A New Day

Before it went bad
(and then good again)

As you well know given my post from Wednesday, yesterday was James' first day of preschool and, I'm sorry to say, it didn't start out as well as I would have liked. Or, actually, it started out fantastically, with James thrilled to be going to Pine Village, posing for first-day-of-school pictures with his "dot blanket" (which, unsurprisingly, is a blanket that has dots on it), his Monsters, Inc. lunch box (my husband refuses to acknowledge that Monsters University is a thing), and Duckie. We dropped Will off at his school (day two for him), then headed to PVP. 

Everything was fine as we pulled into the parking lot. The smile began to fade a little as we got out of the car; the look in his eyes not quite so excited as we walked into the school. We were among the first ones there (we are big proponents of getting in before the crowds of kids descend) but it was already too late. By this point he was well aware that this was an entirely new experience and that saying he was going to preschool and actually doing it weren't quite the same thing. 

Ours is the smallest of the PVP locations, but it was a loooonnnngggg walk to classroom #3, with him clinging to my husband's neck just a little bit more with each step. (And, for some reason, trying to hand over his lunchbox to everyone that he saw.) By the time we got to his cubby, he was in full-out crying mode. Within a few minutes, Kelley (my husband) had sent me out of the building so that I didn't start crying, too. Because I have to say, for as much as I knew this was the right thing to do -- for as much as I knew that this was a temporary state (which brought to mind the words of PVP Porter Director Morgan Antonell who at one point said something about September being the month of crying thanks to all of the transitions taking place) -- my instinct was to gather him up in my arms, carry him out to the car, and say that we'd try again tomorrow. (Or maybe the day after that.) 

"Happy as a clam."

I told myself that I'd give it an hour and a half before I called the school to check in. I mean, I've been here before. I know it takes some time. Yet it still took everything I had not to pick up the phone and call. But then, about ten minutes after I got home, an email appeared in my inbox. It was from the Director, sending me a message. "Happy as a clam," it said. And there was a picture of James doing a puzzle and smiling.

There were several more emails throughout the day -- a picture of James napping, a picture of the whole class at circle time, and a picture of James and Denise together, with the following note: "By the time circle time came along, he was all smiles again! I was taking a picture of a another child, and he tapped me and said, 'How about me?' So, here we are, smiling for the camera!" Having these little bits and pieces of the day was beyond helpful and amazing. I can't thank Denise enough for thinking of us and keeping us updated. I'm sure that we weren't the only ones she was in touch with. It was just another one of the many reasons that we love PVP so much.  

When I went to pick him up, I had hoped that I'd have a little bit of time unobserved to watch him in the playground. Even though I felt so much happier after all of the notes, I wanted to see him for myself. Had he made friends? Was he connecting with his teachers? Was he too shy due to the newness of it all to start to make his own way in his new place? He saw me drive into the parking lot (or, I should say, he saw Lucy in the front seat -- "Luce!!!!!!!" he yelled across the patio), so I thought that I'd have to wait another day to see how he was fitting in. (Although I have to admit, having him run at full speed into my arms with a humongous smile on his face was something that I would happily have happen every single day. [Good thing that Lucy stayed in the car; otherwise he would have run straight past me and into her arms. Alas, it's happened many times before.]) 

Denise and James

But then he took me into the school and said that he had to have his snack, which, apparently, he'd been waiting to have until I got there. Lemonade, too. 

As he ate, I got more details about the day from Denise and Karina, his teacher. Being on the tinier size (his late August birthday pretty much guarantees a lifetime of being the youngest/smallest kid in his class), the other kids in his class thought he should be in with the younger toddlers. He apparently then opened up his (not tiny) mouth and explained in a very detailed way that he was three -- not a baby (bringing to mind Will's many years of yelling, "I am NOT little!") -- and that he was supposed to be in this room. Then, being used to playing with his ten- and thirteen-year-old siblings and their friends, he saw the even bigger kids (i.e., the pre-kindergartners), and took off to play with them. I guess I shouldn't be worrying too much about his ability to make his way in the world. 

"Did you set the timer yet,
Mommy? Did you?"

It took us a full half hour to leave, during which James insisted that he had to finish his snack, play in the playhouse, and, of course, poop. I was told that I needed to put the timer on, because only then would he be ready to leave. ("Did you do it yet, Mommy? One minute. Put the timer on. PLEASE." [It was not a request.]) And although I don't think I'll be able to spend that extra half hour at pick-up time every night, I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed it.

So when we have our next drop off time, even if he cries, I think I'll manage just fine. Because this is what I was waiting for. And tomorrow we get to do it all over again. 

Transition Time

No, I am not ok.

  

I am sitting here, dissolving into a puddle of tears as we drop James off at Zovic's for the last time. Don't get me wrong -- I am thrilled that he will be starting at PVP tomorrow. I've been anticipating this day since before he was born. (Yes, I love PVP that much.) But today isn't tomorrow. Today is the last day of this moment in time.

It's the last day we will drive by the little digger that sits on the corner behind the Arsenal Mall.

It's the last day we will drive by the tow trucks parked in the Watertown Towing lot, the last day we'll drive by the rent-your-own bobcats in the lots next door. 

The last day we'll drive by the boats sitting in their "blankets" at the marina on the Charles. The house that used to be an empty lot is now built, the excavators and backhoes gone off to somewhere else.

And my little baby is now a big boy.

We've had good-byes before. Thanks to the logistics of the Boston Public Schools we've said good-bye to more teachers than you can count. But we always knew there was another kid coming along; we knew we'd see Pine Village and Winship and Edison again. 

Odds are we won't see Zovic or Endza or Takouhy again. Sure we might stop in to say hi but that's not the same. They've helped me raise my babies; I've seen their children grow up. When Will was at Zovic's, her son, Sebu, was a 12-year-old playing basketball in the back yard; he's a college grad now, laughing with James as they wear their WVU t-shirts on the same day. How on earth did we get here?

How is it possible that James is 3? That Will is 10? That Lucy is 13?????

And, yes, I know I'm supposed to stop and savor these moments lest they slip by. But, honestly? Today? I can't. As it is I'm still sitting here with the tears streaming down my face. If I stop for even a second you'll have to peel me off the ground.

This morning James just turned to me and said, "Will Scarlett and Rhea be at my new school tomorrow? They are my favorite friends."

“No,” I said, trying to keep a smile on my face. “But tomorrow you'll meet a new set of favorite friends. And you'll be so excited to see them every day.”

Logically, I know that is true. As sad as it makes me that a year from now he might not even remember Scarlett or Rhea or Zovic and Sebu, I am fully aware that is likely to be the case. I will remind myself transitions are hard no matter how good the thing is that they're transitioning to and that part of what these amazing Pine Village teachers and directors are ready for tomorrow is a new set of parents and kids – and a whole lot of tears. They are ready for kids transitioning out of the daycares they’ve known since they were babies, for kids who have spent every day of their time on earth with their moms and dads or grandparents or nannies. And they are ready for moms (and dads) like me who aren’t quite ready for this next phase, no matter how much we know it is time.

Because it doesn’t matter if he’ll make some new favorite friends tomorrow, or, for that matter, if we’ll be driving by the Arsenal Mall and Watertown Towing and all the bobcats sitting in their lot again. This house is built. Today is about good-byes.

Butterflies in the Tummy

I have to be honest, this has been a tough couple of weeks. Slipping on the ice and giving myself a concussion – not fun. Having the fog evaporate and realizing exactly how much fell through the cracks when I was off in concussion-la-la land? Really not fun. In a really really kind of way. Especially when this week is one of the biggest weeks work-wise of my whole year. Which is why this week has been one of those off-the-charts I Am A Horrible Mother weeks.

When my ten-year-old woke up on Monday complaining of a stomachache – which had been an ongoing complaint throughout the week before but had gone away over the weekend – I wasn't the most sympathetic. But we went to the doctor and they said a bug was going around and that it might not be a bad idea to keep him home for the day and, and, and… The fact that my first thought was frustration is not something I am proud of. The fact that work even factored into my thoughts makes my heart hurt. But it did. And, yes, when I drove off to a meeting that I had to attend, even knowing that I'd left him in the highly capable and loving hands of my mother-in-law, I pretty much cried the whole way there. So you can imagine my complicated feelings when, at 9:12 yesterday morning, my phone rang and the name of his school popped up.

To my surprise, though, what happened from there wasn't a "Please come get your son because we have 700 students in our school and I can't have him lying here"; instead, the nurse took the time to talk to me about what was going on, to hear the concern and, yes, frustration in my voice, and then tell me to give it a little time and see how the morning played out. With another meeting on the schedule (big week work-wise, as I mentioned), I arranged for my husband to be available should the next phone call come.

Two hours later, after monitoring my phone and seeing nothing, I called the school back and checked in. The nurse, as it turns out, had watched over Will for awhile and then took him back to his class and talked to his teacher. And between the two of them, they managed to get to the bottom of it: anxiety. Big-time, big picture anxiety, but anxiety nevertheless.

Other than to say that I fully understood it once they figured it out, I'm not going to go into what it was about – that's Will's stuff. But the reason I've gone into all of the above in the first place is because, well, I love his teacher. I find I love his school nurse, too. In fact, I love the whole support system that this 700-kid school -- in the big Boston Public School system -- has. And it made me think about what it means to have a place that we love and trust to send our kids to.

I mean, regardless of why we choose to send them – and whether it's a choice or not – there's going to be guilt involved. Right? It's that I Am A Horrible Mother thing, even if you, like I, believe that a happy mom makes a better mom. But that's why our choice is so important. It's why we choose a place like Pine Village.

When Will was four, he had, well, the closest I can come to describing it is an anaphylactic-shock episode, although to this day we aren't sure if that's what it truly was. It was at midnight on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and it happened as we drove home from visiting family in New Jersey. Or, to be more specific, on the side of the very empty, no-help-when-you-need-it, everyone's-home-in-their-beds Mass Pike. (To this day, I firmly believe that the truck driver who saw us and crossed the highway – and radioed our exact location to the ambulance since between the 911 operator and myself we couldn't figure it out – was an angel.)

What I also (to this day) remember, is the complete breakdown I had in the Pine Village parking lot after dropping him off on his first day back at school. If it weren't for his teachers and the staff there, I can pretty much swear to you that I wouldn't have made it through that experience. I would have kept him home and in my arms for, well, ever. And he would have ended up as petrified to leave our house every day as I was to let him go. But they watched over him and they watched over me; they looked out for things he could have a reaction to, took possession of the Epi-pens and the asthma meds and all of the doctor's forms and instructions… and through their patience, reassurance, and confidence somehow managed to get me to let him continue on with being a kid. Just like his teacher and his school nurse today. And I am so grateful for all of these wonderful people who have become a part of our lives.

Although it is only April and that pesky ice isn't as distant of a memory as we might like, we're all thinking about summer and enrollment for next year. For some of us, that means leaving Pine Village and heading into much bigger, big-kid schools. For some of us that means leaving our daycare – or maybe transitioning out of a stay-at-home experience – and joining Pine Village. We love where we are now; we don't want to change. But change is necessary and it is good. We know that, but we fear it too. Because 'change' when it comes to our kids means a lot of tears – both theirs and ours. I mean, you know me – you know I love Pine Village; you know I'm thrilled for two-year-old James to finally be there in the Fall. But I, too, fear that moment when James realizes that he won't be seeing his classmates Annika and Rhea and Scarlett the next day, but instead will be staying at this new school. Yet I know that the teachers and staff at Pine Village will care for him and love him nearly as much as I do.

And when it's time to leave Pine Village, I'll do so knowing that there are teachers and school nurses and a whole host of other people that will take care of him and support him each and every day. Whether you're heading to Boston Public Schools (as Will and his older sister, Lucy, have) or a school in Newton, Needham, Cambridge or beyond. So I'm going to savor these last few months with Annika and Rhea and Scarlett, but I'm not going to fear the Fall. Instead I will look forward with excitement to the moments yet to come, and to the new (and old) wonderful people who will become a part of our lives.

Oh, and by the way, in case you were wondering about how it all turned out with Will yesterday...

A few minutes ago his teacher texted me with an update that he was heading off to soccer and all seemed well. When I texted back and asked if I could talk to him – because I'm not actually a horrible mother at all and I really needed to hear my baby- um, I mean, my big boy's voice – two seconds later the phone rang.

"Hey, Mom! What's up?" he asked, a universe away from the sick kid I'd spoken to in the morning.

"Nothing," I said. "Just wanted to see how you were feeling."

"Fine," he answered, with the kind of exasperation that a ten-year-old boy reserves for his mother. "Can I go now? They're waiting for me."

"O.k.," I said into the silence as he handed his phone back to his teacher. "Love you," I added, even though it was probably Ms. Harmon on the phone at that point.

And, you know what? It didn't matter who I was talking to at that point. Because either way, I do.  

Yes, that would be Will in the blue t-shirt on the left, taunting
whoever was "It" at the time. Clearly doing much better!
(Incidentally, note 2-yr-old James in the red and blue jacket
on the right, mixing it up with the big kids.)