which we have tried to push against, but not to the point that she fights back.

We have, through Mrs. B, her awesome, amazing kindergarten teacher, to read the Bob books. If you have a starting reader who isn't a self-starter, these are AWESOME. She's gained confidence. As she gains confidence, I see her gaining interest in reading. I suspect we'll be trying to hold her back soon. She's not up to Harry Potter, but maybe Ramona and the Little House books.

After all, I have yet to win anyone over on those yet. :-)

I have to admit, though, it is awesome to see the books that you love gain new life through your children. It really is like the Fireman in Farenheit 451: Books live through people. You can burn the pages, but you can't contain the ideas within. Ever.