Love is in the Air

On Wednesday afternoon, Milo got a package in the mail from a classmate.  Yeah, she and her family live in town and she sees him three times a week, but the novelty of mailing something to your friend is, well, pretty novel to an almost-five-year-old. 

Oh, did you catch that I typed "she" and "her"? 

That's right, Milo's current BFF is a girl -- she's a cutie, for sure.  The package she sent contained a foam visor, a photo of herself, and a sweet little note, which concluded "I love you Milo."

Aww, my baby got his first love note!  Her mother assured me that she told her daddy that "we're just friends" -- which is good because, as much as I adore her parents, we're not planning to arrange a marriage between our preschoolers.

I cannot tell you how thrilled I am that he's really warmed up to his classmates in the last couple of months.  One of the statements his preschool teacher made at our parent/teacher conference was that he had a tendency to join an activity and relate to the kids doing the activity, rather than seeking out a favorite friend and joining an activity together.  She also said that he plays well with other kids, takes turns and shares easily.

Does that sound strange to you?  I asked Milo about it and he said "I play with everyone, Mom.  They're all my friends."  Instead of taking this as a sign of anxiety, like his teacher did, I took it to mean that he is open to all kids and not a clique-y mean boy.  I'm not so sure that playing with everyone is a bad thing. 

Back to the topic on hand -- after receiving the package, Milo said, "We need to have her over to play and have a sleep-over!"

I told him, "Let's take this slowly, but.  How about a playdate -- you don't want all the pressure of committing to a sleep-over to soon, you know.  That's a pretty long-term commitment."

Hey, Mom! Discovery

Walking Milo to school this afternoon was just what my spirit needed -- ten minutes with the joy of discovery.  After being initially reluctant to head out the door, he perked up the minute his feet hit the sidewalk.  Talking a mile a minute, stopping low to peer under bushes, dancing randomly, dashing ahead of me to peer between his legs, grinning.  Meeting his classmates happily, exclaiming over the equipment for an obstacle course.  Reading six or seven other student's names as he skips to the peg with his name atop.  Such lightness, such fun, such joy...

Here are some of the things he said as we meandered through campus to his school:

Hey, mom!  Why are the steps so tall?
Hey, mom!  These pink flowers came from that tree!
Hey, mom!  Why does he have short pants and long sleeves?
Hey, mom!  That guy looks like Will's dad!
Hey, mom!  What would happen if I ran down that hill?
Hey, mom!  I can jump over this crack really high!
Hey, mom!  There's paper on the ground!  That's rude!
Hey, mom!  What is this?  (seed pods from a tree)
Hey, mom!  If I plant them, will a tree grow?
Hey, mom!  They're playing frisbee!
Hey, mom!  There's a ball under this bush!  And a can, that's rude!
Hey, mom!  Those people are smoking!
Hey, mom!  Do you know any of those people?
That's good because they're smoking and that's gross!
Hey, mom!  I can count by twos!  Two, four, six, eight, ten -- like that, mom!
Hey, mom!  Let's go this way today -- I've never been this way!
Hey, mom!  I want to wear my backpack upside down!
Hey, mom!  Is that the building with your office?
Hey, mom!  I don't want to wear my backpack upside down anymore!
Hey, mom!  Can we listen to "Rolling on the River" again on the way home today?  (Proud Mary, naturally)
Hey, mom!  We're right on time to school!
Hey, mom!  There's Ben's name!  And Lucy!  And Evan!  And Moorea!  And Lydia!  And Ben N!  And mine!
See ya later, mom!

Judgement Day: Tabled for Now

It is 1:34 a.m. and I am awake.  Completely, totally awake, crystallized by insomnia.  I am thrumming, full of information; my brain won't stop inspecting the litany long enough for sleep to fully take my body.

We emerged more hopeful from my OB appointment.  And more solemn.  And more aware, no longer cushioned by the naivete of ignorance.  We are too late in this cycle for intervention, so we will start with vigilance, monitoring the cocktail of hormones in my blood.  We will inspect parts and counts more carefully than an airplane mechanic checks a plane engine the day after a tragic crash.  We will hope that nature compels his cell and mine to meet, urging a long-term relationship like a matchmaker.  If successful, we will sigh gratefully and thank the universe for our fortune.

If unsuccessful, we will enter a whole new realm of the surreal, involving augmentation and spinning cells and target practice to get the sperm a few inches closer to the egg.  There will be blood draws and pills, phone calls and procedures and hopefully, hopefully, hopefully a baby. 

Milo's conference went as expected.  He performed perfectly on his academic assessment, he is clearly capable of Kindergarten curriculum.  Although he is one of the younger kids in his class, he is able to pay attention, to transition well, to listen and learn.  He raises his hand to answer questions about the stories he is read, answering with "relevant" answers, showing that he has paid attention, has processed what he has heard, and is able to articulate his response appropriately.  We have never doubted his academic readiness.

Our biggest concern is his emotional and social readiness.  While he follows instructions well, takes turns and waits patiently during games, and transitions from activity to activity seamlessly, he does not generally seek out specific people with whom to play.  He finds an activity that interests him, starts playing and plays with whomever is nearby or engaged in the same activity.  This backs up his own statements of "I play with everyone."  He does, and he shares appropriately, too.

His classmates like him because he is kind and not aggressive.  He is cautious like his mama and lacks some confidence like his daddy did as an early learner.  We know this about him.  Although he clearly has the vocabulary to break into a group of kids, it is rarely if ever that he tries to join them.  "May I play with you?" does not trip easily from his tongue.  Just like his mommy and his daddy.  Sigh...

His teacher recommends AK for social reasons and did tell us that our school district starts the Talented and Gifted program in Kindergarten.  We are planning to discuss this in more depth with the Kindergarten teachers at Kindergarten Round-Up next month.  Kindergarten or AK?  We aren't sure yet... 

And that concludes this not-really-updated updated.  Judgment has been largely postponed today, tabled for another month.  It is 2:08 a.m. and I'm going to try to go to bed again.  See you when the sun is up!

Judgment Day

It is judgment day, at least for me.

I've got a 12:15 appointment with my OB to start figuring out why, after two very successful and easy pregnancies, I can't get pregnant with my third baby.  We've been trying for a year now and it is weighing heavier and heavier on me each day.  I can feel the weight sitting on my sternum, sometimes it is so crushing I can barely draw a breath.  Each week that slips by erodes my confidence further, taking with it a glimmer of hope and the last vestiges of my personality.  I feel so helpless and completely responsible all at the same time.  I am stifled by my overwhelming despair, it has begun spilling into places in my life where it shouldn't go, like work and play.

I am buoyed by my children, their sweet pink-cheeked faces bring a cascade of joy.  But it seems unfair for them to carry the burden of my happiness, so I do my best to just love them.  To encourage and guide them, to lift them and hold them and inspire them.  They are both so very happy right now -- living one moment to the next, seeking the new life of spring, cradling it in their inquisitive minds.

They have discovered that our apple tree is a perfect climbing tree, it's lowest sturdy branches fanning away from the trunk nearly parallel to the sodden turf.  They have been pruned for climbing, each fashioned into a cradle for children small and large.  Scott has hung a swing in one of the boughs, it hangs straight without needing much shimming, swinging in a graceful arc as a squealing blonde babe whooshes by, her golden ringlets dancing in the wind.

I have ordered seeds and plants for the garden, I wait excitedly for fresh strawberries, green beans, carrots, peas, potatoes, and raspberries.  I pored over the Gurney catalog, trying to figure out which varieties would best serve us, novice gardeners.  I ordered three varieties of pumpkins for my Halloween-loving hubby.  Broccoli for Milo.  Blue potatoes for Violet.  And two different kinds of raspberry bushes for me.  I picked the sampler pack of carrots for their novelty: orange, yellow, white, purple, and red.  A rainbow of carrots.  We will freeze and I will learn to can and, hopefully, the $100.00 spent on seeds and plants will at least pay for itself in produce.

We face another judgment this evening: Milo's first parent-teacher conference.  I wonder what the teachers will say about him...  Will they notice his aptitude for math?  He counts to 100, to 100 by twos, and 1000 by tens.  He recognizes all of the letters and knows their sounds.  He's starting to read.  He listens carefully to directions and figures so many things out all on his own.  Will they see that?  Or will his performance anxiety give them pause to recommend he not enter kindergarten this fall.  I think he's ready, but then again, I'm not impartial nor fair when it comes to him. 

And so I wait, anxious and occasionally dizzy, my fingertips buzzing.  I fear that bad news will send me diving off a precipice into a lake of sorrow.  I fear that I may be drowning already.

Running in Pumps

I made a big boo-boo today.  I was in a meeting and lost track of time until a co-worker asked me, "Don't you have to take your son to school?"

"Yes," I said.  "At 12:15."

"It's 12:32."

PANIC!  Danger, Will Robinson!  And then that crazy sqwaking alarm from "Emergency!" AAAh-oooh-EEEEE!

Then mama was slamming her feet into her shoes, jamming her arms into her sweater, and cramming her coat under her arm.

Clack, clack, clack, clack as I speedwalk through the student union so that I don't look like a complete dork in front of the entire student body, or at least the ones waiting in line for food service.

Stamp, stamp, stamp, stamp as I climb the steps of terror.  You can see the ground in between the steps and I have a fear of heights, so it was a Major Accomplishment for me to haul up this staircase, right up the middle and without clinging to the handrail like it was a ski tow rope.

Click, click on the tile for the two steps until I hit the doors.

Then SPRINT!  Mama's running across campus in heels.  Mama's running downhill perilously fast in pumps.  Mama gets to the car, does an illegal U-turn while buckling her seat belt, drives three blocks to the sitter's, where an anxiously waiting man-child greets me at the door.

"I'm-oh-so-sorry-I-was-in-a-meeting-and-am-so-sorry-I'm-late!  Let's-get-in-the-car-fast!"  He can get in the car fast because it is still runnning and his door is flung wide open.  Like a good little rabbit, he scurries to the car and into his seat.

While I'm buckling him, he asks in a quivering voice, "How many minutes?"  As in how many minutes before we're late.

"Umm..."  I falter.  He's self-conscious enough that telling him we're late will freak him out.  "One minute!"  I say.

"That's not much time, mom..."

"Nope.  But we'll get there.  It's only five blocks and when we're on time there are always kids getting there after we do."

"Yeah, but everyone's going to stare at me."

"No they won't!  Look -- those kids are late, too!"  I had spied a daycare provider with four kids in tow arriving only a moment before we parked.  "we'll be just fine!  I'll unzip your coat when I unbuckle your carseat and we can take it off before we get into your room.  I'll even carry it and your backpack, so all we need to do is find you name over your hook and then you can play, okay?'

Thankfully, the plan worked and he was in his class a mere four minutes late (my co-worker's watch was three minutes fast). And me?  Well... I'm  not flushed and sweaty anymore and my feet aren't screaming with blisters, so I'll consider that a winning performance.  Whew!

School Daze

Milo has started preschool. His first day, last Wednesday, was awful. Friday seemed better, and today I was able to leave him with only a whimper. Let me give you a quick play-by-play:

Wednesday: We talk all about preschool for at least five days preceding the actual event and I think he's got a good grip on what will happen. The first day is only a hour long and I'll take him, then stay int he room with him for a while, then attend a parents' meeting, then collect him and bring him back to the sitter's. I thought he understood this, I really did...

We arrive and we're a bit early. They keep us waiting in the hallway so that we can all enter at the same time and no one feels like they're arriving late. Milo is fine with the first four minutes of waiting, but the last five minutes dragged on like a lifetime of him pulling on my arm, sitting and standing on my feet, trying to use my bra as a hand-hold to scale me... He's already nervous and antsy and the suspense is killing him. Finally the door opens and we enter the classroom. He looks around and remembers is from the open house last spring. I guide him to the hooks where he's supposed to hang his backpack and tell him to find his name. He can read his name and write it, so this is actually accomplished pretty quickly. We hang his backpack and face the room.

I led him guide me past three or four stations to see if any of the toys peak his interest. Of course, they don't. Holding my hand and burying his face in my bum are way more interesting than toys he's never seen... I finally find a spot at the Playmobile table where three other litte boys are playing with cowboys and native Americans. He picks up a buffalo and starts winding it's tail like he's grinding sausage. About that time, the teachers call for the parent's meeting and I bend down and tell him I'm headed upstairs.

His eyes practically pop out of his head, he flushes and covers his mouth as he starts to wail. I pull him in for a quick hug, wipe his tears, and tell him that I'm going to be upstairs for just a few minutes and that he's going to be fine. I've glanced around the room and he's the only one that appears to be crying. Sigh... He begs me not to go, but I force a bright smile and reassure him that he will be just fine without me there. Then I turn and walk away, holding my breath and expecting him to tackle me as I try to leave the room.

He didn't. I waited about 30 seconds outside the door to see if I could hear him cry, then peeked my head around the door again. Much to my amazement, he was sitting quietly in the chair, his back to me. I could see him wipe tears, but could tell that he wasn't sobbing, so I didn't feel like the worst mother ever as I followed the ant-trail of parents up to the meeting room.

When the parents' meeting concluded, I rushed downstairs to find Milo, but after peeking my head in, didn't see or hear him right away, so I opted to use the restroom before formally retrieving him. When I came into the classroom, he was at the far wall, holding a toy and interacting with it, but also peering anxiously for me. His face lit up when I saw him, I breathed a sigh of relief that the separation wasn't fatal. As I got closer, he chirped excitedly, "I'm going to go home and play my Star Wars Wii!"

"Oh, not today, little buddy. Remember, you're going back to the sitter's house?"

And then it happened. Milo let his inner brat take over. He shrieked,"I don't WANT to go to the sitter's! I want to GO HOME AND PLAY MY WII!" Saying this once might have been fine, but he adopted it as a screaming mantra, saying it over and over and over until I was ready to cry myself. We couldn't get out of the room fast enough...

I am thoroughly convinced that he's now been labeled, "THAT kid." As in the one that screams like a banshee when he doesn't get his way. It wasn't typical of him, particularly in public, so I hope it was a combination of first-day-jitters and recovering from sore throat crankiness. I hope...

He screamed all the way to the sitter's, all the way up her porch steps and was about to run screaming into her house until I hissed at him that the babies were sleeping so he needed to be quiet, too, and that if he didn't stop crying by the time I counted to three, I was going to ask that he lay down for a nap, too.

"One..." Whine, moan.
"Two..." Sniffle, whimper.
"Three..." Silence. THANK GOD!

Friday: Milo asked that I walk him to preschool if it wasn't raining. It wasn't raining, so I put on my comfy shoes, walked to the sitter's, and met a smiling Milo in her foyer. He was eager to walk and even, for the first time ever, wore his backpack without complaint. of course, it was completely empty, but he was happy to put it on. I silently wish for a better drop-off and set out for the five block walk, his little warm hand inside mine. He hops over sidewalk cracks and chats the entier way there in a funny little stream-of-consciousness monologue. He tells me that he wants "three more little sisters and two little brothers" because "the girl babies are cuter." We'll see about THAT request.

When we get there, we're early again, and knowing how anxious he got just standing in the hallway, I say I need to use the bathroom and we duck into the ladies room. I say duck with a smile because there's a big duckie rug and a duckie soap dish and a duckie wall hanging in there. Milo laughs at all of the duckies and is happy to see a step stool at the sink so that he can wash his hands unassisted.

We finish up in the bathroom and get in line to go into the classroom. We're close to the door, so when the teacher opens it, we're the first in! Milo likes this as he's not held up by traffic when it comes to finding his name. He recognized it quickly and proudly hangs his backpack up on the little wooden peg. The he looks around the room, walks past a couple of stations, and finally decides, "I'm just going to stand here." I say, "OK, little buddy. I'm going to go back to work. Daddy will pick you up and you'll go back to the sitter's."

"I KNOW that Mom. You already TOLD me that." True, but since he didn't remember me telling him that the first day, I figured telling him a couple of extra times wouldn't be harmful...

Scott picked Milo up on time and dropped him off at the sitter's without incident. Milo announces, "I LOVE preschool!" Yay!

Today: Milo was clingy at daycare drop-off this morning, so I was anticipating another rough transition to preschool. He decided he wanted a ride today, so I picked him up and got him out the door. Drop-off was great, thanks in part to a disorganized alphabet puzzle -- he cant' resist puzzles or letters right now, so when I left him, he was busy with the puzzle and barely nodded. Whoopie!!!

So he's smiling and happy, but today as I pulled away from the sitter's, Violet's got her little nose pressed against the screen door, calling, "Mommy! I go, too! I go Mommy's car! Mommy! Mommy!" I guess I can't get my exit right... It just wouldn't be a day without me leaving a child crying for me somewhere...

Weekend funnies: Milo got caught by a cousin saying, "God Dammit!" Couldn't lie with a straight face when we asked him about it. We reminded him that we don't say things like that and suggested, "Oh, man!" and "Holy cow!" instead. He decided that he preferred his own contribution, "Holy macaroni!" Works for me.

Last weekend he and Scott were cleaning out the garage as I nursed (literally) a sick Violet all day. They apparently had a discussion about off-colored language:

Milo: Can I say, "What the heck?"
Scott: Not really, I don't think Mommy would like that at all.

Pause...

Milo: Can I just say it in the garage with you?

Violet funny: We were at the fabric store and Violet spied a Tinkerbell pattern and squealed. I asked her if she wanted me to make her a Tinkerbell costume for Halloween. She was trilled and agreed to be "Tikka bawl." in fact, she talked about it non-stop all of Saturday. On Sunday, Scott's mom asked her what she was going to be for Halloween.

She answered "Rina!" (ballerina) without hesitation. Well... OK then. I think Tinkerbell can dance like a ballerina, don't you?

It's Raining, It's Pouring...

It is raining today. I've looked at the RADAR and it will be raining, and possibly storming, all day. I think this is OK, the rain certainly matches my mood.

It was a tough weekend in the Olinger household and an even tougher start of the week. Today is that mythical mid-way point and I'm searching for signs of improvement in the forecast.

The kids are sick. Nothing serious, but annoying enough to them that I've spent most of the last three nights comforting one or the other of them for the majority of the time that I should be sleeping. Both seem to be doing better today, I hope, anyway.

Milo is hitting an important milestone today! He's starting preschool in T-2 hours. He is appropriately alternating between terrified and excited. My bet is that he'll be excited until we park at the preschool, then terrified as we walk to the building and into his classroom.

Violet can count to ten! Almost... She's got 1-6, 9 & 10. I think she's afraid of 7 because, well... 7 ate 9. Ba-dum-bump!

Work is busy for both me and Scott. This is the week that all of the first-year students are on campus and we've both got meetings and events galore. We played the "shift the kids back and forth so that both of us can attend as much as possible" game on Monday and Tuesday. That's so exhausting... Plus, the kids totally trashed my office twice yesterday. I need to figure out if I can scrub highlighter off of an upholstered chair. Don't ask...

But the news that has made this week the most difficult, drawing me deeply into my shell, is that our dear friend, my sister-by-choice, has breast cancer.

Selfishly I have yet to contact her. I haven't called because I know that I will simply come unspooled if I talk to her. I haven't written because everything I write sounds like a eulogy -- and I'm not sending something that grotesque to her. I know that she needs me and am very thankful that Scott has done what he always does: reach out, use inappropriate humor, and send massive amounts of chocolate. As in bought an entire aisle of dark chocolate from Target -- one of every variety, several of the most tempting.

I am not the one who is sick, but I am not processing this well at all. I am furious that cancer is trying to steal someone whom I love so much. Every time I put Violet to breast, and that has been quite a few times since she's ill, I touch the very tissue that my friend will lose next week. I hold in my hand that which is giving my daughter life and that which is poisoning my friend. And I am angry about it -- who gives cancer the right to creep quietly into her body, sliding between cells, ravenous and vicious?

On Sunday night, the night before I learned of my friend's battle, I lay next to Milo's bed, sighing because he didn't want me to leave his side. His sleep was uneasy, his fever rousting him every few moments. I lay there and thought, "This is annoying, but it will pass. I can't imagine what I would do if one of my babes was so sick that the illness won't pass. I can't imagine the grief of not being able to lie on the carpet next to the bed of my child. I am lucky."

I wept silently as I recalled a young family that I had seen at Disneyland on the trip to California that we'd taken when Milo was about 19 months old. I was pregnant with Violet and we were visiting my dear friend about whom I am writing. We were in line behind the family for the Jungle Cruise ride and I noticed that the young mother was struggling to hold a child on her hip in the heat. The child looked too old to really need to be held, or so I thought until I saw that she was bald. An ugly, ugly scar mapped her scalp. My heart stopped. I realized that the little girl and her family were on a Make-a-Wish trip.

Instantly my pregnant hormones went into overdrive and I started blinking rapidly to hold back tears. My chest tightened and my breath caught in my throat. It was all I could do to not bawl as I watched the girl, grinning from ear to ear, as she described all of the things she thought she would see on the ride. This mother wasn't just holding her child in a long line, she was clasping her into her body, trying to force her back into the womb, back into a time when she was safe and healthy, back to the time when their souls were one.

I had to look away, gulping air. I rubbed Violet's bum inside me, squatted and kissed a sticky Milo, then hoisted him up onto my hip, vowing that I would carry my children into my body any time they needed me to lift them up. I think of this family every time one of my kids is ill.

I don't want to overwhelm my friend, after all, this isn't about me and what I want -- it is about her and what she needs. I am thirsty for knowledge, but unsure how far to push her; I don't want to hover and smother, yet I am unsure of how to support. She is so generous that I don't want her to know how wrecked I am about this; her first reaction would be concern for me and I think she needs to put her energy into healing. I will write to her by the end of the week, I must swallow my own fear and grief and let her know how much I love and support her.

I want to carry my friend. I want to scoop her up and hold her. I want to sing to her and keep her safe. I want to do these things for her because I love her, because I love her children and her husband, and because I love my children and my husband, and a little girl whom I have never met.