Sealed with a kiss....

This afternoon, my son gave my belly a kiss.

And I was mortified!

Not because the kiss was directed at my belly-pooch, or that he was kissing the never-to-be-conceived sibling…

It was because he had been eating watermelon, and I was wearing a white T-shirt. Oh, and did I mention I was on my way to the grocery store and did not have time for a wardrobe change?

My concern was more about getting out the door, running the errand, and getting back.

Not living in the moment with those who love me.

Not appreciating a small person whose entire existence was to send me off to the store with all his love packed into one pink-stained pucker…

Well…

I’m still wearing that shirt.

And glancing down at the stain, I am reminded that I have been branded.

Branded to not own stainless clothes for the next 15 years.

Branded with a mark that will forever remind me what an awesome gift my son is.

It’s a forever kiss… and instead of worrying what others think when they see me wearing soiled clothes, I will rub that stain against my cheek every time I remove my shirt from the dryer…

I vow that this watermelon kiss will never be erased…
Not by Oxi-Clean,
Not by bleach,
And certainly, never from memory…

An Emotional Ambush

It’s funny how your emotions can catch you totally off guard.

That happened to me today at 8:30 this morning. I took my son to school to get him tested for Kindergarten. It’s the same private school that my daughter has attended since she was in Kindergarten. Although I had not stepped foot in the Lower School for three years, everything felt familiar. The display cabinets with colorful sculptures created by the students, the glass walls of the Computer and Science Labs that allow you to view all that goes on inside, the front desk and staff, the glorious library…everything just felt as if we had never moved on.

While I adore the school and love all it has to offer my children, I’ve been dreading the possibility of driving across the river six-to-eight times a day, going to two different campuses with two totally different school schedules. Truthfully, I’ve been finding myself being a little selfish with my time, not wanting to spend anymore of it chauffeuring than I already do. I’ve even caught myself hoping that he won’t get accepted so I can, without regret, send him to our wonderful local elementary school, complete with a bus that would deliver him to school and bring him home safely. A school that, should I need to be on campus, is less than five minutes up the road, not three counties away.

So that has been my mindset since we started the application process in the Fall - that this whole Kindergarten thing is no big deal. Besides, he’s my second born. With my daughter, I welled up as she went off to preschool, Kindergarten and even Middle School. When she was younger, I lingered in the hallways and parking lots, coming to terms with the fact that she was growing up. With my son, I’ve had more of a been-there, done-that attitude toward school, not feeling like I’m losing my baby to the world.

So today when we arrived at the Lower School, I chatted for a moment with the receptionist, showed my son some of the artwork in the cases, and pointed out the cool Science and Computer Labs as well as the splendid library. The lady who was to administer the test came out, introduced herself, and made small talk with my son. When it was time to enter the testing room, my son smothered me with hugs and kisses, walked into the room, waved and cheerfully said, “Bye, Mom!”

While heading toward the parking lot, I smiled about the sweetness of the whole scenario and checked my watch to see how much time I had until I needed to pick him up. A moment later, I was back in my car, heading to the Middle School campus to drop something off for my daughter and write a silly note on her locker. It was there, as I pulled into the Middle School parking lot, that I was blindsided by an emotional smack! A large knot instantly formed in my throat and tears began to pool in my eyes.

What?!?

Where did this come from?

I’ve been totally cool with this whole Kindergarten thing. Happy actually. Excited for this time to come.

Haven’t I?

I sat there in the parking lot, composing myself before entering the school. Still overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotions that I was unaware I possessed, I began trying to figure out the where and the why of this reaction.

Have I actually missed that place? Am I melancholy, not exhilarated by this pending milestone? I’ve anticipated Kindergarten and truly do look forward to all the ways he’ll grow and learn, all the exciting experiences that await him…yet this is so bittersweet.

Gripping the steering wheel and releasing a puff of air, I realized that I did miss Lower School after all. I have had wonderful experiences as a parent there, and I can imagine many more with my son.

And these milestones that punctuate the fact that my children are growing up are bittersweet, even if I am excited for their next steps. All along, my own selfishness, the dread about my time in the car, back and forth all day, had overshadowed these feelings.

Having my self-centered fog lifted, I became conscious that I was waxing nostalgic. Because I realized that as I observed those familiar stomping grounds and pointed them out to my prospective Kindergarten son, I saw the ghost of a little girl who used to walk those same halls. Talk to those same staff members. Have science and computer classes in those rooms. Took utter pleasure in the solitude of the library…

And now she’s a teenager.

A teenager.

And my son is going to Kindergarten.

I’m about to send him down the same swift-moving path my daughter has already trod.

And it feels like yesterday.

And I miss them already.

Polar Opposites

My son took a shower this evening.

Frankly, he didn't need one; he had a bath less than 24 hours ago. He also lacked that briny smell that boys acquire from playing outside in the muggy Southern heat. To you, I'm sure it seems like an unremarkable event to blog about. Except my son is four-and-a-half, and he insisted on taking a shower. He pleaded as though he was asking to stay up past bedtime ; "Please may I take a shower Mommy? PleasePleasePleasePleasePLEEEEEZE!?!?!!?!"

The reason he wanted to take a shower? Well, his sister was taking one. Yet another item to check off my son's list of "Things To Do That The Big Kids Do."

So I explained to him how to enter a shower when it's on (so water doesn't go everywhere) and gave him liquid soap so he could wash himself. It was then that a knot caught in my chest as I placed the bottle within his reach, because the irony was not lost on me that what I was handing him was Baby Wash.

My son wants to grow up so fast. Too fast. And I'm not saying this just because he's my youngest, though I do notice that as he races past every kid-milestone, I realize it's one I won't see again until I'm blessed with grandchildren.

Yes, there may be a few more baths here and there, but I know my son. This phase is almost over. As I listen to the sound of two showers running simultaneously, I start to make a mental inventory of items that won't be needed by the end of the summer: fizzy bath color tablets, bubble bath, tub toys. I'm already mourning the loss. One more innocent piece of childhood gone...

Now don't get me wrong. I in no way miss the baby/toddler stages. As much as I can appreciate the wonder of those years, I would not trade a day of yesterday for today. It just saddens me that my son is in such a hurry to grow up. Slow down; this is not supposed to be a race.

I'm acutely aware of how fast this time passes because my daughter, who in my mind I gave birth to merely a handful of years ago, will be a teenager in a few months. Where the heck did that time go? And, excuse me, how did I get old enough to have one of those?

Although I have a son who wants to be a teenager, I have an almost thirteen-year-old daughter who, ironically, is in no hurry to grow up! And let me tell you, when you have a daughter whose physical developmental hormones have been Super-Sized, it is a blessing indeed!

From the beginning, she's never been in a hurry to grow up. Sometimes she's even resisted; as if she already knew what she was about to lose. I'm not sure why, but she's always been one to do things her own way; never concerned about conforming. I have a theory on why she's not in a hurry to cross the finish line in the race to adulthood; she has an innate understanding of adult life. My husband and I say she was born an old soul. Even in her preschool years, she grasped matters of life with which many adults I know still grapple. It's as though she has a crystal ball and can see mortgages and mammograms in her future. Like she's saying, "No thanks, I'll walk. Let the bullet-train pass."

So having been given these two totally different children, I sometimes can sit back and appreciate their differences, as well as the privilege of getting to parent two opposite people. And of course I have to smile. Because the one that's in a hurry to grow up, adamantly requesting styling-gel before his hair dries, is wearing Cars jammies and Spider-Man slippers, while the other that's in no hurry, having the shape of a college co-ed and verbally cursing her endowments, wants to hang out with her mom, not chat online with her BFF's or obsess about boys.

Tortoise and Hare. Who'll cross first? I just hope they both win.

I Gotta Go Potty

Just a few quick errands to run before I pick up my daughter from school. Hit the grocery store, then get gas, because I won't make it to her school without a fill-up. Easy enough, right? Well, these stops are not solo endeavors. I have my son in tow, the boy I affectionately call "The Human Speed Bump." We maneuver through the store as quickly as possible, all thanks to the micro-cart at the store that glides across those well-buffed floors like a scooter. He won't sit in a full-size cart, because "that is for babies," but he'll hold onto the front of the micro-cart, with me pushing from behind. That way, Mommy can make it a game of going really fast, pretending we're going to crash into end-cap displays, all the while thinking, "Whew, were FINALLY making good time in the grocery store!" Even the candy aisle was no match for my swift-moving Chariot of Fire!

Finally, we're at the checkout aisle, making good time. My son and I make a game out of who can win the Check Out Game; us or the clerk. By the way, we won by getting the groceries on the counter faster than she could scan. Oh the pride. My son is back on the Chariot, groceries ready to quickly load into the back of the van, when...

"Mommy, I gotta go potty."
"What? No you don't. Do you Really?"
"Yeth."
"What do you have to do? We gotta pick up your sister..."
"I hafta go pee."

Cool. That's an easy one. Except as we approach the bathrooms, I realize that I've already paid for my groceries, and I'm not comfortable leaving a cart (albeit micro) outside unattended.

Split-second mommy-decision time. I park our cart outside the restroom area. I bend down to make eye contact and say to my son, "You remember the urinal rules that you use with Daddy?"
"You never touch them," my son says emphatically. (We have had previous discussions about NOT touching the "round circle" in the urinal. Another post for another day.)
"That's really good remembering!" Whew, so proud, because I just KNOW he REALLY wants to pick that sucker up... "So I want you to go in there, pee in the urinal just like you do when you're with dad, then come right out, 'cuz we gotta go get your sister, and I have Squirt."

"Squirt" is our family's word for anti-bacterial lotion. Our daughter came up with that term years ago. So anyway, for those of you who don't know me, I'm just shy of being a complete neurotic germophobe. Touch a public door handle. Squirt. Handle a menu. Squirt. Use a public restroom. SQUIRT!!!!

Back to the conversation:
"Okay, Mommy." And I watch my young 4-year-old son trod off into the "Mens" Room. Okay, this is my first time letting him go alone into a public restroom, so naturally all kinds of mommythoughts are coursing through my brain.

So I wait.

Check watch.

Check clock on wall.

Count to sixty.

Okay, by now my son should have been able to squeeze out whatever his small little bladder can hold, yet, he's still a no-show. Again, mommythoughts.....

I engage the closest male store employee and say, "Would you mind going in there and telling the four-year-old boy that his mom is waiting for him?"

I get eye-contact, but also a sideways grin, because after I ask that, I realize he was already heading in there to take care of his own personal business.

So I wait.

And wait.

Okay, now it's approximately 200 Mississippi's, and neither my son nor the store employee have emerged.

Again, mommythoughts, but now mostly leaning toward, well, there must me a problem....

Finally, the store employee shows up, again with the sideways grin, but this time, not making eye contact...

"Everything's okay now. He was trying to....well....he said he had to poop, but he was sitting in the urinal. I picked him up and put him where he should be, so he should be okay now."

I swear I did not realize this could actually happen, but I honestly experienced temporary blindness. A fog encompassed me; I chuckled. I apologized. I overted my eyes in shame. What was I thinking sending a 4-year-old into the Men's Room alone. He said he had to PEE! Why is this so difficult?

After I let all this register, I scanned the store for the wonderfully-helpful employee. I already said "Thank You" and "I'm So Sorry" I don't know how many times, because obviously, I was experiencing deafness, too. Where did this kind gentleman go? Why is my son STILL in the Men's Room 10 minutes later? I can't go in....

Now I start to beat myself up as a parent. Negative self-talk, "What were you thinking allowing him to go in there alone?" "Do you really value $30 of groceries over the well-being of your son?"

Then the fog lifts. I see said helpful employee re-emerge from the Men's Room. In my parental shame, I did not notice that this kind gentleman went back inside to make sure my sweet boy, uhhh...completed the transaction with efficiency.

"He's almost done. He's washing his hands now."

THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!!!!

I keep an eagle-eye on the door. We are SO late now picking up my daughter.

I watch as the door gently tugs open, little by little, until my son emerges from the Men's Room.

His hands are wet, smelling faintly of soap, so I choke my germaphobe instinct to baptize him in Purell, smile, and say,

"Let's go get your sister!"