imagine the ones who don’t say anything
For the last two weeks, I’ve been dealing with some issues regarding pill’s preschool. He has been there for two years, and we’ve always loved it and had no issues. It’s where I put my baby when I chose to go back to work, so I carefully vetted it and got a lot of feedback from other parents, too.
After “graduation”, he moved to the big kid building and is being supervised by two new teachers. One of them had prior experience with kids his age, and one did not. It didn’t really bother me so much because they let them play and watch movies during the summer. There is no academic emphasis. But luckily, my child still talks to me.
Incident One:
He went hungry all day because he asked for his ravioli to be plain without sauce. The teacher didn’t hear him, clearly, and ordered it with sauce. No biggie. The problem begins when she blamed his not eating it on “changing his mind” and refused to give him another lunch. My five year old went hungry all day…and he hasn’t changed his mind since the womb. I was mad, but I wrote a little note explaining his lunch preferences and chalked it up to experience.
Incident Two:
He stopped bringing home artwork. For a kid who makes 10-15 creations a day, this is a big deal. But I didn’t connect it with anything…yet
Incident Three:
I picked him up while they were all on the playground. The teachers (about the same age) were huddled together, talking. They didn’t see him leave, and they didn’t see me pick him up. I tried to get their attention but the playground is pretty far from the pickup zone. I’d like to believe that my child wouldn’t run away to anyone but me, but yikes.
Incident Four:
He complained of a headache and I was a little bothered that he kept wetting the bed at night (they do connect, hang on). I picked him up and he said “Mom, do you know why I’m always thirsty at night? Because everyone has a water bottle but me.” And I’m thinking DUH! Rachel, you forgot to get your kid a water bottle. But I said “can’t you use the drinking fountain, buddy?” And he said “Yes, but the button is too hard for me and no one will help me.” So for two weeks, my kid has gotten no water all day except at lunch because the teachers are oblivious to the fact that some kids may be too small to hold down the old water fountain button. He had a headache from being dehydrated in the 95 degree heat and being run back and forth for two hours a day.
I talked to the director and let her know that we wouldn’t even be there still had they not had an exceptional two year track record with us. She put a reprimand in both of the teacher’s files and apologized profusely for him not feeling safe and loved there. I hope that the next five weeks will go quickly and well for him, and I’m encouraging him to be more assertive, which he doesn’t naturally do at school.
But just think about the kids who haven’t said anything!
summer
I’m so heartily glad to live near the coast. Having split my growing up years between the middle of the country and the west coast, I can honestly say that it makes no difference to me to be near an ocean. I love lakes and mountain streams far more than salt water.
But then I had this one.
My mother, reincarnated. She spends hours on the beach. But hers have bigger waves.
He’ll remember this for years. One day he’ll look at me and say, remember that summer when I went into the water all by myself?
And I’ll say, “I think so. Pass the ginko.”
I often wonder how parents with children very close together ever really savor these moments. I see them scattered and constantly busy doing, going, doing, going. I’m sure they wonder how I long I can possibly obsess over each flutter of his eyelash. But it’s amazing–that remembrance that just last summer he would not even walk down to the beach without someone holding his hand. And now here he is. Ready for the waves to toss him around.
How I love him.
words
Years ago, I took that five love languages quiz. You know the one that measures which way you like to give and receive love? My result was overwhelmingly words of affirmation, and gifts were next.
Perhaps not surprisingly I love to tell people how much I love them, how awesome they are, how they can be even more awesome (gotta work on that last bit) and I always take a little gift pretty much everywhere I go.
Words have power. So, so much power. From not hearing many words of affirmation growing up, I inferred that I needed to be spectacular to be loved. Perfection was the key. I married someone who used words as a weapon; the kindest, gentlest words to lure me in for the kill of the cruel ones. I had never heard some of the words he used, and I became so numb to them over time that they hardly registered. But oh, what a number they did on my brain.
Some people don’t need words; they need action. Doing their laundry will suffice for 50 “I love yous”. Other people need touch and feel alone and isolated without it. But I need words.
I try very hard on my favorite online community to speak words that are both meaningful and affirming when I need to say something with weight. I post a lot, and most of it is fluff and fun. But I sneak them in, those words, in the guise of madeup silly rhymes that don’t usually go more than skin deep, but which matter to those reading them. Disguised as dreaminess and fun, I can say “I love you.” “Keep it up.” “You matter to me.” Words have power.
Having a bad day? Look in the mirror and say YOU! You there…you are awesome. Yes! You rock. Seeing your coworker, friend, or partner having difficulty? Tell them just one thing you appreciate or like about them.
My coworker walked in the other day with a bright orange shirt that completely transformed and brightened her face. I said it immediately, not holding back. “Wow, that is your color!” you should have seen the look that came into her eyes.
So often we think positive words that we do not say. We say, internally, how much we love someone or how helpful they are or how much fun it is to be with them. We expect them to just get it, or if we are people that don’t need words, we don’t see what the big deal is.
I’m here to tell you that words are probably the cheapest way you can change your life and the lives of others around you. Give a good word today, will you? To that person looking back in the mirror, and to those you love.
random ramblings–tuesday edition
I am heartily sick of the machination that is Jon and Kate + 8. I feel sorry for the 8. If ever there were poster children for counseling, they are it. Go ahead, have 12 babies at a time if you want. But don’t expect me to watch as you get increasingly separated from reality. I snort at the thought of the first three years of pill’s life being put on camera. How many normal moms are offered what Kate has gotten? How many normal dads get what Jon has gotten? And who loses in this whole thing?
Anthony Bourdain continues to impress. Please come visit and marry me even if you go by “Tony” and don’t overly enjoy sour cream. Do y’all watch No Reservations? It’s part reality, part food porn, part in your face I don’t care about niceties, I’ll tell you if this sucks whether I’m on camera or not. Ah, reality without all the flashy prep work.
I’m taking a gender and ethics class this summer and much enjoying the 24ish year olds waxing earnest about what they will do and why. Honey, you ain’t even dry behind the ears. We shall see.
Wondering why I get involved with Libras over and over again. I simply want to shake them and make them stop being such pleasers. And then I feel guilty for wanting to shake them. And then I make them cookies.
I’m gearing up for a giveaway next week just in time for the 4th. Jewelry this time…woot!
My hair is tricolor. Don’t ask how I managed this. Also, I have set a world record for most expensive cheapy home dye job.
Finally, the all-vegetable diet was a moderate success. I finished off with steamed eggplant/squash last night drizzled with balsamic vinaigrette.
now if there had only been some sour cream available…
indulgence
I’ll never be a poker player, but more often than not I have a smile-or at least a pleasant expression- on my face. Part of this is left over from being a fat person apologetic for taking up space on the planet. The other part is that I simply do not express deep emotions as a general rule.
I love to counsel and get introspective and deep, and I also love to laugh and be silly. I encourage others to cry and talk about catharsis, and I believe in it. But I can count on both hands the number of times I’ve cried in my life.
Because emotions aren’t “something we do in our family.” Because there was simply no point wallowing. Because food was always available instead. Because my husband cried a lot and someone had to be strong. Because allowing myself to break down in front of my son would be too scary for him to process.
Because.
So today, I’ve been indulgent with myself. Missing the ideal nuclear family both as a child and as a grownup; regretting that my dad, for all his flaws, was a man of honor who loved me deeply but never got to see me get married or graduate from college or have a baby or stand up on my own two feet with no help. Missing the ideal family I thought I had created, the one that was built on quicksand, the one I escaped for survival.
It might sound strange that it’s indulgence to lose it, to have a hysterical sobbing cry and release a lot of pain for things I cannot change, and a lot of things I wouldn’t change if I could. But in our lives as single mothers we rarely get such a safety zone to simply let it out and remember that we are more than brave, strong, overcoming women. We are also women, with soft hearts and emotions that have been trampled; with dreams that have been laid to rest on the altar of experience; with other dreams that we maturely nod our heads and believe will come someday for us, someday soon. We hold the babies and give them back to their mothers. We listen as our children tell us how much fun they had at their father’s houses. We create a community of friends who are wonderful and amazing and yet not enough, not enough when the dam breaks and there are no strong arms to envelop us. Not enough when we pass up a picnic simply to cry, to remember and grieve for a brief period before we again don the armor of superwoman.
I cannot bring myself to regret my past or any piece of it;it has made me who I am today. But very rarely, like today, I can indulge myself as I acknowledge the loss of what could have been, without cheerfully forcing myself to follow it up (even mentally) with what will be.
