So the first day of school came and went for my third grader. It was long, he was exhausted, and a little ticked that they had to hear the rules AGAIN, and did not get to do math, but he was alright.
The first day for my Kindergartner, not so much. I knew it was going to be hairy when we tried to go to a dance class the night before and he wrapped himself around me like a rhesus monkey and refused to do anything. I sat on the floor through the entire class choking for air while he said, "I am not doing this!"
In my head, I was already formulating how to combat these issue the next morning. We got ready for bed, laid out his clothes, and I explained what would happen the next day, twice! I also explained there would be no time for fits, tantrums, or screaming. Then we said prayers, his brother talked about all the fun stuff you get to do in Kindergarten, and I read The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn without crying. I was feeling pretty good.
Side note - I even remembered to prep his brother before he woke up that he might be nervous and throw a fit, or not get on the bus and all of that was OK. We needed to show him love and kindness and help him through it just like mommy did for him on the airplane when he was really really scared.
Then the moment of truth arrived and he ended up barely eating, throwing down with me about what clothes to wear, and screaming for twenty minutes that he was NOT GOING TO KINDERGARTEN!!! One step at a time. I finally got him dressed, but he wasn't getting on the bus. Then I got him outside but he wouldn't carry his backpack. We got to the bus stop, but he wasn't going to school. We got home and he had to do three things before we could leave. And he did exactly three things. He went and put glue in his back pack, he had to throw the whistle ball, and then he had to play PIG with dad.
So we got in the van and I start to drive to school not knowing whether I should talk about something else, talk about school, or just shut-up. I turned on the radio, asked if he was cool enough, and then waited for him to talk. We were not going anywhere fast as we live pretty close to school and were behind three buses. He spotted the buses and just knew his brother was on one and we should race it to school. SO we did!! At all of 18 miles and hour, I think, hot on it's tail.
Dad met us at school, so did the principal. (who I slipped inside to call when he wouldn't get on the bus asking for back-up at his classroom) He gave her a high five, walked down to his classroom and got in line with the teacher. I started to back away immediately not knowing what to expect. Would he lunge tackle me screaming, "Don't leave me! I'm not staying here!"
I'm pretty sure what saved us was the child that did have to be extracted from his mother and carried into the classroom by a teacher and the guidance counselor. So we wouldn't be the first - they had a system (and a very large woman) in place to handle child extractions. Excellent!
He looked so small, and scared, and I...I thought I was going to throw up. I have not felt so sick to my stomach since my first day of Kindergarten. When he was crying this morning, he said he would not go unless his "whole famiwee can come wif me." Oh buddy, I want nothing more than to go wif you. I wish I could sit in the corner and do Kindergarten all over again....but I can't.
I've cried so hard and so long, I did throw up. Then I cried so more. Gee, I hope next week gets better. Maybe there is a large woman that can carry me home?
Friday, August 26, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
without words
Good, bad, wrong or right...words have always been a huge part of my life. Talking, writing, singing, words have helped me through every joy and sorrow.
Why is it when I hear the word cancer, all words seem to escape me. The first time that word came into my life was also when my Great Aunt Leona came into my life. She was fighting a tumor that had taken her lung and was wrapped around her heart. She was amazing, courageous, wise, and wonderful. But I only saw a part of it.
Both of my father's parents battled cancer. Papa was diagnosed and died within a month or so. Mama was diagnosed and it seemed to giver her a courage and purpose like we had never seen in her 70 odd years. She was ready to fight, and she did for three whole years. I still only saw part of it.
My Uncle George fought a long hard horrible battle with brain cancer. He showed strength and faith that still leaves me in awe. My friends mother fought humorously against stage 4 breast cancer. They taught me things that I will treasure not only about how to live but how to die.
We have had two friends our age diagnosed last year with cancer. They have young children. Their cancer's are very different and so are their struggles. Two children we know have been diagnosed with Leukemia. It's overwhelming and still I only know part of it.
A friend who had breast cancer several years ago found out that it is back in her lymph nods. She is hopeful, courageous and still wicked funny. She is also scared, vulnerable, and anxious. And I have no words. What do I say? I feel helpless and dumb and wordless. This is the part isn't it? The part that is missing when you are not the spouse or caregiver.
Courage is a muscle you must exercise. I think there could not be anything more courageous then facing death everyday. Waking up knowing that there is a war raging inside of you, ready to take you down. But is that want someone living with this diagnosis wants to hear - I'm awe struck by your courage, keep fighting. I'll keep praying.
My friends mother went into her mastectomy with a t-shirt that said STOP THE WAR IN MY RACK.
Our friend with Colo-Rectal Cancer said if women can have Save the TaTa's he wanted brown t-shirts that read SAVE THE ASSHOLES. If humor is the key, my friend has more years then she can count and plenty of Bunko left in her.
Why is it when I hear the word cancer, all words seem to escape me. The first time that word came into my life was also when my Great Aunt Leona came into my life. She was fighting a tumor that had taken her lung and was wrapped around her heart. She was amazing, courageous, wise, and wonderful. But I only saw a part of it.
Both of my father's parents battled cancer. Papa was diagnosed and died within a month or so. Mama was diagnosed and it seemed to giver her a courage and purpose like we had never seen in her 70 odd years. She was ready to fight, and she did for three whole years. I still only saw part of it.
My Uncle George fought a long hard horrible battle with brain cancer. He showed strength and faith that still leaves me in awe. My friends mother fought humorously against stage 4 breast cancer. They taught me things that I will treasure not only about how to live but how to die.
We have had two friends our age diagnosed last year with cancer. They have young children. Their cancer's are very different and so are their struggles. Two children we know have been diagnosed with Leukemia. It's overwhelming and still I only know part of it.
A friend who had breast cancer several years ago found out that it is back in her lymph nods. She is hopeful, courageous and still wicked funny. She is also scared, vulnerable, and anxious. And I have no words. What do I say? I feel helpless and dumb and wordless. This is the part isn't it? The part that is missing when you are not the spouse or caregiver.
Courage is a muscle you must exercise. I think there could not be anything more courageous then facing death everyday. Waking up knowing that there is a war raging inside of you, ready to take you down. But is that want someone living with this diagnosis wants to hear - I'm awe struck by your courage, keep fighting. I'll keep praying.
My friends mother went into her mastectomy with a t-shirt that said STOP THE WAR IN MY RACK.
Our friend with Colo-Rectal Cancer said if women can have Save the TaTa's he wanted brown t-shirts that read SAVE THE ASSHOLES. If humor is the key, my friend has more years then she can count and plenty of Bunko left in her.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
it's all relative
I started out thinking I was going to write about turning 39, hense the title "it's all relative", but after watching an episode of the Jersey Housewives while I folded three loads of laundry that has taken on a whole new meaning in my head.
Aren't those housewives all related? And not just with the mob, I am the marriage kind of related? It's funny to watch them interact with each other on camera; one arm hug, pecks on the cheek, plastered smiles then all the one uping, snide remarks, more fake smiling (and boobs) and then they turn around and say to a camera man - LIKE NO ONES GOING TO HEAR - "She is such a b!tch. She thinks she can sing and sh!t and she's all fake..."
Hello? and then people are surprised when these women throw down at a wedding in six inch heels and floor length gowns. Who knew?
Ok, time to come up with a letter title for my rant about age??
Aren't those housewives all related? And not just with the mob, I am the marriage kind of related? It's funny to watch them interact with each other on camera; one arm hug, pecks on the cheek, plastered smiles then all the one uping, snide remarks, more fake smiling (and boobs) and then they turn around and say to a camera man - LIKE NO ONES GOING TO HEAR - "She is such a b!tch. She thinks she can sing and sh!t and she's all fake..."
Hello? and then people are surprised when these women throw down at a wedding in six inch heels and floor length gowns. Who knew?
Ok, time to come up with a letter title for my rant about age??
Sunday, August 7, 2011
do over
I want a do over! she calls from box one
box two and three shrug and look down
but the girl in box four says No Way!
and she is the ultimate one
why doesn't democracy rule
on the playground you follow a code
there are kids in charge and most are not
and that's just the way in schools
but box one insists she has the right
she looks to her friends for help
but they are too scared of the one in charge
they will not get in on this fight
I want a do over! she says with a stomp
hands on her hips like her mom
she tries to look big, as big as a house
as she trembles with fear of a romp
for just one moment the world seems to stop
as she stands in the crackling air
defiance is hard and it makes her feel weak
until box four shrugs and head drops
box two and three shrug and look down
but the girl in box four says No Way!
and she is the ultimate one
why doesn't democracy rule
on the playground you follow a code
there are kids in charge and most are not
and that's just the way in schools
but box one insists she has the right
she looks to her friends for help
but they are too scared of the one in charge
they will not get in on this fight
I want a do over! she says with a stomp
hands on her hips like her mom
she tries to look big, as big as a house
as she trembles with fear of a romp
for just one moment the world seems to stop
as she stands in the crackling air
defiance is hard and it makes her feel weak
until box four shrugs and head drops
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.
The trip is over. And I feel that it is time to reflect on all that went well - right.
We spent time with my husband's 96 year-old grandmother who is still very feisty. There were many many meals filled with great food and even greater family. Gorgeous days at the sea filled with sunshine and salt water. Water the color of jewels that is just the right temperature when you have been fried by the Mediterranean sun. There were movies, sewing lessons, shopping, and cooking as well as tickle time with Gia Gia. And of course eating, eating, eating, and more eating. Oh how I miss the eating;-)))) You should only eat croissants in France and Baklava in Greece...something like that. There were tons of cousins, futball games, tag, even some goats and a pig! The borrowed DVD player that even worked in the car and the 15 new movies from Theo Marinos. SCORE! Motorcycle rides for the all the boys, and a great new book for mom.
There was the medic in London (Thanks again Mick!) that took great care in making sure my eight year-old could get on the next plane without popping two eardrums. As well as the young woman who stayed with us until daddy got back with the tickets (3 hours later) and we were safely on our way. There was the flight attendant who could see that my eight year-old was anxious and made sure he had snacks, drinks, and even found some gum. To all of the passport agents who asked the children their name, where they were from, and if they were enjoying their holiday. The pilots we meet in the hotels that answered numerous questions from two nervous children (and one nervous parent).
The countless family, friends, neighbors, shop keepers, and strangers that gave the children money or presents or both! Or got us out of a pickle because they could speak English thereby supplementing my very limited Greek. It kept us from once boarding a bus bound for Turkey and also from buying Gia Gia a vegetable when what she asked for was soap. At least I was hoping I was asking for something that wasn't either illegal or immoral.
There were many things that went well - wrong.
The flight attendant who ignored my pleas to get us off the plane quickly to get medical attention when my son was screaming and crying and holding his ears. That was the very first flight - so you could say that was all that needed to go wrong because for mom it seemed it would be all downhill from there. The missed flight, the five hour layover, not being able to notify family on the receiving end who was waiting for us at the airport. Getting in at 11:00 p.m. at night after traveling 48 hours.
The customs and passport agents in the US who were just down right rude. The operator at Holiday Inn's 800 line that would not connect nor call the hotel in Chicago to notify them we were waiting at the International terminal for the shuttle after flying 9 hours. After eating GiaGia's cooking for 30 days - airport pickings and hotel food. Yuck!
The EU. Can I claim that one? Can't say I know a whole lot about the economic crisis in Greece. But the kids got to see a protest, why is that in the things that went wrong list? Well, having seen Greece prior to the Euro, and prior to the Olympics, all I know is that something went horribly wrong.
The things that were just - well ugly.
I think my biggest problem on the trip was panic attacks. Not that I wasn't expecting them (had my first at age 5), I don't like to fly and get a little nervous when I am left alone in a foreign country where I don't speak the language. I was not however, ready for my son's panic attack. My biggest fear has always been that I will be that crazy lunatic that runs through the plane screaming right after take off clawing at the door trying to get out only to get tackled by several flight attendants all wielding needles full of horse tranquilizers. It was my eight year-old however after the ear pain disaster on the first flight that developed the biggest fear of flying. We had a short flight from Cyprus to Greece and right after take off he started sobbing yelling at me to get him off the plane. It was my worst nightmare come true only he was living it. It broke my heart into a million tiny pieces some of which I am certain are still on that plane.
We got through it. My husband's mother cried and cried, and then told everyone how amazing I was, so did my husband. I didn't want to be amazing. I wanted to cry with him. I wanted to get the hell off that plane too. I never did cry. I never did break down in all those days of struggling to get through knowing what lie ahead. Not until we got back, not until everyone was in bed, not until I was quite sure I was alone did I cry. Not because I had an awful trip, or because he had an awful trip - we didn't. I cried because I realized I merely survived. We made it home. Now what? I can not fathom getting back on a plane and doing again, and yet we will. Will I have learned my lesson for next time? Be ready for the worst? Enjoy the ride? Go with the flow? I'm not quite sure yet what the universe is trying to teach me, but I am ready to learn.
We spent time with my husband's 96 year-old grandmother who is still very feisty. There were many many meals filled with great food and even greater family. Gorgeous days at the sea filled with sunshine and salt water. Water the color of jewels that is just the right temperature when you have been fried by the Mediterranean sun. There were movies, sewing lessons, shopping, and cooking as well as tickle time with Gia Gia. And of course eating, eating, eating, and more eating. Oh how I miss the eating;-)))) You should only eat croissants in France and Baklava in Greece...something like that. There were tons of cousins, futball games, tag, even some goats and a pig! The borrowed DVD player that even worked in the car and the 15 new movies from Theo Marinos. SCORE! Motorcycle rides for the all the boys, and a great new book for mom.
There was the medic in London (Thanks again Mick!) that took great care in making sure my eight year-old could get on the next plane without popping two eardrums. As well as the young woman who stayed with us until daddy got back with the tickets (3 hours later) and we were safely on our way. There was the flight attendant who could see that my eight year-old was anxious and made sure he had snacks, drinks, and even found some gum. To all of the passport agents who asked the children their name, where they were from, and if they were enjoying their holiday. The pilots we meet in the hotels that answered numerous questions from two nervous children (and one nervous parent).
The countless family, friends, neighbors, shop keepers, and strangers that gave the children money or presents or both! Or got us out of a pickle because they could speak English thereby supplementing my very limited Greek. It kept us from once boarding a bus bound for Turkey and also from buying Gia Gia a vegetable when what she asked for was soap. At least I was hoping I was asking for something that wasn't either illegal or immoral.
There were many things that went well - wrong.
The flight attendant who ignored my pleas to get us off the plane quickly to get medical attention when my son was screaming and crying and holding his ears. That was the very first flight - so you could say that was all that needed to go wrong because for mom it seemed it would be all downhill from there. The missed flight, the five hour layover, not being able to notify family on the receiving end who was waiting for us at the airport. Getting in at 11:00 p.m. at night after traveling 48 hours.
The customs and passport agents in the US who were just down right rude. The operator at Holiday Inn's 800 line that would not connect nor call the hotel in Chicago to notify them we were waiting at the International terminal for the shuttle after flying 9 hours. After eating GiaGia's cooking for 30 days - airport pickings and hotel food. Yuck!
The EU. Can I claim that one? Can't say I know a whole lot about the economic crisis in Greece. But the kids got to see a protest, why is that in the things that went wrong list? Well, having seen Greece prior to the Euro, and prior to the Olympics, all I know is that something went horribly wrong.
The things that were just - well ugly.
I think my biggest problem on the trip was panic attacks. Not that I wasn't expecting them (had my first at age 5), I don't like to fly and get a little nervous when I am left alone in a foreign country where I don't speak the language. I was not however, ready for my son's panic attack. My biggest fear has always been that I will be that crazy lunatic that runs through the plane screaming right after take off clawing at the door trying to get out only to get tackled by several flight attendants all wielding needles full of horse tranquilizers. It was my eight year-old however after the ear pain disaster on the first flight that developed the biggest fear of flying. We had a short flight from Cyprus to Greece and right after take off he started sobbing yelling at me to get him off the plane. It was my worst nightmare come true only he was living it. It broke my heart into a million tiny pieces some of which I am certain are still on that plane.
We got through it. My husband's mother cried and cried, and then told everyone how amazing I was, so did my husband. I didn't want to be amazing. I wanted to cry with him. I wanted to get the hell off that plane too. I never did cry. I never did break down in all those days of struggling to get through knowing what lie ahead. Not until we got back, not until everyone was in bed, not until I was quite sure I was alone did I cry. Not because I had an awful trip, or because he had an awful trip - we didn't. I cried because I realized I merely survived. We made it home. Now what? I can not fathom getting back on a plane and doing again, and yet we will. Will I have learned my lesson for next time? Be ready for the worst? Enjoy the ride? Go with the flow? I'm not quite sure yet what the universe is trying to teach me, but I am ready to learn.
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