This summer, I got hired for my first real job since my divorce. Not to brag or anything, but I get to work as a Teacher's Assistant in a Preschool. Pretty prestigious, I know. :o)
So, starting in a few weeks, I'll be full time in school, part time in work, and full time in single parenting.
I know it sounds crazy, but I'm really excited to start this job! Something I've noticed about parenting is that it brings the most long lasting, deeply felt rewards that outweigh any kind of paycheck. BUT, it's hard to really notice those rewards or remember how, or even if we're doing well in the job of parenting without the very tangible and concrete reminder that an actual paycheck brings. *sigh* I want a pay check again!
It's sad, but true, that I still consider my personality to be somewhat of a "puppy". I look up at the people around me to see if I did good and I LOVE getting the rewards of positive response to my work. School has done wonders in boosting my self-esteem in this aspect. And, I can only expect work to do the same. I'm sure it will be a horrendous jump in the amount of work I'm used to doing during the semester, but I know I'll adjust. I know I'll rise to the challenge. I know I'll find a way to get those "puppy treats" for my work. And, I'm excited for that!
Parenting, on the other hand, is something that I have to remember I really love. I don't think about it every day, or get excited about it the same way I do about a job, or school. I think it's because I consider my parenting to be like socks.
This analogy works perfectly for me because I'm originally a Beach Girl. I grew up on the California Coast, just 5 min inland from La Jolla. And, I moved to Utah just after having my first son, in February, during a Winter with particularly heavy snow fall. So, I had to adjust to wearing socks at the same time I was adjusting to being a mom.
At first, I really struggled with it. I wasn't comfortable, I felt cramped, I didn't think I looked like myself anymore, and I felt like I couldn't breathe with socks on. But, eventually, I started to get used to the idea of wearing socks. I adjusted my wardrobe, I found practical applications, and I started noticing all the other sock wearing people around me with whom I now fit in.
Now, I'm completely comfortable in socks. I don't even notice them on my feet. I can't imagine my dresser without them, but I don't have to. I open the top drawer, and there they are. And, even though I don't wear them all the time, I know where they are. I don't think about it at all. I'm just content with having socks in my life, now.
And, so it is with parenting for me. I am so comfortable, and adjusted in my role as a mom. I feel like I'm totally in this group now, with so many other amazing parents. And, I can't imagine life without my kids. But, I don't have to, either. Even if my boys aren't with me all the time now that I'm divorced, I know where they are. And, surprisingly, I've grown extremely content with my post-divorce parenting self. Even if I'm not a wife anymore, I am still first and foremost, a Mom. I have grown so comfortable with my role as a mom, that I don't even notice the difference anymore.
I guess that's good. It means, I'm adjusted and happy and all that other good stuff. But, it makes me wonder sometimes why even every now and then, I can't get as excited about parenting like I get about a job or about school.
Why can't I? Oh, that's right, it's because my Treat Seeking Puppy Mentality only works when I have someone else around to give me the rewards I'm after.
And, while I think most parents would willingly offer each other a good pat on the back from time to time, it isn't really healthy for me to start Trick or Treating door to door for personalized parenting compliments on a bi-monthly basis, in place of a pay check. For one thing, I'm too busy to do that! for another, I'd probably wear out my friends.
I won't even think about asking my kids for feedback on my parenting skills. I know what they'd say already . . . And, if it were my goal to constantly get their good approval ratings, I'd have some of the fattest kids in town from all the chocolate bribes I'd be handing out for a good review in return!
No, the answer, I'm concluding, is that I have to just remind myself from time to time that I love my comfortable sock parenting self. And, no matter how exciting other jobs can be with their concrete rewards and feedback that parenting doesn't constantly dazzle me with, I still love it.
And, even if I don't always think about it, remember, or get excited over it, I know I'm doing a good job because
I'm good enough,
I'm smart enough,
And, gosh darn it, my kids like me.
(I think) ;o)
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Third Grade Heartbreaks
We are always so busy at our house right after school. Everybody has homework to do. Today, I have my mind set on finishing my math homework, so I send Ethan to the kitchen with the instruction of finishing his homework packet on his own. I’m hoping this seclusion will decrease any distractions from his brother, who is happily reading rather loudly on our couch.
I am just logging on to my online math course when I hear it. Its Ethan . . . crying, that kind of genuine cry that comes out of proud hearted souls so rarely that I know it is deeply felt. Even if I wanted to, my heartstrings won’t let me finish a single math problem now. I walk into the kitchen and without a word between us I take Ethan by the hand and lead him down the hall into my room. We sit on my bed and I wrap my arms around him as he wets my shirt with tears and snot.
Finally, he is calm enough to talk.
“Mom, I tried really hard. I did my work careful. I even wrote it all out on a piece of paper. I don’t know what I did wrong. I thought I did good but all I got was fifty seven percent!” I thought I was good at math, but I’m not. It took me such a long time. I was sitting there for almost an hour . . . just fifty seven percent!”
He starts to cry again and all I can think to do is hug him. It takes several more moments like this before I realize he is talking about a math test he took- and failed at school today. As I hold him closely, stroking the back of his head, I search my memory for the exactly right way to comfort a third grade heartbreak. It is at this moment that my own third grade heartbreak makes a dramatic shift in my brain from rosy childhood memory to front line perspective. In a flash, I am brought back to my own moment in time way back in the third grade. . .
_ _
There I am, sitting in the van next to my mom as she drives to Baskin Robbins. She’s asking me what flavor I want, then, with no reply from me, she guesses it will be chocolate. Normally, I’d be bouncing up and down in my seat in anticipation - envisioning my first lick of that sticky sweet chocolaty ice cream, but not today. Nothing, not even chocolate ice cream, can cheer me up. My heart has completely broken. I have lost my best friend.
I didn’t actually lose her. I know where she is. She is in her house, the same house I’d been to over 50 times in my young life. We had been best friends since Kindergarten.
_
Even back then, we were wildly imaginative creatures. We’d made a map of the Kindergarten playground with all the possible exit strategies for sneaking out of the school. The goal was to sneak away and walk to Laura’s house where we were sure we could convince her mom to let us play in her room all day long instead of going back to school. Once, we actually did get past the guard and out the playground, but we were caught before turning the last corner and promptly returned to Kindergarten. Rats!
We were in the same classroom for 1st and 2nd grade too, and our bond had just strengthened. We planned our outfits so that we would always match each other and then conveniently pretended it was completely accidental when everyone noticed. We made secret traps to catch leprechauns behind the bushes. We were positive it was just a matter of time before we caught one. We’d successfully defended the girl’s jungle gym from being taken over by the boys and we’d even made up our own secret handshake.
By second grade, our daily routine was ingrained into best friend law. We walked together, played together, stood in the lunch line together. And, even though we sat across the room from each other, to keep connected during class time, we passed secret notes back and forth. We wrote all our notes in made up languages that changed so frequently, even we forgot how to decode them. We always made our recess plans in the morning so we knew exactly which spot on the playground to secure as soon as the bell rang. Our favorites were usually jump rope, jungle gym, hopscotch, and four-square.
Third grade was the first year Laura and I were not in the same classroom. This new separation made the school day seem painfully long. I missed the bond we shared when we could pass notes, talk and share funny looks about the lectures all day in class. The absence of my constantly arm linked companion during class time made me realize that I really didn’t have any other friends at school. So, far, I hadn’t worried about anyone besides my best friend. That all changed today. _
Laura was not on the playground this morning. Not only do we not have a set plan for where to meet at recess, I don’t even know if Laura is coming to school today. As I walk inside my class, a girl asks me if I want to play hopscotch with her and another girl at recess. “Sure”, I say, without really feeling confident in my decision yet. I’m hoping that when Laura meets me on the playground, I can convince her to play hopscotch with us, too, but I know I am taking a gamble because we haven’t even talked about today's plans yet. When it comes time for recess, Laura is not thrilled with my surprise request.
“Hopscotch?” she says, “With them?”
“Yes. Can you play with us, too?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because, I’m going to go play foursquare with the girls in my class, that’s why not.”
Each of us, a little too shocked and proud to back down now, go our separate ways on purpose for the first time ever. I play hopscotch and Laura plays foursquare. I am surprised at one point with how wrapped up in the game I get and that I’m actually enjoying myself without my best friend. This realization makes me miss her and I start to think that maybe I should check on how Laura is doing. Just as I’m thinking this, the bell rings and we have to go inside. Even though we haven’t ever separated ourselves on purpose before, I figure we can still figure it out later. Like at lunch time, maybe.
Waiting the last 15 minutes in my seat for the lunch bell to ring takes almost as long as it does for the last bell to ring on the last day of school before summer. I am almost certain that the longer I stare at the clock, the slower the second hand tics in response. Finally, I see that there is only one minute left. As soon as I hear the sound of static fuzz that’s always followed by the loud sound of the bell, I dash out of my seat. Going down the sidewalk, I am half running/half walking. This way, I will get to Laura’s classroom as fast as I can without being slowed down by a lunch guard. Unfortunately, it still takes me two whole minutes to get to her classroom and by the time I get to her door, she isn’t there.
Letting out a sigh, I walk to the lunch line by myself, while other kids run, trip and laugh all around me. I am annoyed at this, but I tell myself that Laura is probably in the bathroom and will be glad when she sees that I’ve saved her a spot in the lunch line.
I get to the line and place my hands on my hips. I bow my elbows out from my body so they look like arrows pointing behind me. This way I can keep the kid behind me from bumping me forward. I can stand alone, yet conveniently save room for Laura whenever she arrives. I am twisting around in my spot now, slowly swaying my pointed elbows back and forth, as I search the playground for Laura. I want to call her over to her spot next to me in line as soon as I see her.
Then, to my surprise, I twist around towards the front of the line again and see Laura talking to another girl, standing about twenty kids ahead of me. Without even thinking, I leave my spot to go stand with her. Walking up to Laura, I’m hoping for the usual hugged greeting before we each take our turns explaining what happened earlier. As I get to her, however, she just keeps talking to the other girl.
“Hi.”, I say, trying to announce my own presence, since she had failed to do so herself, and also trying to butt into her conversation. She keeps talking. I try again- “Hi”, this time adding a wave rather close to Laura’s face so she will be sure to acknowledge me.
With this, she does stop talking to the other girl. But, she immediately turns to me and says, “No cutting in line” and then pushes me away from her.
My heart drops and my stomach twists into a giant knot. Did my best friend just push me? Were we actually fighting? Are we no longer friends? My eyes start to water and I realize that I don’t want to be standing there anymore.
Sad and rejected, I walk to the very back of the lunch line where I finally let my tears fall silently to myself. We don’t eat lunch together. We don’t play during the second recess together. We don’t even wait together for our mom’s to pick us up after school.
_
Now, as I’m trying my hardest not to re-live this fresh memory over and over, I find myself dragging behind my mom into the Baskin Robbins. I feel like the gloomiest 8 yr old on the planet about to eat chocolate ice cream. And, then, to add insult to my emotional injury, as we walk inside, I see Laura and her mom seated at a table with their own freshly scooped ice cream cones in hand.
My first instinct is to hide, but it’s too late. Before I can even think of an excuse to go home, our moms see each other and decide we should all sit at the same table . . . great.
So, here we are, stuck sitting across from each other in polite silence, holding chocolate ice cream cones, and letting them drip down our fingers before finally giving a reluctant lick or two.
As Laura and I are busily glancing at everything else around the room except the people at our table, I can feel the memory of standing alone after being rejected returning to me. My ice cream gently greets my fingers again, so I take a few more licks, but I can feel my throat swelling up more and more with each swallow. I’m sure my face is getting red now, and I’m trying hard not to cry again. Finally, I look at Laura. She looks at me, too.
And then, for no real explainable reason, as if the time to start over just magically appears, Laura and I instinctually hand our mom’s our ice cream cones, slide underneath the table, do our secret handshake and decided to stay best friends forever –again.
It isn’t until much later in life that I learn that our mom’s had totally conspired and set up the ice cream encounter at the Baskin Robbins, knowing we would work it all out and stay friends if given the opportunity to just start over.
_ _
I had forgotten all about my third grade heartbreak until today. Raising children provides the best lessons in empathy and full circle perspectives available. If someone else in my family or circle of friends feels sad, I feel bad for them. But, when my sons feel hurt, I hurt too. Now sitting here, holding my sweet boy, my heart is just breaking for him too and I want to do anything to help him feel better again.
After several more minutes of his own bitter tears, he stops crying and gets quiet. I know he is waiting for my wise words that will make it all better. My mind races with the best way to put my thoughts in order for him. How can I validate him but let him realize that all is not really lost? I start with the most basic things first.
“You really are good at math.”, I say. “It was just one test. Remember the other day when you got a ninety eight percent on your math test? I bet you just need to try again . . . “
Then, like magic, before I can even finish the sentence, he gets up and goes back into the kitchen to work on his homework. Knowing better than to press the issue with him further I change the subject, and my shirt, and get back to my own math homework. Now, my only distraction from my work is the occasional sound of Ethan humming to himself in the kitchen.
Later, at dinner, we are all taking turns saying what our favorite things were from the day. When it’s Ethan’s turn, he looks right at me and says “My favorite thing today was hugging mom and having her help me calm down.” If appreciation is a mother’s pay check, I just got a bonus.
Everyone is happy now, swallowing down spaghetti in such ways that make me feel glad we aren't in public. I look at my little Ethan who is all smiles again and I know, just like me, his third grade heartbreak is already a thing of the past.
And, at the end of the day, I have to admit, helping my son realize that he is not solely defined by one experience is my favorite thing, too.
I am just logging on to my online math course when I hear it. Its Ethan . . . crying, that kind of genuine cry that comes out of proud hearted souls so rarely that I know it is deeply felt. Even if I wanted to, my heartstrings won’t let me finish a single math problem now. I walk into the kitchen and without a word between us I take Ethan by the hand and lead him down the hall into my room. We sit on my bed and I wrap my arms around him as he wets my shirt with tears and snot.
Finally, he is calm enough to talk.
“Mom, I tried really hard. I did my work careful. I even wrote it all out on a piece of paper. I don’t know what I did wrong. I thought I did good but all I got was fifty seven percent!” I thought I was good at math, but I’m not. It took me such a long time. I was sitting there for almost an hour . . . just fifty seven percent!”
He starts to cry again and all I can think to do is hug him. It takes several more moments like this before I realize he is talking about a math test he took- and failed at school today. As I hold him closely, stroking the back of his head, I search my memory for the exactly right way to comfort a third grade heartbreak. It is at this moment that my own third grade heartbreak makes a dramatic shift in my brain from rosy childhood memory to front line perspective. In a flash, I am brought back to my own moment in time way back in the third grade. . .
_ _
There I am, sitting in the van next to my mom as she drives to Baskin Robbins. She’s asking me what flavor I want, then, with no reply from me, she guesses it will be chocolate. Normally, I’d be bouncing up and down in my seat in anticipation - envisioning my first lick of that sticky sweet chocolaty ice cream, but not today. Nothing, not even chocolate ice cream, can cheer me up. My heart has completely broken. I have lost my best friend.
I didn’t actually lose her. I know where she is. She is in her house, the same house I’d been to over 50 times in my young life. We had been best friends since Kindergarten.
_
Even back then, we were wildly imaginative creatures. We’d made a map of the Kindergarten playground with all the possible exit strategies for sneaking out of the school. The goal was to sneak away and walk to Laura’s house where we were sure we could convince her mom to let us play in her room all day long instead of going back to school. Once, we actually did get past the guard and out the playground, but we were caught before turning the last corner and promptly returned to Kindergarten. Rats!
We were in the same classroom for 1st and 2nd grade too, and our bond had just strengthened. We planned our outfits so that we would always match each other and then conveniently pretended it was completely accidental when everyone noticed. We made secret traps to catch leprechauns behind the bushes. We were positive it was just a matter of time before we caught one. We’d successfully defended the girl’s jungle gym from being taken over by the boys and we’d even made up our own secret handshake.
By second grade, our daily routine was ingrained into best friend law. We walked together, played together, stood in the lunch line together. And, even though we sat across the room from each other, to keep connected during class time, we passed secret notes back and forth. We wrote all our notes in made up languages that changed so frequently, even we forgot how to decode them. We always made our recess plans in the morning so we knew exactly which spot on the playground to secure as soon as the bell rang. Our favorites were usually jump rope, jungle gym, hopscotch, and four-square.
Third grade was the first year Laura and I were not in the same classroom. This new separation made the school day seem painfully long. I missed the bond we shared when we could pass notes, talk and share funny looks about the lectures all day in class. The absence of my constantly arm linked companion during class time made me realize that I really didn’t have any other friends at school. So, far, I hadn’t worried about anyone besides my best friend. That all changed today. _
Laura was not on the playground this morning. Not only do we not have a set plan for where to meet at recess, I don’t even know if Laura is coming to school today. As I walk inside my class, a girl asks me if I want to play hopscotch with her and another girl at recess. “Sure”, I say, without really feeling confident in my decision yet. I’m hoping that when Laura meets me on the playground, I can convince her to play hopscotch with us, too, but I know I am taking a gamble because we haven’t even talked about today's plans yet. When it comes time for recess, Laura is not thrilled with my surprise request.
“Hopscotch?” she says, “With them?”
“Yes. Can you play with us, too?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because, I’m going to go play foursquare with the girls in my class, that’s why not.”
Each of us, a little too shocked and proud to back down now, go our separate ways on purpose for the first time ever. I play hopscotch and Laura plays foursquare. I am surprised at one point with how wrapped up in the game I get and that I’m actually enjoying myself without my best friend. This realization makes me miss her and I start to think that maybe I should check on how Laura is doing. Just as I’m thinking this, the bell rings and we have to go inside. Even though we haven’t ever separated ourselves on purpose before, I figure we can still figure it out later. Like at lunch time, maybe.
Waiting the last 15 minutes in my seat for the lunch bell to ring takes almost as long as it does for the last bell to ring on the last day of school before summer. I am almost certain that the longer I stare at the clock, the slower the second hand tics in response. Finally, I see that there is only one minute left. As soon as I hear the sound of static fuzz that’s always followed by the loud sound of the bell, I dash out of my seat. Going down the sidewalk, I am half running/half walking. This way, I will get to Laura’s classroom as fast as I can without being slowed down by a lunch guard. Unfortunately, it still takes me two whole minutes to get to her classroom and by the time I get to her door, she isn’t there.
Letting out a sigh, I walk to the lunch line by myself, while other kids run, trip and laugh all around me. I am annoyed at this, but I tell myself that Laura is probably in the bathroom and will be glad when she sees that I’ve saved her a spot in the lunch line.
I get to the line and place my hands on my hips. I bow my elbows out from my body so they look like arrows pointing behind me. This way I can keep the kid behind me from bumping me forward. I can stand alone, yet conveniently save room for Laura whenever she arrives. I am twisting around in my spot now, slowly swaying my pointed elbows back and forth, as I search the playground for Laura. I want to call her over to her spot next to me in line as soon as I see her.
Then, to my surprise, I twist around towards the front of the line again and see Laura talking to another girl, standing about twenty kids ahead of me. Without even thinking, I leave my spot to go stand with her. Walking up to Laura, I’m hoping for the usual hugged greeting before we each take our turns explaining what happened earlier. As I get to her, however, she just keeps talking to the other girl.
“Hi.”, I say, trying to announce my own presence, since she had failed to do so herself, and also trying to butt into her conversation. She keeps talking. I try again- “Hi”, this time adding a wave rather close to Laura’s face so she will be sure to acknowledge me.
With this, she does stop talking to the other girl. But, she immediately turns to me and says, “No cutting in line” and then pushes me away from her.
My heart drops and my stomach twists into a giant knot. Did my best friend just push me? Were we actually fighting? Are we no longer friends? My eyes start to water and I realize that I don’t want to be standing there anymore.
Sad and rejected, I walk to the very back of the lunch line where I finally let my tears fall silently to myself. We don’t eat lunch together. We don’t play during the second recess together. We don’t even wait together for our mom’s to pick us up after school.
_
Now, as I’m trying my hardest not to re-live this fresh memory over and over, I find myself dragging behind my mom into the Baskin Robbins. I feel like the gloomiest 8 yr old on the planet about to eat chocolate ice cream. And, then, to add insult to my emotional injury, as we walk inside, I see Laura and her mom seated at a table with their own freshly scooped ice cream cones in hand.
My first instinct is to hide, but it’s too late. Before I can even think of an excuse to go home, our moms see each other and decide we should all sit at the same table . . . great.
So, here we are, stuck sitting across from each other in polite silence, holding chocolate ice cream cones, and letting them drip down our fingers before finally giving a reluctant lick or two.
As Laura and I are busily glancing at everything else around the room except the people at our table, I can feel the memory of standing alone after being rejected returning to me. My ice cream gently greets my fingers again, so I take a few more licks, but I can feel my throat swelling up more and more with each swallow. I’m sure my face is getting red now, and I’m trying hard not to cry again. Finally, I look at Laura. She looks at me, too.
And then, for no real explainable reason, as if the time to start over just magically appears, Laura and I instinctually hand our mom’s our ice cream cones, slide underneath the table, do our secret handshake and decided to stay best friends forever –again.
It isn’t until much later in life that I learn that our mom’s had totally conspired and set up the ice cream encounter at the Baskin Robbins, knowing we would work it all out and stay friends if given the opportunity to just start over.
_ _
I had forgotten all about my third grade heartbreak until today. Raising children provides the best lessons in empathy and full circle perspectives available. If someone else in my family or circle of friends feels sad, I feel bad for them. But, when my sons feel hurt, I hurt too. Now sitting here, holding my sweet boy, my heart is just breaking for him too and I want to do anything to help him feel better again.
After several more minutes of his own bitter tears, he stops crying and gets quiet. I know he is waiting for my wise words that will make it all better. My mind races with the best way to put my thoughts in order for him. How can I validate him but let him realize that all is not really lost? I start with the most basic things first.
“You really are good at math.”, I say. “It was just one test. Remember the other day when you got a ninety eight percent on your math test? I bet you just need to try again . . . “
Then, like magic, before I can even finish the sentence, he gets up and goes back into the kitchen to work on his homework. Knowing better than to press the issue with him further I change the subject, and my shirt, and get back to my own math homework. Now, my only distraction from my work is the occasional sound of Ethan humming to himself in the kitchen.
Later, at dinner, we are all taking turns saying what our favorite things were from the day. When it’s Ethan’s turn, he looks right at me and says “My favorite thing today was hugging mom and having her help me calm down.” If appreciation is a mother’s pay check, I just got a bonus.
Everyone is happy now, swallowing down spaghetti in such ways that make me feel glad we aren't in public. I look at my little Ethan who is all smiles again and I know, just like me, his third grade heartbreak is already a thing of the past.
And, at the end of the day, I have to admit, helping my son realize that he is not solely defined by one experience is my favorite thing, too.
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