Where I'm channeling my end of the school year frustration.

School will be out next Thursday, and with the end in sight it seems like everything takes a little extra effort.  Waking up in the morning, getting dressed, making sure the kids have their lunches.  Getting out the door at 8:17, because after nine months of this rat race, we've discovered that's the sweet spot for us with morning carpool.  But next week it all changes, the schedule, the expectations--even their wardrobe, which will be reduced to alternating bathing suits, depending on which one is wet and/or smells like mildew.

And it makes these handful of days lose their purpose.  If our routine fell apart in say, February, chances were good that the world would end in a zombie apocalypse; today, however, we are itching for the freedom to eat popsicles for lunch.  And dinner.  But first we have to survive these last days, and the dreaded "pajama day" at school, which is always more anxiety-inducing than it would seem.  I know it's so fun, but if we're being honest, I would be sending 3 of 4 children to school in their underwear.  And also, this day includes bringing a board game, and so help me God if one of our Yahtzee dice gets lost, because I'm not good at problem solving those kinds of things.

Back when the school year was starting, and we were signing our kids up for all the activities that make the world go 'round between the months of September and May, we (I) thought it would be AWESOME for L to take acrobatic classes.  I thought this was even more awesome, because there is a dance studio down the street, and I had romantic dreams of walking my girl up there on cool Fall evenings, and getting a treat at the Custard Station across the street when she was done.  This was before I realized that EVERY activity we signed up for was on Monday nights, and it would be a small miracle if one of us didn't die in the shuffle of getting little people where they needed to go in a 90 minute time span that included the dinner hour--and also before I remembered that romantic ideals are often end in teenage pregnancy, or tiny hamsters that gnaw each others ears off.

We have done dance classes before with G--and the romance, versus the reality of locating a clean pair of tights every week and surviving a recital at the start of summer, is a very difficult thing for us.  So this time around, when the sign ups for the recital rolled around, we talked about it, and without a huge preference by L to participate, we decided not to do it, because it was optional.  And I know what the first week of June is like--for us, it's all about decent weather and the pool we haven't seen in months, and the waterslides they haven't grown sick of (yet).  Last I remembered, the recital dominated one of our first free weekends of the summer, coming off the over-scheduled school year.  And it was painful.

Except that it appears that everyone in L's class is doing the recital.  Which, I still don't see as a big deal, but as an exercise in knowing what works for us and saying no to what doesn't--you know my mantra for the past couple of years, when we sold our house and decided to do things differently.  I KNOW the kids (L included) will love playing with their neighborhood friends and jumping on our trampoline and going to the pool more than they would like the 3-4 hour circus that it takes to get us to a dance recital; in my heart of hearts, I know that for our family, a recital sounds great, but is actually a giant pit of whining and impatience and less-than-stellar parenting.  And I also knew L would still participate in the class, and I guess I just figured they would stick her on the side of the choreographed routine, so that she could still learn the moves, and yet be easily omitted during the actual performance.

I'm not quite sure how most of the classes worked this year--because I would drop L off, and Mike would pick her up on his way back from swimming with G.  I do know that she came home bubbly and happy, but that this is ALWAYS how L is, because the good drugs they gave her in the NICU haven't worn off yet, and the girl is high on life and caterpillars and sand and iPads.  But in the past couple of months, as they have continued to learn and perfect their routine, Mike would catch the last 10 minutes of class, and notice that L was sometimes sitting out, because she wasn't in the recital.  The OPTIONAL recital.

Typically, some other girl wouldn't be at class that week, and L would take her spot--sort of, because she hasn't actually learned any of the spots, she's just filling in.  That works fine, except when everyone is there, then she's the odd man out.  Which bugs me, because we pay to be a part of this class too.  And the recital was OPTIONAL.  But I've had bigger fish to fry, and L never talks about acro, nor does she dream of being a stage performer, so in the scheme of things, this still wasn't a big deal.

Except that a couple of nights ago, at the end of the school year, when I am already running on empty and drinking more diet coke than is healthy, I took L up to class and decided to watch for a bit, along with my boys who can't stop touching each other in the face.  The recital is a couple of weeks away, and after the warm up period, the class practiced the routine for 25 minutes.  Half the class time, and everyone was there--so L sat out of the class we paid for, for 25 minutes.  And I sat there, with two boys who were poking each other in the eyes for sport, watching L sit out for 25 minutes.

If you didn't know, that's pretty much my breaking point with scheduled activities.

When the girls were given a few minutes to grab a drink, I talked to her teacher.  I asked if they were practicing the routine the entire time?  I told her I was frustrated that we brought L to class every week, and that there was always a chance she wouldn't be able to participate.  She was really nice, and probably has never seen a girl not do the recital, so this is uncharted territory for everyone--and she said, rightfully, that since everyone else is doing the recital, she can't cater the class to one girl.  I totally agree, I would NEVER want to take time away from the other girls who were preparing, that wasn't my point.  My point was really in the studios decision to tell us the recital was OPTIONAL.  We talked through it for a minute, and the teacher said that they don't want anyone to feel like they can't be a part of the studio, if they chose not to do the recital.  Except that L sometimes sits out, which feels like not being a part of the class--I suppose that she's physically there at the studio, but might as well be playing MineCraft at our house in those instances.   My point here was not to change anything with two weeks left in the year, but more to let the staff know that this is frustrating, and maybe the next time this comes up, there will be a better option in place.  Like just sticking L on the side of the routine where she wouldn't be missed during the recital, but could still, oh, participate in class in the class I pay for with money, but also with a little bit of my sanity on Monday nights.

I'm telling you this, because we're constantly trying to make good decisions, and not just keep obligating ourselves to things that make us miserable.  It's great to know what you want, and what works, and to make your own, non-conventional decisions--but it doesn't always mean that it will be easy, that it won't have it's share of complications, or that the world will know exactly what to do with it.  It feels like I am always trying to find the balance; and I think that at the end of the day, this isn't really about the recital, or the structure of the dance class itself, but about how we handle being "different".  That it really isn't a single decision, but a lifetime of lessons in being flexible and patient, and *hopefully* more understanding of other's who chose differently too.  It's not really about the choice, but about everything that comes after it, I guess.  

Except during the last two weeks of school.  Then it's just a whole mess of bat sh#! crazy.  

Where everybody knows your name.

Sometime in February, I got a little over-zealous about losing weight.  And by that, I mean that I bought a lot of Groupons with the intention of working out.  And then Spring Break rolled around, with it's road trip and it's fast food --and then I remembered it was a lot more fun to drink chardonnay than to be skinny, I think, because I haven't been skinny in a while but I don't remember it involving pina coladas. Or the crazy sh#! you do after you drink a bunch of pina coladas.  

Then one day, probably out of the guilt of eating an entire bag of Cadbury mini eggs, I realized that one of my (yet unused) Groupons was about to expire--and if there is anything that I hate more than the self-loathing that comes from binge eating, it's losing money, like the $20 I spent on a boxing gym Groupon, to be exact.  

That's right, I said BOXING GYM.  Because I like to make it blog worthy, friends.

To be honest, I had already attended a free class at this gym, so I knew what I was in-store for.  As I remember, that workout left me unable to move my arms for days, and then, when carrying a fairly light, but awkwardly-shaped load, I managed to tear one of my biceps right off my arm bone.  That's my very dramatic way of telling you that I strained something.

But freaking A, that was the best workout of my LIFE.  And if I'm gonna work out, I'm gonna make it worth it--so that I can hit my goal weight and go back to eating potato chips as quickly as possible.  

Except that there is kind of an intimidation factor.  You know, of feeling like you don't belong somewhere.  I mean, I can fake it at my kid's elementary school, but we're talking about a BOXING GYM.  And in the first of several mistakes that hinted at my true identity (translation: NOT a boxer), I had to choose a color for my hand wraps.  And I chose...pink.  Because nothing says I will round-house kick the sh#! out of you, like PINK hand wraps.  

PINK hand wraps?????  That's like being on a date in college and telling a boy that my favorite band was Bon Jovi.  CLEARLY, it was Dave Matthews, because who didn't worship Dave Matthews at a small college in the Midwest in the late 90's????  The girl who laid all her cards on the table with those pink hand wraps.  I might as well have worn Lily Pulitzer boxing gloves or tattooed my monogram on my bicep, because my street cred was officially non-existent, beginning with the very first question they asked me, my preference in hand wrap colors. 

Well, my cage-fighter cover was blown, and so my strategy for gaining acceptance was to pant like a dog and moan loudly while trying to do push ups.  Just like my poor timing with craft projects, or my inability to use a calendar--dripping with sweat and muttering profanities is also part of my *charm*, it would seem.  I suppose that God is using my $60/month commitment to show me that I'm not always supposed to blend into my surroundings so seamlessly, because I could honestly care less about looking cool, if this is going to get me a six-pack.

Just kidding.  But if this isn't about a six-pack, then I'm not really sure what the end goal is here.  Except that I do feel like God is blessing me with a plethora of opportunities to stop caring what I look like or what people think of me--or what I shall affectionately refer to as "checking myself before I wreck myself."   

As it turns out, that $20 Groupon was a great incentive to box four times a week; just like the Cici's pizza buffet is a great way for me to down three, large-sized pizzas.  I like being able to drive the cost of something down, based on obsessively over-using it, I guess--it makes me feel like the God of Capitalism.  And then this funny thing happened, where I could tie my own pink hand wraps, and do 10 burpees without vomiting  and function as a human being the day after a workout.  And that sort of made me feel like I belonged, even though I haven't killed anyone in a last-man-standing cage match, and I still do girl push-ups (and don't see that changing any time in the foreseeable future).   

And then my Groupon was up and I joined the boxing gym, which is like the bar "Cheers" because everybody knows you're name, and they scream it at you to hold that squat LOWER, damn it.   And then one time, we worked out to "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leopard, which, you're just going to have to trust me, is the MOST PERFECT soundtrack to boxing, or whatever it is I am doing there four times a week.  I have also learned that the drill that simulates a knee to the groin looks an awful lot like the "running man" move I perfected in middle school--which means that this might just be the place for me after all.

If you're interested in checking out my 90's dance moves that could render an attacker sterile, then come and join me at Title Boxing in Rock Hill (link here), and tell them that I sent you, because I get a credit every time I refer a new member--and I promise to use it on personal boxing lessons, which can only mean a stellar blog post, and a win for everyone involved.   And then maybe we can all get t-shirts, or matching tattoos.  

Even if it's just for the one free class, come and check it out.  I'll be the one with the pink hand wraps.

"It is easier to tame a rabid monkey, 

than to please parents with classroom placements." 

 --Confucius

Like the age ol' debate over sleep schedules and breast feeding, I realize that classroom placements for elementary-aged kids is a *touchy* subject.  I know this, because I've had variations on this conversation for the past...five years straight.  And this post is IN NO WAY a judgement on those conversations--just my general thoughts and observations and confusion over how this parenting gig is supposed to work (versus how it ACTUALLY works).

When I was growing up, it used to be that class lists were posted up at school, three days before the start of the new year.  I don't remember my mom thinking much about it, and I'm not even sure she knew who any of the teachers were, much less their teaching "style".  It really was as simple as paying your taxes and dropping your kid off at the curb on the first day of school and just trusting the "system" to teach phonics and long division.  Although, in Hawaii, we also learned the ukulele, and how to make braided slippers out of tea leaves (true story).

{Clarification:  The tea leaves I am referring to are not the stuff you make tea out of.  They were bigger, and sturdy, and clearly not actually called "tea leaves" according to my Google search.  Proper names of plants were not covered in Hawaii's educational system.}

These days, our school (and the one we were at before this), gives parents the opportunity to share their opinions when it comes to class placement.  Asking for specific teachers is frowned upon (I think), but issues about learning styles, and teaching styles, and social dynamics are okay.  And I do have those opinions.    

I have a lot of opinions about my kids, actually.  But I also have a very intense desire to be liked, and to make everyone happy--and this makes me very schizophrenic as a parent.  I don't like to complain (publicly), and generally speaking, most of the things that I have issues with have resolved themselves, or taught me something, or most shocking, been a blessing in disguise.  I've never written a letter asking for a teacher, or asking not to have a teacher, or asking for a class that's painted the color blue, or for a teaching style that allows me to bring in cupcakes on birthdays (doesn't exist anymore), because hauling the guinea pig up there is more work than it appears.  I'm not saying that to brag or claim sainthood; but more to tell you that I am deathly afraid of what people will think of me if I have an opinion.

But...

At any given time, I realize my opinions are only part of the story--and that right there is one of the hardest parts of parenting, knowing that I am always going to make decisions with half of the information I need.  Without the guarantee of how this all turns out, there is no way to know if even the safe, predictable, COMFORTABLE choices I advocate will be good ones.  Turns out that safe and comfortable can have consequences too.  And part of my job as a parent isn't necessarily to protect the predictable boundaries of my kids--but to teach them how to handle life outside of them.  

I might never have learned that, except that Mike and I ended up doing EVERYTHING we thought we wouldn't do, back when we only had one, very sweet little girl, and it appeared that we had life by the testicles.  G was always a "quiet" girl.  A little on the shy side, but mostly just quiet.  She's always been slow to warm up, to reveal any part of herself--and she has always hated attention.  She is incredibly sweet, but has a hard time initiating relationships and is therefore drawn to those who seek her, who pull her in.  I sometimes tell people that she is JUST LIKE ME growing up, which is apparently a not-politically-correct thing to do, because our kids are INDIVIDUALS, and it should not in any way be implied that they are like me, or grown in my actual womb, from my very DNA.  Except that I understand everything about her, more so than any of my other kids.  Because I WAS her, I AM her.

I used to think that G needed consistency.  I watched her warm up slooooowly in preschool, where it took her almost two years to speak comfortably or state her opinion.  I used to think that keeping her comfortable and emotionally safe was the key to getting the most out of school; carefully drawing her out of her shell and snuggling her like a baby bunny.  It was one of the reasons why switching schools in the third grade (what we said we would never do) was such a big deal--WHAT would it do to her, exactly?

It made her stronger, more confident.  It introduced her to her best friend.  It showed her that change won't kill her.  It taught ME that shy doesn't necessarily mean fragile.  G had to learn to make new friends, she had to get used to new routines--and she did it beautifully.  In fact, with each change, with each move, she gets better at adjusting, at coming out of her shell, at seeking others.  What do you know.

Then there's Little J.  He's a super sweet kid.  He goes with the flow (most of the time)--but he likes to be the class clown, and he's not afraid of attention.  He is the kid who is bouncing off the walls, and the one that quietly plays Uno, depending on his audience. I'm tempted to want to control his audience.  If I had an opinion about where Little J ends up, where he will be at his best, it's with kids who are calm and focused.  Aint that the truth.  You know what?  I work best with people that are calm and focused--but that's just not real life.

Or Big J.  Because of his dylexia/yet to be diagnosed medical issue that affects his learning (NOT to be confused with a learning disability), Big J is a kid that needs boundaries and structure.  There are a lot of boys in second grade who need the same, for different reasons--which results in a class that can be on the high energy side, a little rough, a little loud.  I used to worry about my middle boy, the one who plays with Legos for hours at a time, who daydreams, who will sit quietly lost while the world goes on around him.  I worried that he was going to be overlooked--and I thought, for part of the year, that he was.  And yet, I have watched some of my own opinions on Big J be proven false.  I've watched him become friends with boys that are a little louder, and more physical and so very different from him.   Huh.

I could go on and on.  About how a situation, a class will look one way in the moment--and mean something COMPLETELY different, in retrospect.  About how some classrooms can rattle me, because they do things A LOT differently than I would; but it's always a lesson in remembering that different isn't always OFFENSIVE, and it isn't always bad.   There was a year when G was given a teacher who was less structured than I would have guessed, and we struggled there--because G is a kid who likes to know the rules, and what's expected.  But realizing that she needs to work on functioning without clear boundaries is IMPORTANT, even if it means we will limp through a particular season of school.  

I'm telling you this, because I've been debating writing a note to my kids teacher's for a few weeks now.  Not necessarily about specific teachers and requests, but about who I think my kids are in this moment.  And let's be honest, who I think they are is only a fraction of the truth--and where I think they'll do best is only a small part of it too.  I've been dragging my feet on this, and I think that's my cue to just let things play themselves out and not stress out about it, because we're all just here to party.  Wait.

But really, my misplaced anxiety over the carpool line takes all my energy, so I'm pretty much maxed out on hypothetical scenarios to stress out about. 

Sometimes adventure is catching a city train.

We all know that I have a *bit* of a beef with comfort and routine--and how sometimes, I miss out on good things, because of the fear of change.  I feel like you get to be my age, and you're supposed to hold on tight to what you have, but try as I might, the kids get older, my wrinkles increase, and my metabolism makes it ever more difficult to shake off a quarter pounder.  I'm boxing, and not eating carbs and doing everything to stop time and stay, perpetually, 36.  Which is like, 15 years past the point when I should have started to kryogenically preserve myself.

When you're in your 30's, when your a parent, when you have a mortgage payment, you sort of need routine.  Responsibility.  It can't always be about waiting for what's coming around the bend, because all that stuff you waited for is here, and it costs a lot of money.  Enter the years when you try to balance enjoying your life, while trying to figure out if everything you dreamed of is worth it.

A couple of years ago, Mike and I decided to get rid of the stuff that didn't seem...worth it.  The house, the country club, the stuff that wasn't worth the next 30+ years of doing things exactly the same.  We changed our minds about some things, even if we didn't have an alternate idea of what life should look like, exactly.  We just wanted the freedom to be able to figure it out.

Except that routine and security are ingrained.  Isn't it what I teach my children everyday?  To trust what they know, to be safe, to manage their time, to set goals instead of acting impulsively?  Even after all that change, it doesn't take long to fall into new, safe routines.  Boundaries where I feel comfortable.  I notice it in the way I plan for our next steps, in the way I spend my time, even in the ways that I parent.  

The ways that I love my kids--they should evolve too.  Just like everything else, there should be a constant tension, a push and pull, between comfort and change, I think.  But lately I feel like we are standing still; doing the same things, with the same predictable results.  I know what they value and how to reward them with it--which is mostly computer time, or the Wii, or playing Minecraft on the iPad.  And it's so comfortable to give it to them, because it gives me time to stalk facebook clean my air vents with a toothbrush.

Big J has been long due for a date with me; mostly because he is a kid that struggles with a lot of things, and needs to feel that life isn't always about how hard it is to read, or tie his shoes, or to get all of the shampoo out of his hair.  This kid needed a win.  He needed something unpredictable.  He needed an adventure.

And honestly, I did too.  When I consider what it means to really spend time with my kids, it always looks like the zoo, or the Magic House, or the City Museum.   I can predict their reactions there, it's safe to say that I will please them, and that we won't have to travel very far out of our bubble to try something new (that might end up being a disaster).  For weeks, I've known there was going to be a 12:45 Cardinal's baseball game here in St. Louis, and I've thought about taking one of the kids.  But it was too late to still make it back for afternoon pick-up, and the weather was looking warmer and warmer--which sounds amazing, until you're thighs are marinating in sweat.  And also, the pollen.  Oh. The. Pollen.

I don't know why, but I decided to do it.  I decided to spring Big J from school and head to the game.  We didn't have tickets, but I decided to wing it, and WHAT THE HELL, take MetroLink (the train) down there to make it all the more interesting (or blog worthy).  Now I'm really getting ahead of myself, because in 15 years of living in St. Louis, I've never taken Metrolink, and CAN I DO THIS?  REALLY?  I know that sounds ridiculous, but when you're comfortable doesn't everything else seem like a risk?

Big J wasn't even sure he wanted to go, because he had no expectations--and could it ever be better than two-hours on the iPad without his twin bugging him for a turn?  Sign #1 that they are too obsessed with electronics, when the rest of the non-pixelated world pales in comparison.  We've never been a family that does baseball, or rides trains, or just picks up in the middle of a gorgeous spring day--but could we be?

Yes.  We were an inning late, and my plan for cheap tickets was...ill informed.  So we spent a little more money, and we got great seats (in the shade, SCORE!), and I got to teach Big J a little about baseball, and I mean that literally, because I know almost nothing about baseball.  But my kid who gets so hyperfocused on details, LOVED keeping track of the ball/strike/out count.  You can love something for a whole lot of different reasons, it turns out--and I needed to have Big J there, one on one, to figure out how to connect him to baseball.  To have it mean something to him.  We got to have lunch, and talk, and watch 5 innings of the game, before we turned around and headed home.  I'm surprised by how well it all went, how the details fell into place, how Big J began to love something I wasn't sure he would be all that into.  

I walked away with a win too.  A new way to understand and connect with my boy, a knowledge of the St. Louis rail system--and a reminder that sometimes the things that seem difficult, or don't make logistical sense, can be kind of amazing.

A lesson on limits.

I got cocky.  My nose stopped running, and I invested in some Mucinex, and I REALLY thought I was putting this cold behind me.  So, logically, I stopped taking the drugs.

Note to my 2014 self:  NEVER stop taking the drugs.

I guess I forgot that it was allergy season.  No I didn't.  I just thought I was better than tree pollen.  

Note to my 2014 self:  You are NOT better (or stronger) than tree pollen.

There are lies, so many lies, that distort my perception of reality on a daily basis.  Currently, I am so miserable and defeated by tree pollen, that I am interpreting the world with a lot of...ANGER.   
And it is under these conditions that I took the kids to a track meet yesterday.  I'm sure I made this decision weeks ago, before "the rage", because for the LIFE of me, I can't think of a reason why I thought it was ever a good idea.  Except.  We are three-quarters through the school year, we rocked the swim team sign-ups, we survived Easter, I joined a boxing gym (story for another day), and I got cocky.  I started to believe that I HAD this, that I had arrived at the sweet, no-calorie-full-flavor, spot of parenting.  And we all know how this turns out.

Enter "the rage" and the district-wide track meet.

The track meet is actually...a track meet.  For every elementary school in our district (5 schools).  The girls declined to participate, but the boys were sort of interested, so we signed up for the soccer kick (field event) and the 50 yard dash.

What's my problem with the track meet, exactly?  Well, for one thing, it's on a Monday, which is our crazy-busy extracurricular day.  I'm sure I paid ZERO attention to the day, the date or the time when I signed up; and then I neglected to put it in my calendar.  Have you not learned?  This is part of my CHARM.

Secondly.  Events like this are just...not for me.  I didn't play ANY sports growing up, not even an eight week soccer season, so I lack all the experience that tells me these things are worth it for some kind of bigger, character-building purpose.  Except that I KNOW these can be good things, so I put my big girl pants on, and I get my kids excited about it, and then we show up--and I have a small panic attack.  Sporting events are STRESSFUL to me, and this has been a general theme of this blog (link HERE).  

It took all of my concentration and energy, but I managed to get all four kids there, with hot-dog dinners packed, ON TIME.  Except that we arrived to bleachers packed with families from EVERY elementary school that were also, on time.  Here is where I tell you that I forgot a basic truth of having lots of children:  It is freaking impossible to find enough seats together, unless you are EARLY.  STRESS.

I sort of thought that they would put all the little kid events at the start of the meet.  I was wrong.  Instead, there was, like, 45 minutes of downtime between the two events the boys were participating in.  Forty five minutes of sitting at the top of the bleachers by myself and blowing my nose (because my allergies were in FULL FORCE by this time) and trying to pretend this was fun.  And not stressful, like when I walked Little J down to the field, and returned to my spot, at the TOP of the bleachers, with L crying because I left her.  Or when Big J panicked after his race, when he couldn't find me immediately.  Sometimes being in a crowded stadium at an elementary track meet is the loneliest place in the world.  I don't belong there.  I don't parent well there.  I basically blew my nose and told my kids to stop kicking the woman in front of them.  It sucked.  

Maybe it would have been slightly better if it was a cool, pollen-free fall night.  Or if Mike had been there, the cool to balance my neurosis.  Or if we didn't have other activities to deal with and rush to.  It's hard to say, but as it goes, I interpreted this event through the lense of "the rage" and I'm not so sure I can ever do it again.  But these days, I'm unwilling to do anything besides blow my nose and overdose on cold/allergy meds, so it's hard to say with certainty.

I think it's okay to know my limits.  To know what I can do, what I'm willing to do, what I'm good at, and what leaves me broken and angry.  I'm thankful for class art projects and running holiday parties--because I really suck ass at sports, and their sign ups and their practices, and the organizing of gear and having a good attitude despite the stress it takes to get us to a meet.   I am very set on having each of my kids grow up playing a sport; but there are limits to what I can handle.  

And those limits include a single, extra-curricular track meet on the busiest night of the week, during allergy season.