Kindergarten is hard, y'all

There have been some growing pains this year. Mostly, they've been mine.

My boy is feeling the effects of not having a nap-time after lunch, even if he did his very best every day last year to keep himself not sleeping and preoccupied with a whispered song or staring at the kid on a covert crayon-stealing operation or just an errant thread. This year, rest time is trying hard to stay still on his spot on the rug while the teacher reads a book to the class.

He loves it.

And then he comes home and yawns and climbs on my lap and stomps around the house until he finally lets his body fall completely limp into bed. He's exhausted.

I, however, need much more than a nap. Or even for him to nap. I am struggling.

I recognize now more than ever (and I said many prayers of thanks before now) how lucky we were  that he was in a pre-K that was open to kids from 8 a.m. until 6 p.m. I could work full-time guiltlessly and pick him up -- sometimes in tears and begging to stay later -- after putting in a long day.

But kindergarten is the real deal and the day goes from 9 in the morning until 2:45 in the afternoon. I'm cramming as much of my own work as I can into Lil E's school day, rushing to get him, bringing him home to do homework, have snack, try and make playing quietly while I finish work seem AMAZING! and FUN! and SUCH A GREAT IDEA!

I thought it might take a bit of getting used to. I just didn't account for all the time and energy and calm-voiced coaching he'd need to come up with a list of words that begin with the letter K. I love sitting there with him over a bowl of goldfish and brainstorming and reminding him where to slip in a silent E. It's honestly my pleasure.

But damn, it's hard work. Then it's dinner and bath and our overly complex bedtime ritual (that's my bad) and a deep breath and I'm back to work again. There's very little chance I could sit still on a spot on a rug after all of that. Without falling asleep.

I'm not sure how to work this all out. The after-school care option is just not one I will consider. And I was so set on training Lil E -- and myself -- to make this work without outside help. But...but...I'd love to get over some magical mountain of logistics, to find our rhythm, to just get my stuff together already. Or maybe I'd love to hire a sitter to pick him up after school more. I'm too tired to think on it too much.

Something will eventually have to give and so it will. Until then, I will be hunting down six or seven juice boxes filled with anything caffeinated.

Have tips? Advice? Raised fists in solidarity for how challenging kindy days are? Offer it up!

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You are six. I am shocked.

To my leggy, tanned, bedheaded, giggling, dancing boy with the quickly developing sarcastic sense of humor, in the Star Wars t-shirt, hunched over a pile of at least a thousand Legos:

I distinctly remember the day I turned six. What felt like years but was probably not nearly that long before I blew out those candles on my own birthday cake, I saw a "Sesame Street" clip of a little girl leaping from her bed, singing about being six. I remember the dreamy haze that filled my own little girl-thoughts back then, "One day, I am going to be six, too!"

When the day finally arrived, I leaped from my own twin bed covered in quilts and stuffed animals and sang to the whole house, "I'm six! I'm six! I'm six years old today!" just like the pink pajama-ed girl in the video.

Last spring, when the reality that your days as a five-year old were winding down, that song filled up my mind again. I felt the same bliss, this time framed by a few tears from a mama who is both ecstatic and wistful to see her baby become a boy.

When I see you take off down the sidewalk in a sprint, dangle from the monkey bars, jump from your own bed happily in the morning to get ready for another day of kindergarten, it calls up the vivid feeling of being free in my own six-year old body. It makes me remember how wide-open and thrilling it all seemed -- the world, the playground, the kid-sized classroom tables and chairs, the scary-tall and wobbly slide, the deep end of the pool, the little space under my bed. It makes me remember my own dreams of being a teacher, a mother, a writer, a fancy lady, a movie star, a rock star, an actress on a soap opera, Juice Newton, Judy Blume, an artist.

By becoming more and more of who you are, Lil E, keeping me connected to the person I have been for my own much-longer life. I am so grateful for that gift.

It sounds like too much, like a line Barbara Hershey would have spouted off just before Bette Midler said something snarky that makes us all laugh around our tears, but it really is true.

Even more than that, I feel like the luckiest mother in the world in those moments when you casually read a big word or put your hand out to stop me from helping you pack up your Millennium Falcon backpack or squeal with excitement to show me how you fashioned a skeleton out of recycled plastic tubs and cardboard tubes or spill the details of who got what behavior grade in class that day or unleash a stream of questions about exactly what happens to the organs in your body when you die and how your spirit makes its way up to heaven.

The wheels are always turning with you. It's sometimes exhausting to try to keep up. But most of the time, it is pretty fun and funny to be along for the ride. Your own dreams are taking shape -- to be black belt, to read chapter books on your own, to ride your bike all the way to Grandma's house on your own, to grow up and be a man and live in a house next door to me, to save up lots of money.

You go and go and go, so much so that you have a hard time settling down to sleep. Most nights, I whisper to you, "Shhhh. Quiet your mind and make your body still" just so you are reminded that rest is a good thing. When you are finally asleep, I still sneak in to check that you are still breathing, that you've relinquished the potty talk and hilarious poop jokes and questions about what's happening tomorrow and given into the calm.

In the dark, I can see the baby and the man in your face. Sprawled out just like you always did in your crib with the same pouty, pink lips parted and breathing heavily into the rest of the room, I can also see the hint of more angular features outlining what you will look like years from now.

You are serious and focused and my heart pounds to see you hold your attention on perfecting your jump-front-kick in Tae Kwon Do and placing piece by piece on a 454-brick Lego ship. But you temper all that with kind words, booty shaking in your car seat to requests of "Boom Boom Pow" and "Party in the U.S.A." and long, involved explanations of rules for games I am pretty sure you make up to be so complex there's no possibility of anyone else winning.

You love babies, dogs, and the fact you know what a European carry-all is and why that's hilarious. You eat broccoli now, even like it. Reading before bed is one of the most important parts of your day and you pour over Tae Kwon Do and nature magazines. You love survival television shows and (as you still call it), "America's Home Funniest Videos" is still your favorite thing to watch.

You think a lot, and sometimes it is a challenge to parent you with all the negotiations you are set on making. As you have since the day you came into this world, who you inherently are calls on me to be the best of who I am. Oh, how I am trying.

You are spiritual, sensitive, you make me stop cleaning to have a quick dance party. You now wipe my lipstick from your lips each morning before you wave goodbye and follow behind your teacher into school. You give lots of thumbs up and sometimes flash a peace sign. You think big thoughts, ask bigger questions, you are so much your own person.

Every year at this time, I think it  -- you are one honey of a boy. But now, you are six. You are six years old today!

This one's for you, kid.

I love you with my whole heart.

xo

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Friday shoe fail

The time for sandal-wearing is short. I'm woman enough to admit that and shoe-whore enough to know that five minutes after I sniffle while packing up my favorite strappy heels, I will be luxuriating in a pair of buttery soft leather boots. Still, for the sake of my happy little nakey toes, I'm wearing the summer shoes as often and as long as I can.

Well, except for my favorite flip-flops. The ones I adore with the peacock feather stamped in silver across the top and the cushiony but thin sole. The ones I bucked up and paid more than I usually would for flip-flops because I was taking a fabulous vacation, during which I planned to be both fabulous and poolside for five days, and because I wanted to be simultaneously comfy and casual and pretty. The ones I wore regularly but not incessantly for one short summer before...before...

The anchor for the adorable little silver plastic strap snapped, leaving my favorite flip-flops irreparable, broken, flapped out for good.

Lil E suggested we had three options: glue, tape, staples.

I suggested writing a strongly word letter to Mr. Havaianas himself for dangly those tattoo-inspired slip-ons in front of me and then snatching the strap away just to make up for the many generic pairs I'd hastily thrown into my basket in a Walgreen's act of desperation. Or maybe there was some kind of flip-flop foundation who could field my complaint call. Possibly, a shoe first aid kit in the resort where we were staying.

It's not that I'm just disappointed that my spendy, cheap shoes barely outlived the $30 charge on my Macy's card. It's that I felt like more than my flip-flops faded. I felt like my summer had been ripped from my tan-lined feet, not just my sandals.

I haven't parted with the peacock pretties just yet. They're lying in state on my bedroom floor a few inches from the guilty and inadequate dislodged strap anchor. I look at them longingly every morning before I step over them to reach for one of my other fifteen pairs of summer shoes (don't judge me).

Hopefully, by next summer a new pair of flip-flops will fill the void that these have, barely halfway through September, already left on my heels and in my heart.

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