A mommy first

The first time a child of mine will go under anesthesia: tomorrow morning 7:15. Paige is having the tear duct in her left eye surgically opened. It's a very, very simple procedure but...well, you all know what comes after the but...

The hardest part will be the fury we will face tonight at 1 AM when she wakes up and wants to nurse, and I turn her away. She is going to be livid. I'm actually a little afraid of how angry she'll be. When that child wants her mama milk, she will scratch and claw and pinch and lunge for the mammary until she gets her way. Nursing: such a warm and bonding experience. Until they're old enough to draw blood.

The upside is that my own mama is spending the night tonight so she'll be there to take care of the boys tomorrow morning (we leave for the hospital at the crack of dawn). Because my parents live only 15 minutes away, they never stay with us. Our visits are always a couple of hours long, and then we all go back home. I think that's why my mom and I still adore each other's company so much--we never spend enough time together to grow irritated and resentful. Still, it'll be a treat to have her over to watch Heroes with.

This rambling post exposes my nerves, I fear. I'm sure I'll have a post in a day or two detailing the heart wrenchingness of watching your one year old being wheeled away into surgery alone, without you by the bed to give the doctor steely eyed "I dare you to screw up" looks.

She'll be fine. I know. But...

High Fives

Indulge me this evening as I hand out some high fives to my kids for the things they are doing lately that make me proud. Starting with the oldest:

Bailey:
She came home aglow with pride (and sweat) today because she completed a 2 mile run, without walking any of it, at track practice. She joined the cross country team at school only 2 weeks ago, and this her first experience with running. So a 2 mile run was quite an accomplishment for her, especially in 100 degree weather.

Owen:
On the top of the list for Owen is how well he's doing in Kindergarten. Apart from (and in spite of) his noise phobia, he is absolutely thriving at school. His first progress report was outstanding, and he gets into the car every day with so much enthusiasm and zeal. He seems to be forming some real friendships and is taking so much pride in his work. It does a mommy's heart good to see him doing well and feeling good about himself. He's working hard to be better about his fear, too. He told me last week that he managed to get through the start of morning announcements without covering his ears, which I know took a great deal of resolve and even courage.

Mitch:
Sigh. Mitch. He's such the rabble rouser lately, some days I have to work really hard to find positive ways to encourage him. But his big accomplishment this month is potty training, late as it may be (he's 3 and a half). As I have surely mentioned, he's been halfway trained for a year now but had recently been heading backwards rather than forwards, which was frustrating to say the least. So last Sunday night, while changing a particularly disgusting Pull-up, I decreed that, come morning, we were done with the darn things. He'd go commando or wear underwear, but Pull-ups were only for bedtime.

For 2 days we stayed home, and he ran around in a long shirt with nothing on underneath, since I knew he wouldn't go on the floor. And he didn't. After those 2 days were up, he asked to put his pants back on (poor kid) and save a few minor accidents has been doing great ever since. (I guess I should have laid down the law a little sooner, huh?) So I'm proud of him for getting it together before forfeiting the $200 deposit for the preschool class he had to potty trained to enter.

Paige:
That baby is so. darn. patient. Since Owen started school, she has spent a whole lot of time in the car and running errands. Our routine lately has been morning nap for Paige, lunch, errands, and then straight to get Owen (a 25 minute drive each way plus about 20 minutes in the carpool line). So she's out for nearly 4 hours a day, and rarely does she fuss about it. She takes her afternoon nap in the car, wakes up on the way home from school, and happily babbles to her brothers for the rest of the drive. She's an ideal third child in that respect. She's also starting to "talk" a little bit. We've heard her say (or at least very nearly say) "mama" and "melon" and "uh-oh." Smarty pants.

It's been a big year for all of us. Coming up on Paige's first birthday in October feels like a milestone for our family as much as it is for her. Her birth was a shake-up for us, of course, and was the first of many changes in our lives: new baby, new schools, new jobs, new family routines (with John working at home now). I am starting to feel settled in to all of this change, and it feels good. So yay for all of us and high fives all around.

He is His Brother's Keeper. And Maimer. But Mostly His Keeper.

The sibling love runneth deep in this house. That is, it runneth when they aren't hitting, biting, snatching, yelling, pushing, and tackling each other. But I can live with the maiming (even as frequently as it happens) because of what runs beneath that: the very real, very endearing, and very complex love my children have for one another.

Tonight while John, Paige, and I were finishing up dinner, Owen and Mitch were playing tug-o-war with a jump rope in the family room. Of course, eventually, Owen tried the old "let go while the other person is pulling with all his might" trick and Mitch went flying. He fell against the brick hearth, scraping and bruising his side pretty badly. Mitch is usually a stoic little guy, so when we heard his pained howl and Owen's frantic "I'm sorry, Mitch! I'm sorry!" we knew he was really hurt.

Owen looked on, his brow furrowed in sincere concern, as we iced Mitch's bruise and wiped his tears, and he told Mitch he was sorry a few more times. He kept eying us warily, waiting for a punishment, until I finally told him it was okay. We knew it was an accident. We knew he hadn't meant to hurt Mitch.

After calming everyone down, I went about my 7:00 business: dishes, baby bathing, counter wiping, next-day-lunch making. I could see Owen at the kid-sized table in the family room, occupied with drawing (a common sight in our house) and Mitch on the couch with Dee Dee (his beloved blankie), sucking his fingers in post-accident recuperation. A few minutes later I overheard Owen telling Mitch he'd made something for him; then he handed his little brother the notes in the photo above and quietly explained to him what the words said.

The affection my children show for one another is, without a doubt, the best thing about parenting siblings. Nothing is more gratifying than to know that those I love best in the world are cherished nearly as much by other people. Every morning, every single morning, Mitch's chin wobbles when he wakes up and realizes that Owen is already at school. And every day, Mitch asks from about 10:00 on if it's time to pick Owen up yet. On Saturdays, Owen, the early riser, begs to be allowed to wake Mitch up, and if I tell him no, he makes up excuses to go into their room, clearly plotting to "accidentally" wake him.

Tonight Paige walked (well, stumbled) across the family room behind her push toy for the first time. The boys' excitement at this feat and their cheers and hair ruffling congratulations afterward had Paige beaming. I swear I could almost see an aura of love and admiration around her; she was fairly aglow with it. I've posted before about how heartwarming the boys' adoration of Paige is, but every time I witness it, it bowls me over again. At times like those, I imagine that Paige will always hold a special place in the family, in the sibling order. The boys will always dote on her, encourage her, help her along, and she will bask in their affection, thrive in it.

Before sitting down to write this post, I peeked in at Owen and Mitch, asleep their beds--twin beds that they've pushed together so they can sleep next to each other. When I left after putting them to bed tonight, each was on his own side, tucked in neatly with plenty of space left between them. But just now, at 11:30, they had, as they do every night, migrated toward each other as they slept and were sprawled out in the middle of the bed together, limbs entwined, mouths agape, wearing expressions of pure contentment. The contentment of feeling safe and loved and close to someone who is looking out for you. Someone who looks forward to seeing you every day.

Even if it's only so he can pummel you for overstaying your turn on the computer.

I Did It

I made a person. A real, live person with a life independent of mine, who goes on about his day while I go on about mine, our paths crossing only in the afternoon, at the end of the day. Someone whose peers will now influence him almost as much as I do, whose teacher will know things about him that I don't. A person with an inner life who is, as I type, sitting alone in a room full of strangers, calling up all of his young emotional resources to adjust to a new place, a longer day, new friends and authority figures. A person who's doing very well with his first year of big kid school. Mostly.

I have been trying to write this post since Wednesday, Owen's first day, but my computer is acting wonky again, and I don't have time to take it over to tech services. But it's almost better to have a few days under my belt, a bit of perspective. I was fine when I dropped him off on Wednesday (maybe a wee bit sentimental), and he was fine, too. I looked back once as I walked to car after delivering him to his teacher, and he wasn't watching me, just sitting among the other kindergarteners on his new red and blue nap mat with a bravely stoic expression, that look we get when we're somewhere new, a little disoriented, and don't really know what to do with ourselves. He gazed around kind of blankly, waved when I finally caught his eye and gave me a small smile. Part of me wanted to run back and scoop him up, spare him those first few awkward days. I just kept thinking, he's only FIVE years old, and I'm leaving him in this brand new place with all of these strangers. Adjustments like that are scary even for grown-ups. It amazes me how he's taking it in stride.

So far his favorite things about kindergarten are art, recess, reading, and the discipline system, since his teacher rewards good behavior with a weekly trip to her "treasure chest" to pick a prize. He's striving with all his might to earn that damn treasure, so I guess the system works.

However. I'm also afraid what I feared may be happening. Remember the post about Owen's fear, where I predicted the conversation we'd have if he found a noise to be anxious about at school? That conversation happened this morning, almost word for word as I imagined it. But it's not a school bell that's bothering him, it's the building's intercom system. It startles him when it comes on with morning announcements and to call the kids' names for carpool. On the way to school this morning he said, "Mommy, I want to stay home and do fun things with you." Shit.

When he came home on the first day, he announced that they had a "speaker" in his classroom, then assured us that he wasn't scared of it at all. Not me. Uh uh. No way. But that's how his anxiety starts: first he denies it, fights it, tries to pretend he's not feeling it--hoping to get past it, I suppose. So when he tells me he's not afraid, he really means, "I'm very worried." Then it escalates. The second day he mentioned the intercom again, still claiming to be fine with it. Then this morning.

I knew why he wanted to stay with me, so I saved him having to tell me and asked, "What's bothering you? The speaker?" He said, "You got it!" Sigh. I told him he couldn't stay home, that he'd have a very sad and boring life if he let noises keep him home because noises were everywhere. I explained that every child in his class had something he or she was trying to get used to, even if no one else was worried about the speaker, and that everyone would feel more comfortable in a few days. I told him that the intercom was a very small part of a really fun day and he shouldn't let one part of the day ruin the rest of it. I assuaged him for now. I only hope his anxiety doesn't grow further.

I hate that his worry about that stupid speaker is complicating his adjustment to kindergarten. I wish we'd gotten in touch with a child psych before school started. I wish he could be reasonable about the whole thing and overcome it. Because when I imagine him, alive for only five years, on his own at real school for the first time, waiting for me to pick him up in carpool with his hands clapped over his ears and that alarmed expression on his face that makes him look like almost like a baby again, it breaks my heart. Why does life have to get harder? Why does it have to pull us farther and farther apart, separate an anxious five year old from his mother?

But truly, I know why, and I'm proud of him for doing as well as he's done so far. I'm proud of him for going without hysteria and tears today, for trying to listen to me and get past his fear. He left the car this morning with a quick hug, and I could almost see him brace himself for the day. That's one "first" I didn't expect--his first public face. The first mask he'd wear for everyone else. The first year he's old enough to realize that sometimes we have to grin and bear it, even if the grin masks fear.