Perspective

Dear Aaron:

Last Friday was the last day of school before a two week Christmas break, and I'll be honest, I wasn't necessarily looking that forward to it. I wasn't exactly sure how to keep you entertained for two solid weeks of mostly bad weather, and I was dreading the arguing that you and Harper have elevated to an art form.

On Monday, I woke up shockingly late. I looked at the clock and jumped out of bed, because it was far later than either you or Harper ever sleep on your own, and Daddy was at work. I went into the hallway upstairs to find you trying to cram yourself into a straw laundry basket, and you looked up at me and whispered "hi!" When I asked what you were doing, you replied that you were trying to make a "Jesus bed", imitating the nativity scene that's quilted on your Christmas tree skirt. I asked why you didn't come wake me up, and you told me that you thought I needed to sleep in (and you were right). I asked if Harper had been crying, and you told me yes, she had, but you had gone in and read stories to her, and then put her back to bed. I asked what stories you read, and you kept listing book after book, and then told me you had offered her either five books or ten books, and you were glad she had only chosen five, because by the last book you were getting really tired. Then you gave Harper her paci, told her to go nitey-nite, and proceeded to fashion a manger from a laundry basket. By the way, Harper slept until 11AM that day.

On Tuesday, I woke up and found you in Harper's room, reading to her again. I stood outside the door and listened so you couldn't see me. She started talking through your reading, and you stopped reading. After a minute, you calmly told her that if she wanted to continue being silly, then you wouldn't continue reading. Later that day you got a video email from Santa. He mentioned your name, told you he'd be bringing you a musical instrument you'd asked for, and even showed you his picture in his book! You sat on my lap, trembling with excitement and telling me to shush. When the video was over, you cried and asked me "did you see if I was on Santa's good list? Because it was going so fast, and I didn't see, and I want to make sure I'm not getting coal!" I assured you you were on the good list, because Santa is clearly very forgiving. What you didn't know is that your Daddy then spent hours going to every Target and WalMart in a 15 mile radius looking for a guitar without Hannah Montana on it, because we didn't know Santa was going to throw us under the bus and flat out tell you he was bringing an instrument. You spent the rest of the day making presents for everyone in the family. You spent hours drawing hundreds of Christmas trees on paper to wrap your presents, and making all of your labels yourself. I have a feeling I'm getting an apple, and I have a feeling you picked a red one because you know I like the red ones more than the green ones. You told me "thank goodness I had this day off school! I had so much to do to get ready for Christmas, and I never would have gotten it done without working on it today!"

This morning we got up at the same time, both ready for the man who was coming to appraise our house. You got really worried when we mentioned an appraisal, as if you've had a former career in real estate or something. You kept asking us and making us promise that we weren't selling the house, that we weren't moving, and that we would still be close to Nonnie and Kara and Grampa Jim. I have no idea how you made the leap from "appraiser" to "moving", but after we explained refinancing to you, I'm starting to wonder if you could just complete the paperwork yourself. When the appraiser came, there was a ridiculous orchestra of trying to keep the dogs quiet (because -story of your life- Harper was sleeping), but also out of his way. You were trying so hard to be a grown-up, letting the dogs in this door and out that door, and I got angry with you, because while you were doing what was logical, you didn't understand what the man was trying to do, and you were causing me more work. I wish I had just taken an extra minute to sit down with you and calmly explain to you what was going on, and why I needed you to do something different than what we normally ask of you. You're only five, and were trying your hardest to be helpful and conscientious. On any other day, all of your decisions would have been good ones. I'm sorry I forgot that you can't read my mind, and thank you for trying to be such a help.

This afternoon you wanted to deliver the presents you had made for the kids who live next to us. You very kindly gave them their gifts that you had nicely wrapped. The brother and sister accepted their gift graciously, and the other little boy was most ungracious indeed. But you handled the situation with surprising agility, and I was really proud of you. As the four of you were riding bikes afterward, Daddy came home and we were both watching the way you dealt with the bickering and infighting, and we were so proud of you we could have burst. In a way, I'm envious of how simply and easily you deal with so many situations that I tend to worry about.

Eventually the little factions developed, as they always do with this group of four, and the other three left you, which always stings my heart. When they came back, they had opened your present to the brother and sister, and rudely gave it back to you. It was one of Harper's Peek-a-Blocks- one of those toys that almost every child under the age of 3 has, and that probably never get played with. The other kids told you it was a baby toy, and that they didn't want it, and said some other unkind things that I hope I forget as soon as possible. You were trying so hard to be gracious, but I could see your face starting to break, and I knew you didn't want the humiliation of crying in front of them, so I shooed them on. I was so angry for you, and so outraged. I wanted to push them all off their bikes and take away their Santa presents and wrap you up into a little ball with my arms around you. I explain to you how we can't change other people, we can only change our own actions, and that at the end of the day, someone else can be awful, but that doesn't mean we should be awful, because then we'd be the same as them! I don't explain to you that I feel raw, pure hatred for people who hurt you in this way, and that I want to inflict the same pain on them. I have a feeling that if you ever have children you'll understand exactly what I mean. My mom tells me that nothing hurts her more than her children being hurt, and I understand now.

After we put you to bed tonight, with visions of sugarplums, etc., I saw your returned present laying on the washing machine. I looked at the bag you addressed and had to throw it away immediately, in the outside trash, because to look at it makes my heart hurt. I know you probably won't remember any of the altercation a few days from now, but it's seared on my brain- another minute of lost sleep worrying about you and if I handled the situation okay, and if this will affect you in any way. And if it does, will it make you a better or worse person? And did I make the situation better or worse? Before I threw away the bag, I took out the block, and sat outside looking at it for a while. At first glance, the kid was right- it is, without question, a baby toy. It's found in the baby section of the stores, whereas the "real" blocks are at least in the toddler section. But tonight I really looked at this block. There are moving parts and interesting patterns that change as you tilt the block from side to side. There are colors that shift as little plastic plates rotate on hinges. In my opinion, it's far too intricate for a baby, which probably explains Harper's complete disinterest in those blocks. And with her disinterest, as a grownup, I certainly didn't pay any attention to it- I just thought of it as another piece of wasted plastic, even thought I never actually *looked* at it. It took a thoughtful 5 year old to span that bridge, to ignore the label of "baby toy" and actually look at the object which is, even as a grownup, fairly interesting. All of us assumed that this was worthless junk- except you, who simply looked at it with different eyes. Aaron, I'm sorry that it took you being hurt to make me stop and see the subtleties of what you saw- the minute details that make this block more than just a baby toy.

I'm going to keep this block as a reminder that your perspective is a valuable one, and as a reminder that sometimes I just need to take half a minute and see things from your point of view. I'm sure I'll fail countless times at this before you're grown, but hopefully if you read this one day, you'll know that I'm trying very hard to emulate the grace you're already showing. So thank you very much for the gift, and I guess I should say thank you to the kids who discarded it, because otherwise I wouldn't have received it.

Love,

Mommy

PS- Please don't make me crazy with the guitar Santa's bringing you.

Joy to YOU, 2008

Each year I write a Christmas letter, because it's a lot easier than buying, signing, addressing, stamping, and mailing a bunch of cards. Here's this year's.

It’s Christmas letter time! And a happy holiday to everyone who celebrates other holidays this time of year, although I’ve been living in the suburbs for 10 years now, so I don’t know anyone who celebrates anything else. Diversity isn’t one of our strong suits out here on the cul de sac. We also don’t have charm, large trees, or short commutes, but we do have a Target right down the road, and at this point in my life I’m grateful for cheap diapers within a mile radius.

I was all set this year to send out real cards instead of some lazy-person’s holiday email, but what with the economy and all, I took the money I’d otherwise spend on stamps and cards and sent it to your very favorite charity in your name. I’ve also been notified “wow, you sure have a lot to write in your Christmas letters” so I’ll try to keep it brief, but I’m not making any promises. I figure if you get sick of reading it, just delete it and you don’t even have to worry about wasting paper.

Jason is still working at the same job “drawing pipes”, as Aaron puts it. He did not get a 5-figure bonus, stellar promotion, or new company car. He did get a year of enjoyable work at a company he likes that treats him really well, and you know what? You can’t ask for much more than that, especially these days. In his free time, he’s been running a lot, which worries me because he’s getting to the point where he could just run to a new city and not come back, and at times, it’s got to be tempting. He also continues to churn out any home improvement project I come up with, and has really gotten good at not rolling his eyes when I mention whatever new idea I’ve come up with.

I am not putting in much time “drawing buildings”, as Aaron puts it. Being a contractor in an industry tied directly to the economy doesn’t lend itself to a lot of job security. I’ve gone back to working much more part time, and as a bonus, got to spend the summer hanging out with the kids at the YMCA pool and weaning Aaron off of his terror of water (which is going remarkably well, and after only 293582309 hours of swimming lessons!) I’ve been really lucky to keep marginally steady work, but have (mostly) enjoyed getting to spend more time with the kids, although am chagrined to have to rein in my Target sprees. I’ve been running a lot, too, but whereas Jason runs for health and enjoyment, I run for one reason only, and that’s vanity.

Aaron, age 5, started kindergarten this year! This was highly emotional for mommy for the first 2 weeks. Then mommy just got embarrassed by being on a first name basis with the principal, and annoyed that school is closed a lot more often than daycare ever was. Aaron had what can only be described as a “difficult transition” to kindergarten, and it’s a real crap shoot as to how his day is going to end up. We recently had a week of really great reports about Aaron’s behavior at school, and Jason’s mom remarked “oh, I’m so happy that Aaron seems to have gotten over his hurdles”. Jason noted to his mom “yeah, don’t get too excited. It was only a week ago that he was showing off his penis to the other kids in class”, so that should give you some idea of what we’re dealing with.

If I were writing a personal ad for Aaron, I would include that he likes reading, writing, drawing, crafty stuff, and creating games from whatever he has left after we take his toys away because he’s behaving miserably. Aaron will frequently lose access to the playroom for behavior, but when you turn around 20 minutes later and see him setting up markers and a coffee can to play a game of bowling, you can’t help but be impressed with his creativity. (And lest you think I’m bragging, let me refer you again to the penis-showing incident. And the fact that I can identify his principal’s voice from the words “Mrs. G?”)

Harper has stayed very busy this year. She’s spent most of the year avoiding the potty, fibbing about whether or not there is poo in her diaper, cutting her own bangs in a style that is best described as “avant-garde”, and yelling at everyone. If you were to walk in our house right now, she’d yell at you “HI! What is your name? I’m Harper. I’m two and a half. You need to take your shoes off! Do you like Beauty and the Beast?”, and then she’d probably ask you to sing a few verses of “Gaston”. If you did, she’d interrupt you to demand something else or maybe scream at Aaron for breathing or looking at her or something. People usually remark how much she looks like Jason and acts like me, but I would like it to be known that nowhere in my memory have I walked up to someone and said “Big ups to all my haters!”, the way Harper did recently. I didn’t even know what it meant. Harper’s hobbies also include being sassy, enjoying time outs, and being politely disobedient (as in “Harper, please pick up your toys”, and her response is “No, thank you. You do it. I’m too busy playing”). She will watch TV until her eyes water, or Jason or I feel like we should actually parent, whichever comes first. Everything about her is exuberant and over the top, and sometimes I wonder if she’s actually a 16 year old trapped in the body of a two and a half year old.

Our dogs, Babe and Storm, have spent most of the year being stinky, barking at everyone, and shedding (regardless of season). The shedding is ridiculous. You start vacuuming (and by “you”, I mean “Jason”), and I am not exaggerating that by the time you finish with the downstairs, the place that you started has got clumps of dog hair laying around. I’ve been trying to train the kids to pick it up and throw it away when they see it, but Harper has developed an irrational terror of dog hair, and Aaron’s developed selective memory, so it’s not really working out. (Yet).

As always, we hope you all have a wonderful holiday season, and a great 2009. We’d wish you a peaceful 2009, but we don’t even know what that word means anymore. Thanks to all of you for being part of our lives. Our friends and family are more important to us than anything, and the older we get, the more we realize how blessed we are to have so much of what matters most.

Maybe don't read this if you're pregnant. Or trying to be.

Aaron's performance on his class Smiley Chart lately can only be described as lackluster, and fading fast. In addition, he's recently been coming home with his Color Chart showing he achieved Uh-Oh Yellow or even Problem Pink. For a while there, he was doing really well, with a number of days on Brilliant Blue and even Magnificent Magenta, but those days are, apparently, over. It was nice while it lasted. All three weeks of it. He's currently confined to his room, not because he's in Time Out, per se, so much as Banished From Mommy's Sight, Because She's Really Over His Crap. And that's where that stands.

Harper, in an effort to make sure she's never ignored, has developed loads of fun new phobias. Some of these include terror of anything that might be floating in the bath water, like, say, lint that got washed out from between her toes, or maybe a hair from her head. Hysteria ensues when I open the drain for the bath; from what I can tell while she's screaming, I think she's afraid of being sucked down the drain. That might be part of her panic at the sound of a flushing toilet. If anyone's been in the bathroom at my Target recently, I swear I'm not mutilating a child in the stall, just preparing to flush the toilet. (Not, of course, that Harper's sitting on it. Using the potty was nice for that photo op a few months ago, but since then, she only does it if she wants an M&M.) The most problematic phobia she's embraced is an unbridled fear at a tumbleweed of dog hair floating around on the floor. In case you don't know, we have two 60 pound dogs, one Lab mix, and one Chow mix, so you do the math on the amount of dog hair that's shed. Also, I am a lousy housekeeper, so dog hair tumbleweeds in our house are more common than a homecooked meal. (Actually, I'm not a "lousy" housekeeper, so much as I "hate housekeeping"). Do you know how many times in the past week I've come running in a room at top speed because of Harper's bloodcurdling screams, only to find her freaking out over a little pile of dog hair? I mean, hysterical, screaming, jumping up and down, sobbing and pointing at dog hair. Which totally ruins the plans I had to train her and Aaron to pick them all up so maybe I (Jason) would never have to vacuum.

I can't figure out if I'm jaded, have really bad kids, or other people are just not being honest. I mean, my girlfriends are honest. Their kids suck a lot, too. The ones who don't have kids have probably already gotten lifetime birth control based on my stories. But good grief, how did I never know how unrelentingly hard this is? Before you judge (I mean, you can go ahead and judge, I don't care, but just hear me out before you do), it's not like I freak out the first time one of these things happens. The first time my kid sings "Take Me Out to the Ballgame", I'm overwhelmed with mushy-ness and think it's precious. I ask them to sing it a couple of times, and put them on the phone with Nonnie or Gramma Sharon and have them sing it. After about two or three thousand times, I'm kind of over it, and trying to wean them off. By the 3280384573094th rendition of "That Frigging Ballgame Song", I'm ready to stab myself in the eye with a spoon by the word "Take". So it's not so much the issues, it's the sheer volume and repetition of the issues. Even great sex would be annoying after a few months of 14 times a day. When you're starting with something that's much less fun than great sex, it takes virtually no time to wear out it's welcome. And when you're starting out with another little "quirk" to add to the already interminable list of quirks, it becomes really kind of a perpetual pain in the ass.

I should find a happy way to end this, but for the life of me I can't think of one. I'm too annoyed right now.

Um. So, everyone have a great weekend! Here's a picture of my little angels! Aren't they precious?

Trick or..well, whatever. You know what's coming.

Behold one cat (that I had to make slightly more manly by making him into a Panther), and one dog (that looks a little bit like a cow, and kind of sort of like a bunny.) Harper is at that age, and I remember Aaron doing this, that she assumes anyone opening the door and offering her candy is giving her an invitation into the house. She kept messing up her lines, and when the door would open she'd say "thank you!", and on her way down the sidewalk she'd yell "trick or treat!"

Aaron was so cute I wanted to eat him up with a spoon. We passed a friend who had her 2 year old with her, and when we stopped to chat, her toddler went up to all of us saying "trick or treat!", because Pavlov wasn't making this stuff up. Aaron complimented the little boy on his costume and then pulled a piece of candy out of his bag to give to the little boy, which made me so proud, until I realized he had given up a Reese's peanut butter cup. For heaven's sake, he couldn't have given away the Necco Wafers? I'm all about being altruistic, but let's maintain our sensibilities here! Clearly I have more parenting to do.

Jason and I spent most of Halloween night in a passive aggressive argument that required so much energy in asserting my passive aggressiveness that it left me little energy for much else, so

after trick or treating, we hung out in the cul-de-sac with the neighbors, had a couple of drinks by the fire pit, and called it a night. Today we elevated our argument into just plain "aggressive", but I think tensions are cooling now, so I feel better writing about it. If I had waited another couple of days, I'd be happy to detail how right I am and how wrong Jason is, but you'll just have to trust me.

Now I'm packing away the skulls and jack-o-lanterns, because it's full steam Thanksgiving! Ugh. Walking into Target today (to settle myself, of course. It's like yoga for me.) and seeing the Christmas displays only makes me feel kind of tired and drained, instead of all Christmas-y. Until I have to deal with that, I'm still on a cat & dog high.

(Also let me add this, because you know I couldn't let this go without a snarky bit or two. My crappy neighbor behind me let their kid dress up as the Scream character. Fine, call me a prude, but I have to wonder what a 6 year old is doing dressing up as the murderous character in an R rated slasher flick. I post this only so I can have you appreciate that this is the family I'm dealing with. And that they truly suck.)

Dress Up (?)

It's that time of year again! The time of year when Aaron comes up with something obscure and weird and impossible to buy off the rack as his chosen Halloween costume. The first year I got to choose, and I went with Appropriating Mommy's Indian Heritage as the costume choice.





Year two he still didn't have an opinion, so I went with a borrowed lion costume from a friend. That year it was about 84 degrees on Halloween, and the lion costume would have given him heatstroke before his Snickers bars melted in his sweaty little fists, so I brought out the indian costume again.

Year three was when he started getting really adamant about his costume choice, and settled very firmly on being a bagel with cream cheese, and I am not making this up. I did not encourage this costume, and tried my hardest to switch him to a pirate or maybe a hobo, but he wasn't having it.

Year four was surprisingly traditional, and he went with being a pumpkin. That was Harper's first Halloween, and she went as a lobster, which I thought was hysterical. That opinion was shared by nobody else, including Jason, who just kind of looked at her in costume and rolled his eyes. Not like it mattered, she decided within 14 seconds of being outside that she was over and done with this Halloween nonsense, and she was going to make everyone flat out miserable until we took her home and put her in bed.

Year five was when Aaron decided he was just going to see how far I'd go, and he wanted to be a garbage truck. He and Jason would brainstorm this costume, coming up with all sorts of great ideas, which sounds really neat-o until you consider that the costuming department consisted of precisely one person, namely Mommy. In fact, I was not only in charge of Costuming, but also Candy Procurement, Staff Photographer, and Set Decorator. Jason, until that point, had mastered the role of Candy Taster, and that was about it. So I told Aaron that his garbage truck costume sounded great, and I would paint it to look like a garbage truck just as soon as Daddy built the costume. I thought Jason would work overtime trying to talk Aaron back into that awesome hobo idea, but instead, he spent his energy trying to show up my previous years of costume creation. He built Aaron a real "working" garbage truck with a moving hopper, so when people put candy in the front hopper, Aaron could raise the hopper and dump it in the back of the truck. Show off. (I am taking painting credit, though).

Harper was again too young to care what she was, so I went with a cavewoman, which she again hated. Not a fan of dress up, that one. (She had pants and a shirt on under her costume when we went out. I wasn't going for "slutty cavewoman". I find that trend alarming even on grownups. It makes me uncomfortable to see a woman take a normal costume and tramp it up within an inch of it's life, and I think we can all safely say I'm no prude. It somehow seems wrong to be dressed up as "sexy cop" or "sexy Little Bo Peep" or whatever. When did grown up costumes become basically a giant fetish?" Okay, back on topic.)




This year they each chose their costumes, and they're both sticking to their decisions. I went and bought all of the stuff to make costumes , and this week am planning on figuring out how I can hobble these costumes together in two hours or less from an assortment of bath towels, sweatpants, and felt. I was making great headway last night on Harper's costume when I got into an altercation with the sewing machine, and the machine definitely came out the winner. (Skeeve alert!)
Since sewing bath towels is apparently only for experts, I got my middle finger caught in the machine, where the needle went through the nail and out the other side. And while the needle was coming back up, I yanked my hand out of the machine, 'cause that mofo HURT, and you can just imagine the ick factor. I will say that wine and a Spongebob bandaid (and milking the story for all the sympathy I can get) are remarkable medicine. (And in case you're wondering, I didn't have to cut a stitch from my hand, which I was surprised and maybe a little disappointed about. Not that I relished the thought of cutting a machine stitch from my finger, but I think it would have made for a much more interesting anecdote).

Their costume choices weren't anything out of the ordinary this year, but I found the irony delicious, since they each chose their costume on their own, without knowing what the other one had picked. So when Harper told me she wanted to be a dog, and Aaron told me he wanted to be a cat, all I could do was laugh at how ridiculously appropriate it is for them to be dressing up as their own alter egos. Cats and dogs, indeed.

Ahoy There!

Aaron takes Uncle Bill hostage on the Sandbox Cover Schooner. Rowing rapidly with his lacrosse stick.

Right before or after this picture was taken, I forget which, Aaron was inside getting in trouble for something or another. Let me tell you, it is a fierce person who can keep a straight face while scolding a 5 year old who's looking miserably repentant and wearing a pirate hat. A more fierce person than I.

Nine

We're just going to ignore my spotty posting in the last month, because it's all just excuses, anyhow, right?

Nine years ago today, I was at an awesome party at the beach with all of my family and friends, talking and eating and dancing and drinking until 5AM. And that day, my very best friend of all became my husband.

Fast forward to tonight, our 9th anniversary. I'm sitting at the computer typing this up, the kids are in bed, Jason is at Lowe's picking up wax rings for a leaky toilet, and he and I together have consumed enough sudafed in the past few days to start our own meth lab. My, how times have changed. The time we used to spend running together, or going out to bars, or watching movies has been replaced by reading assignments from kindergarten, following through on punishments, coaxing filthy children into a bath, picking up dog hair tumbleweeds, folding tiny laundry, and thinking that The Daily Show comes on entirely too late for normal human beings to watch.

It wasn't a gradual transition, either. It was like slamming on the brakes, turning the wheel hard enough to fishtail, and then gunning the engine to race in the opposite direction, over the course of a very defined 9 months that ended right around the day of Aaron's birth. We had given thought to being parents, but not any real defined thought, more of that montage of pictures about how it might be with kids. You know, like images of yourself taking your hypothetical child to Disney World to meet Mickey Mouse, without ever considering the trauma (and expense!) of traveling with little children, the inevitable meltdown upon meeting a 7 foot tall rodent, the need to interrupt the day for naptime while you and your spouse sit in the hallway of a hotel hoping your kids stops screaming; that sort of thing. Or maybe picturing yourself going on walks with your hypothetical kids, without considering that 50 feet from your driveway you'll already be sick of telling junior to get out of the street, get the earthworm out of his mouth, and good grief, it's 100 degrees outside and you've only gotten 4 hours of sleep the night before, and when is naptime, for God's sake?

That was a tough transition for our marriage to make. I wasn't sure we'd make it to Aaron's first birthday without retaining lawyers, and Jason will say the same. It's hard to even look back on it and make light of it, because it was so difficult. Between your life shifting at it's very core, and post partum depression, and the financial worries that go along with new parenthood, it's a miracle anyone (namely, us) makes it through intact.

But we did. I'm certainly not going to paint a picture of nonstop bliss since we went through that mess of early parenthood, but I think is was part of the fire that steeled who we are together. Since now our roles as parents tends to overshadow everything else, it's hard not to end a crappy day with your kids without feeling like a little bit of a failure. It's difficult to end a week of fielding phone calls from principals and watching a 2 year old sit on the potty for hours a day and remember who you are as a spouse and best friend.

At the center of it, though, Jason and I are in this mess together, and while sometimes it's difficult enough to bring us to the brink, for the most part, it's become really apparent to me that we complement each other extraordinarily well. We remind each that there's fun involved in all of this, and when one of us is barely hanging on, the other one steps up to whatever task needs to be done. We are each other's perspective and best friend, and at this point in our lives, it might be the most valuable thing we can offer one another. There's obviously more to our relationship, but who wants to read the icky details? Certainly not our parents, I'm sure. Suffice to say, I'm grateful and honored every day to be married to someone I respect so much and adore without end. I'm so thankful that I'm married to someone who weathered this transition with me so well, and I'm looking forward to the rest of this story.


Also, he's a really good kisser and has arms and shoulders that make my pulse race. (Ack! Sorry. I had to.)

I love you, sweetie. Happy anniversary.


Sara & Jason, 9 years ago today

Jesus loves YOU. And you, too.

I know, I know. Consistency isn't my strong point, which is why I'll probably never be the Ultimate Survivor. Or the Top Designer. Well, consistency, and the lack of actually applying. And hating bugs, as well as most things that dwell outdoors, like humidity and cold and whatnot. Whatever.

Since my last blog, I've been pretty busy with work, which I am not complaning about even a teeny tiny bit. But the real reason for my non-posting is because I'm so consumed with Aaron, and it's really weighing on me. He's having what could only be described as a difficult transition to kindergarten. In addition, the neighborhood politics of the 5-7 year old set are becoming more and more apparent to me. Unfortunately, Aaron obviously inherited my disdain for being political, so he's not earning any points for himself that way. Without going into too much detail, because I'll either sob or light my neighbor's house on fire, I can say without question that being the one bullied/ left out ('cause I've been there) isn't one tenth as bad as watching it happen to your own child. It bothers me that at 36 years old, my mood can be so affected by a 6 year old who doesn't even belong to me. It should come as no surprise that my issue is with the child of the man I don't think highly of that lives behind me, and that's as diplomatic as I can be right now. Bless his heart. I'm feeling not at all bad about Aaron dropping his pants and pooing on said neighbor's lawn a number of months ago. (Cross my heart, that happened.) At the time, Aaron was made to pick it up and apologize, but at this point, I might encourage him to bag it, set it on the front porch, and light it on fire.

I really need to grow up.

Anyhow, I'm trying to just get back into blogging, because it's like medicine for my head, so here's what Harper's been up to. It seems a shame to know my mind and heart is really preoccupied with Aaron right now, and still bring out a Harper story, but she's pretty much a living anecdote. Where Aaron is complex and intuitive, Harper is like a little butterfly landing on your nose at the most inappropriate moment, and the two of them together are what makes our family, well, family.

So, Harper is completely convinced that the world revolves around her, and any evidence she sees to the contrary she quickly yells into submission. Lately she's been nixing the nightey-nite song and asking to say "pears" instead. We have our conversation with God, which involves Harper telling God to be thankful for her. I started singing "Jesus Loves Me" to her, but Harper's version is taking entirely too long. I'll start "Jesus loves me..."
"And Harper."
"Oh, sorry. Jesus loves me and Harper..."
"And Daddy."
"Right. Jesus loves me and Harper and Daddy..."
"And Aaron. And Babe and Storm. And Nene and Miss Marilyn."
"Of course. Got it."
"And Eeyore and Kiki, and Kara and Miss Nancie. And Jake."

By the time I make it through this song, including all of the relevant characters in Harper's life, I'm pretty sure I could have just sung Don McClean's "American Pie". But it's nice to know that no matter what you might think, in Harper's world, Jesus loves us ALL. Maybe even the kid and dad who live behind us, although I remain unconvinced.

Problem Child

So, I was embracing our new routine, all ready to start on the next few years of Aaron being in school while Harper's at home, figuring out how to spend our time. I was thinking of what I'd write for blog posts, maybe something about how I got totally immersed in teenage vampire love stories, or how I got even more immersed in reading bloggers who summarize teenage vampire love stories. Maybe I'd write about my new goal to perfect the application of self tanner, so that my friend Cindy doesn't look at my streaky ankles, shake her head, and sigh.

But then, after a solid three days at school, I got an email from Aaron's kindergarten teacher. Here's an excerpt:

Im sorry to bother you on a Tuesday evening, but I wanted to bring something to
your attention. As we are transitioning in the building (mainly as we are coming
in from playground) Aaron i having issues keeping his hands to himself. On
Friday we had a minor pushing incident and today Aaron was pushing and hitting
the boy in front of him. When i speak with him he can tell me that his hands
belong to himself but he struggles with doing so. Can you please speak with him
about this? I don't him or anyone else to get hurt.

Isn't that nice? And in the two days since that email, Aaron has contined to not only push and hit other kids, but he's escalated his desired target number, since today I asked how many kids he hit/ pushed, and his estimate was "probably ten". And it's not like I'm not addressing it; short of medicating him prior to getting on the bus, I am at a complete and total loss, to say nothing of being so angry and humiliated I could scream. He's currently sitting in his room while I grit my teeth and try to take deep breaths.

Kindergarten is totally kicking my ass.

First Day!

So, Aaron's First Day of School. It only took me a week to recover.

Let me just say, this whole First Day of School thing hit me way harder than I thought it would, because it's not like I've never been away from the boy. He's been in daycare part time for the past three years- I thought I'd breeze right through this thing and do cartwheels all the way back from the bus stop because I don't have to fork out a mortgage payment in childcare anymore. Instead, I became a completely unhinged mess.

I'm blaming this on outside factors, though. We woke up on First Day of School day and it was pouring rain, so I figured not having a raincoat for my kid was as good a reason as any to berate myself and feel crappy about how I was sending him off into the world. I tried to recover by letting him take his umbrella, until at the last minute I tested him and realized he didn't know how to open or close his umbrella on his own, so all I could picture was this pitiful image of him standing on the bus, unable to get off because his umbrella was permanently opened. Or standing in the pouring rain, shivering and sobbing with an umbrella stuck in the closed position (a little dramatic license there, since it was about 88 degrees outside). I was starting to list my other worries that morning, and realized I might just overload Blogger if I detailed all of them, so suffice to say I found anything and everything to worry myself about, and I worried well.

So we walked to the bus stop where one of my neighbors asked Aaron "which room are you going to?", and I had a panic attack right then and there.

"He's supposed to go to a specific room? Am I supposed to know that room? Was I supposed to tell him what room? I don't remember seeing anything with a room number on it. When did you get this room information? Was it in official correspondence? Should I run back to my house right now and look through my meticulously documented file of official school correspondence?"

And Linda, my awesomely relaxed neighbor (who just today decreed Friday Bus Arrival as our new happy hour), realized I was in the middle of a meltdown and put on her happy relaxed voice saying "No! No. I'm sure it's fine. There are a million adults all over, they'll tell him exactly where he needs to go." So I sat there adding to my panic while I see Linda quietly ask her 3rd grade daughter "Hey, Grace? Can you watch out for Aaron and make sure he gets to where he needs to go? Walk him to his class or something?" And all I could hear was the unspoken "Because Sara's such a dolt that she didn't manage to give her kid an umbrella or a rain jacket, so how could we possibly trust her to make sure her child finds the right room at kindergarten, and clearly an 8 year old is far more trustworthy than this imbecile".

Anyhow, Aaron got on the bus just fine and was thrilled, and after he left you can't find any witnessess that can verify that I left the bus stop a sobbing mess. And I may or may not have driven past the school, circling the perimeter to make sure he wasn't wandering around outside in the rain. And I may or may not have hunted down a raincoat for him to have on hand in a city that's had about a 10 year drought.

After school, he was telling me about his day as I lured him with sugar so he wouldn't leave me and go out and play, and I asked (because I've been his mom for a long time now) "Did you get in any trouble today?"

"Just one time out!" (Seriously, he was proud of it)

"Time out!? On the FIRST DAY?! What happened?!"

"Well, the teacher kept asking me to stop yelling." (I TOLD YOU SO, internet! See? Even trained professionals can't get through the day!)

"She asked you to stop yelling, and then what?"

"So then I told her 'I'LL GIVE IT A NICKEL TRY!'"

Of course. I mean, of COURSE that's what he said (yelled) in response to someone asking him not to yell. I blame this on Jason, because I like to avoid accepting any blame for anything at any time. Jason finds these weird documentaries on TV and Tivos them for Aaron, including a recent one named "Tougher In Alaska" or something like that. I don't know what it's about, just that it involves trains (and tough things. And Alaska, duh), and that since Aaron's been watching it at least twice a day, his voice and cadence have kind of changed, so when he starts reciting monologues from this documentary he's a perfect imitation of the narrator, who sounds exactly like Hulk Hogan crossed with a stoned surfer. (I know you can't fathom what that sounds like, but if you saw it, you'd say "that is EXACTLY what that guy sounds like!") Anyhow, that's where he got the "nickel try" thing from, and even though it's actually used as a cheerful affirmative in some tough(er) part of Alaska, unfortunately for Aaron, his teacher is from Pennsylvania, where that crap (apparently) just doesn't fly. Especially at his volume.

Anyhow, he did great last week, and I was a basket case of nerves at both him going off into the real world and realizing, for the first time in YEARS, I have a real, actual schedule to keep in the morning. Like, hitting the snooze alarm just cost me 30 minutes in missing the bus and dropping Aaron off at school, as opposed to "feh, I'll just call daycare and have them hold Aaron's breakfast, and I'll work through lunch or whatever". Ack! Then add in all of the open houses, volunteer requests, schedule coordinating, homework, lunch packing, and bus-meeting, and I'll be honest- Aaron is totally prepared, but I can't vouch that *I'm* mature enough for kindergarten.