As my children entered 4rth and 1rst grade last week, I had high hopes of a joyful and engaging year. I knew school lunches would be a challenge for my picky six year old and that more than one extra-curricular activity for my nine year old might stretch her energy and patience (who are we kidding - my energy and patience) but I had the usual mommy delusion. Like forgetting how much giving birth sucks I forgot what an adjustment school is for my littles. Blake seemed to take first grade like a man, with a typically macho grin and nonchalant attitude he promptly forgot a sweatshirt on the bus but told me "not to worry" about it. By Sunday night he was crying himself to sleep citing friendlessness (is that a word), bullying, and general devastation as the cause. Which caused me to send one of no doubt a hundred emails his teachers probably received from every parent of every student in the class to be aware and watchful of how each one's little darling is doing, please and thank-you. Monday saw me picking up the kids at the flag pole and rushingto gymnastics to drop Trin off then back home for a snack for Blake and then straight from gymnastics to swimming. Except that swimming begins next week. That's okay, I got a nice chat in with my neighbor who also figured "everything" started this Monday. Just when I thought the first wave was over it was my daughter's turn. We have begun piano lessons with ME as teacher and HER as student. I do this out of a profound love of music and the idea that everyone should have the basics of piano under their belts before moving on to their chosen instrument. So idealistic. She sasses, rolls her eyes, and exclaims how boring it is while constantly interrupting me when I am giving her any help or direction on form or theory. I am determined though, this is something I can teach her and we don't have to pay money for it. I tell her that she would never speak to a teacher like that. . ."you're my mom not my teacher". . .oh girl, I am your be all end all and you better get that figured out. So after a frustrating-ish evening it's my turn to put them to bed. I tell Blake that I am starting bible study tomorrow and I will miss his singing in the back seat and getting suckers at the coffee shop on the way since he will be at school this year. This prompts the girl to go into a tizzy over "years lost" and "sucker's she should have had". I not unkindly tell her to get a life - we move on, though she's not happy. She wants me to tell her "what we're doing tomorrow". It's a tradition. Somehow I didn't adequately go over the day because when I say "good-night" which is their signal that I'M DONE she starts her freaking out anew. I head out of the room wherein she flies to the end of the bunk facing the door and begins screaming "I'm stuck, Help me! HEEELLLLPPP ME!" She is not stuck but she is probably scaring the entire neighborhood. It is on this final dramatic note I fly up onto her bunk to do. . .what? I don't know what I was going to do but as I grabbed her arms and she realized she had crossed the line, here comes Blake climbing the side of the bunk like a spectator at a boxing match. "What is this?," I thought, "an episode of Orange is the New Black?", which in case you don't know is a show about female inmates. Okay, I hop off the bunk and tell her she has lost three days of video games (of which she had no time for anyway). I go downstairs wound tight as could be and think "where the heck did all that parenting book stuff go?", " I know that I must have read some stuff about how NOT to get to that point" but alas I was at that point and folks, it happens. So as usual I vow to myself to "be better" at parenting. #getananny, #moveclosertograndma #just.leave.
Did I mention I am totally PMSing? NOT helpful. I know that I and my children will get over it but wow, who knew elementary school would kick off so much drama in the home? As I seek to meet the needs that I can of my children, I give the rest to God. He loves them so much, and he won't climb on their bunk and threaten physical punishment in a fit of anger. He will give them exactly what they need, when they need it, and the rest is history. Or science. Or math, Or gymnstastics. . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment