It happened. There I stood bare-footed looking slightly up at Pearce in his tennis shoes. Truthfully, I didn’t notice it. I was just talking to my kid. But Pearce; he noticed it. He noticed it out loud.
Puberty embarrasses him. The infancy of a mustache on his top lip causes him anxiety. His voice breaking amuses him. But realizing he was eye level to mom was a rite of passage. A moment he realized he could hold over me. Literally.
The funny thing is that I still worry that he’ll have trouble putting the dishes away in the high places when unloads the dishwasher. Maybe I’m in denial. I need to reflect on that.
Here’s the funny freebie for you. My 12-year-old is about to be the tallest person in my house.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Waterworks
I have always prided myself on ‘keeping it together’ during times when other mothers shapeshift into blubbering heaps of maternal embarrassment. I don’t cry on the first day of school. I don’t cry at Pre-K graduations. Or K graduations. In fact, I die laughing every time I see the scene where Mr. Incredible gets lectured for missing his son’s 4th grade graduation:
Helen: I can't believe you don't want to go to your own son's graduation.
Bob: It's not a graduation. He is moving from the 4th grade to the 5th grade.
Helen: It's a ceremony!
Bob: It's psychotic!
In my never ending pursuit of full-disclosure with you, though, the real reason I relate to Bob (Mr. Incredible) and the reason I make fun of my maternal peers is that I’m secretly worried that there’s something WRONG with me. Why don’t I cry at these occasions? Why can’t I appreciate the momentousness of these milestones? What kind of monster mother am I??????
Thankfully, I now know that the timing in my blubbering engine is just a little off. A case in point is last week’s PTA meeting. It was the kind of meeting where they bribe you to come by tacking on a musical program at the end. You know; the musical program with your child in it. So we went, as we’ve done since Pearce was in Kindergarten. For six years I have sat in the audience and not cried while other parents misted up and even shed a few poignant, dramatic tears proving that they love their kids more than I love mine. But during the last PTA meeting, something in me broke. And I mean broke. I was admiring the absolute genius of Cole’s performance. I was swelling. And then, the show ended and the choir teacher stood up to say thanks for coming. I thought of how great she is and how much I’ve enjoyed her shows over the years. And it hit me. Because Stone and Cade will go to a different elementary, this was the last of these performances at this school. And as the kids went into their completely awesome school song, I felt the heat rise in my face and I knew something terrible was imminent. It surprised me as my eyes were filled with alien moisture. Then, my attention was directed to Pearce, who was standing with a group of ‘alumni’ – all singing and doing the hand motions to the school chant. And I did one better than cry, people. I broke down. I drew a mixture of horrified and sympathetic looks from the people seated nearest me as I sobbed semi-quietly.
I had a cathartic realization. I realized how proud I was of my kids. I realized how much I appreciated the school and how much I’d miss it after this year is over. I realized that both my older children were flagship kids at that school and that they’d broken in those hallways, those classrooms, and those school songs. And the realization of it all broke me in a way I had no defense against. I was not the mother who makes other mothers feel bad for not crying. I was the mother other mothers look at and say, “Thank goodness I’m not that lady (or her kids).” I had a chance to compose myself as the Art teacher made announcements and the kids were ushered into the cafeteria for pick-up. I managed to make it through telling Cole how proud I was of him without more waterworks. But on the way home, when I was alone in the car, I cried more. This time in earnest, without the stares of others to deter me.
I’m pretty sure I cried enough to cover every event in the past I missed out on. And I know I’m covered for the rest of the school year, if not next year, too. Who knows, I might have unleashed something inside. I’ll get back to you on that. Stone has a pre-K graduation coming up.
Helen: I can't believe you don't want to go to your own son's graduation.
Bob: It's not a graduation. He is moving from the 4th grade to the 5th grade.
Helen: It's a ceremony!
Bob: It's psychotic!
In my never ending pursuit of full-disclosure with you, though, the real reason I relate to Bob (Mr. Incredible) and the reason I make fun of my maternal peers is that I’m secretly worried that there’s something WRONG with me. Why don’t I cry at these occasions? Why can’t I appreciate the momentousness of these milestones? What kind of monster mother am I??????
Thankfully, I now know that the timing in my blubbering engine is just a little off. A case in point is last week’s PTA meeting. It was the kind of meeting where they bribe you to come by tacking on a musical program at the end. You know; the musical program with your child in it. So we went, as we’ve done since Pearce was in Kindergarten. For six years I have sat in the audience and not cried while other parents misted up and even shed a few poignant, dramatic tears proving that they love their kids more than I love mine. But during the last PTA meeting, something in me broke. And I mean broke. I was admiring the absolute genius of Cole’s performance. I was swelling. And then, the show ended and the choir teacher stood up to say thanks for coming. I thought of how great she is and how much I’ve enjoyed her shows over the years. And it hit me. Because Stone and Cade will go to a different elementary, this was the last of these performances at this school. And as the kids went into their completely awesome school song, I felt the heat rise in my face and I knew something terrible was imminent. It surprised me as my eyes were filled with alien moisture. Then, my attention was directed to Pearce, who was standing with a group of ‘alumni’ – all singing and doing the hand motions to the school chant. And I did one better than cry, people. I broke down. I drew a mixture of horrified and sympathetic looks from the people seated nearest me as I sobbed semi-quietly.
I had a cathartic realization. I realized how proud I was of my kids. I realized how much I appreciated the school and how much I’d miss it after this year is over. I realized that both my older children were flagship kids at that school and that they’d broken in those hallways, those classrooms, and those school songs. And the realization of it all broke me in a way I had no defense against. I was not the mother who makes other mothers feel bad for not crying. I was the mother other mothers look at and say, “Thank goodness I’m not that lady (or her kids).” I had a chance to compose myself as the Art teacher made announcements and the kids were ushered into the cafeteria for pick-up. I managed to make it through telling Cole how proud I was of him without more waterworks. But on the way home, when I was alone in the car, I cried more. This time in earnest, without the stares of others to deter me.
I’m pretty sure I cried enough to cover every event in the past I missed out on. And I know I’m covered for the rest of the school year, if not next year, too. Who knows, I might have unleashed something inside. I’ll get back to you on that. Stone has a pre-K graduation coming up.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
"Sthuck? Sthuck???"
I started work last week and a few of my friends have told me that they can tell because the funny Facebook statuses and blog posts have all but stopped. Lucky for you, my kids never take a break from...well, being my kids. Thanks to Pearce for giving me a story that should satisfy you for weeks.
I consider myself very lucky. I have four boys and only Pearce has had stitches. Four boys and only Pearce has fractured a bone. Four boys and not one of them has ever had to have the fire department called to rescue him from a school desk. Until yesterday.
I'm sitting in a coworker's cubicle and I get a call from the dreaded number. Pearce's school calling. Again. It most likely means he's forgotten important school supplies or was 'excessively social' during class. I answer and it's the nurse. My first mental reaction is 'Whew...he's not in trouble.' The nurse begins with, "Pearce is fine. Your son is Frank, right? Goes by Pearce? Hold on, I need to make sure I'm talking to the right parent." She yells to someone in the background and comes back to the phone. "Ok, Pearce got his finger stuck in a desk and we tried ice to get it out. We tried soap and oil and are still unable to get it out, so (there's a pause)...we've called the fire department to come and assist and we are wondering if you can come up here."
And there it is. The reason I shouldn't have been relieved that it was the school nurse on the phone. Note to self - just because it's the school nurse doesn't mean my child isn't in trouble.
I call Chad and he comes to my rescue by flying out of his work to the school. He calls to tell me that Pearce is still stuck and that his finger is cut and swollen and that the firemen are deciding what to do. They've moved Pearce and the desk to the nurse's office. I'll just stop so you can enjoy the visual of the vice-principal and Pearce carrying the desk through the halls to the nurses office with his finger stuck in it.
By the time I get through my training (fifth day on the job, just to remind you) and get in the car, they've rescued Pearce from the desk by drilling holes in it then using what they called 'tiny jaws of life' to cut from hole to hole until they can bend it back and remove Pearce's manacled finger.
Chad informs me that he has 'good circulation and can feel the tip of his finger' but that we need to have it looked at by a doctor.
Why did Pearce stick his finger into a hole that was too small for his finger? Because his friend hid popcorn in the desk. Of course. Why did he think he'd be able to retrieve popcorn through a hole that was smaller than the popcorn (and his finger)? Because he's a boy and he has brain damage.
And my husband, the one who heroically left work to fly to Pearce's aid, did not lose his sarcastic wits. He took these pictures for posterity. And for your benefit. Enjoy.
Here he is giving the 'ok' sign. This was what Chad sent me to let me know Pearce was in good spirits.
And here is the finger. The desk top has been removed and you can see that his finger is too swollen to remove. And it's cut at the base where he tried to twist it out of the hole before calling the teacher's attention to his predicament.
There is so much more to this story. How the first fire truck didn't have the right tools and they had to call a second one. How Pearce almost passed out at one point. How the doctor lectured Pearce for 10 minutes about the importance of studying and not messing around in class. So much more, but you got the best part of the story. My kid's the one who got his tongue frozen to the proverbial light pole.
I consider myself very lucky. I have four boys and only Pearce has had stitches. Four boys and only Pearce has fractured a bone. Four boys and not one of them has ever had to have the fire department called to rescue him from a school desk. Until yesterday.
I'm sitting in a coworker's cubicle and I get a call from the dreaded number. Pearce's school calling. Again. It most likely means he's forgotten important school supplies or was 'excessively social' during class. I answer and it's the nurse. My first mental reaction is 'Whew...he's not in trouble.' The nurse begins with, "Pearce is fine. Your son is Frank, right? Goes by Pearce? Hold on, I need to make sure I'm talking to the right parent." She yells to someone in the background and comes back to the phone. "Ok, Pearce got his finger stuck in a desk and we tried ice to get it out. We tried soap and oil and are still unable to get it out, so (there's a pause)...we've called the fire department to come and assist and we are wondering if you can come up here."
And there it is. The reason I shouldn't have been relieved that it was the school nurse on the phone. Note to self - just because it's the school nurse doesn't mean my child isn't in trouble.
I call Chad and he comes to my rescue by flying out of his work to the school. He calls to tell me that Pearce is still stuck and that his finger is cut and swollen and that the firemen are deciding what to do. They've moved Pearce and the desk to the nurse's office. I'll just stop so you can enjoy the visual of the vice-principal and Pearce carrying the desk through the halls to the nurses office with his finger stuck in it.
By the time I get through my training (fifth day on the job, just to remind you) and get in the car, they've rescued Pearce from the desk by drilling holes in it then using what they called 'tiny jaws of life' to cut from hole to hole until they can bend it back and remove Pearce's manacled finger.
Chad informs me that he has 'good circulation and can feel the tip of his finger' but that we need to have it looked at by a doctor.
Why did Pearce stick his finger into a hole that was too small for his finger? Because his friend hid popcorn in the desk. Of course. Why did he think he'd be able to retrieve popcorn through a hole that was smaller than the popcorn (and his finger)? Because he's a boy and he has brain damage.
And my husband, the one who heroically left work to fly to Pearce's aid, did not lose his sarcastic wits. He took these pictures for posterity. And for your benefit. Enjoy.
Here he is giving the 'ok' sign. This was what Chad sent me to let me know Pearce was in good spirits.
And here is the finger. The desk top has been removed and you can see that his finger is too swollen to remove. And it's cut at the base where he tried to twist it out of the hole before calling the teacher's attention to his predicament.
There is so much more to this story. How the first fire truck didn't have the right tools and they had to call a second one. How Pearce almost passed out at one point. How the doctor lectured Pearce for 10 minutes about the importance of studying and not messing around in class. So much more, but you got the best part of the story. My kid's the one who got his tongue frozen to the proverbial light pole.
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