Wordless Wednesday: Active(ist).

Wake County School Board Has Me Fired Up...and Worried

Our school board has bullied, bushwhacked, and axed a wedge clear through the county, and it reeks of party line politics. I'm up in arms, fancying myself an activist these days. Read on to see what has me so irate.

Here's a hint: Diversity isn't just about color.

Read Read, It's Good for Your Heart

I remember when Bird was born some people from the church we had joined threw a baby shower for us. Being the most clueless of mothers, I asked the pastor at what point we should start reading to our son. She emphatically charged, "NOW! It's never to early. Read now. Read often. Rejoice." And so from that point on we have cuddled our son in the crook of our laps and read to him. All the classics and treasures and gems from Indian folklore to add a bit of culture to our repertoire. Thank you, Pastor Julie, for your sage advice.

Fast forward several months. Norman, ranking among the kindest, most generous guys I know, gave me and Mac Daddy one of our most favorite gifts to welcome baby Deal into our family: Honey for a Child's Heart.

We loved flipping through this book pointing out our childhood favorites. Sadly, one my favorites isn't listed, and it's not available at my local library. I'll give you my firstborn* if you can get your hands on Andrew Henry's Meadow. I can still picture the tattered lime green cover and ink illustrations. I remember never tiring of that book and daydreaming about escaping to my own meadow. Honey for a Child's Heart speaks to the value in reading aloud to your children and really creating a reading culture in your family. Setting an example is key. Read here about the example I set for Bird. I have about three books on my nightstand at any given time. I carry a book with me practically everywhere (Note: I need an eReader to lighten the load.). My kids see me reading All. The. Time. Reading trumps TV in this house (because we have DVR to watch stuff later).

When I was a child, life at home was rather tumultuous. I craved an escape but had nowhere to go. Books were my light, my savior, my sanity. My most happy times were when my nose was pressed into a book. Then, and now, I was careful not to bend the spine, maintaining the primness of the books I held so sacred. I've lately been reliving my childhood through books that moved me way back when. So far I've read the likes of A Wrinkle in Time, The Borrowers, Sounder, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Bridge to Terabithia, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. It is remarkable to see these tomes through my 41-year old eyes. Most remarkable is that I still love those stories. I cried at the end of Sounder even though I knew the ending and had been anxiously anticipating it through the whole book. Bird just finished a couple Roald Dahl books -- Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Danny Champion of the World. Tonight he embarked on the ambitious journey of the first in the Harry Potter series. I applaud him!

You have no idea how proud I am to see my Bird read. His first experience of "the book was better than the movie" was with The Indian in the Cupboard. Throughout the movie he kept remarking how it had taken liberties with the book. Well, he didn't phrase it that way, but you get my drift. I swell with pride at the very sight of Bird curled up in what we call the comfy chair with a book. He stays up late with his nightstand lamp illuminating the words that beckon him to dreamland. He recounts tales to us at the dinner table and on a good day, he reads to his little brother. The beauty of those two little boys nestled shoulder to shoulder in the comfy chair makes my heart pitter patter and my pride gleam.

Deal, while only four, loves books too. He can sit quietly for ages with his face pressed to a book. At a glance he'd fool you into thinking he's actually reading. He could spend everyday at the library, and they know us by name there. Once, when given the choice of the library or the park, both boys screamed "Library!" in unison. You have no idea how proud I was. Deal and Bird both love when we read aloud to them. Even though Bird can read on his own now, he still relishes that lap time when he gets to hear the words leap from the pages in our character voices. Our laps are getting smaller, but our love for books is growing deeper.
Read on.



*You shall get my firstborn when he is in the throes of disobedience and defiance, not to be returned until he is docile and ducky in demeanor.

Project Enlightenment Saved My Family

I posted this to Facebook this morning when I read about the drastic cuts proposed for Project Enlightenment.

"My family was in crisis when our son was 3. Not medical or financial crisis. Behavioral crisis. It is no hyperbole that we would not be who and where we are today without Project Enlightenment's support and care. Without those counselors and programs, our son would not be thriving in first grade now. The impact of that experience fixed what was a potential shattered relationship with my son at that tender young age. I'm emotional even harkening back to that time. These programs are not just for those people whose paths you don't cross. "Those people." These programs are for ALL of us. And they work."

My fingers quiver on the keyboard as I conjure up the memories of when Bird was 3. He had violent raging temper tantrums. I'm not talking the I-Want-Candy variety. He'd overturn furniture and fling books out of his bookcase in a head spinning rage. He would yell like a banshee and writhe in fits of fury. 15 minutes would pass. Then 30. 40. Most rages lasted 45 minutes to an hour. Full on screaming, flailing, kicking, hitting. Deal was an infant then, cradled snugly in my arms for fear he'd be in the path of Bird's destruction.

Destruction.

Not just his room and his belongings. Our family. Our relationship.

I sat in tears, quaking with stress, worry, fear, resentment. I never knew what would tip the scale to make Bird fly into a tantrum. I tiptoed and spent every waking moment anxiously awaiting the rage to begin. He saved it all up for me. Bird didn't demonstrate this behavior at school. Whatever he corked up at school came gushing out at me. He spewed all his emotional venom and bile upon me. We spent many hours huddled in his room sobbing. Feeling helpless. Alone. Defeated. Guilty. And just terribly sad.

All while tending to an infant.

I was alone. No family support. A husband at a new job.

Bird's tantrums were escalating. It was as if he were possessed. Seriously out of control and a danger to himself. I began to resent this behavior. To resent my own son. Do you know how that feels? I feel ashamed admitting it now. My heads hangs, my whole being awash of guilt. I defied all truths of motherhood; suddenly I was rewriting what unconditional looked like. I loved Bird, of course, but I didn't want to be around him. I didn't want to cater to him and fear him. I wanted to instead protect the sweet baby Deal who was innocent and vulnerable. And yes, easy. Easy to love. Easy to care for. Easy to adore. Then I was swept with such guilt for feeling so that I mentally collapsed.

Once, just once, I slapped my son.

In the midst of one particularly violent rage I slapped Bird across the cheek thinking I could get him to snap out of it. It didn't work. He didn't even take note of my hot hand on his wet cheek. I still feel the sensation of my sweaty shaking palm making contact with his tear streamed soft skin. His face. I literally shake my hand to get rid of the sensation as if it were an EtchASketch. My eyes well with tears and a coal-like lump rises in my throat as I write this. I've never said this before. I never talked about what hell it really was. For all of us.

But that afternoon I called Mac Daddy. I told him I couldn't do it anymore. I wasn't fit to be a mother. I was overwhelmed and under supported. In retrospect I am most certain I suffered remnants of undiagnosed and untended-to post partum depression. I was the camel, and my slapping palm was the straw.

We called Project Enlightenment.

Our counselor saved us. Saved me. Saved our son. Saved our relationship. Without the skills and insights and therapy we received....

I'm afraid to even think what might have been.

Project Enlightenment gave us specific tools, words, exercises to manage Bird's tantrums. We learned how to handle anger, fear, anxiety, in him and in ourselves. We learned how the parenting we were a product of made us the parents we were becoming. We learned how to repair what was shattered. Just yesterday I opened my Project Enlightenment file to get a quick refresher on how to teach empathy to my sons.

That file has sat atop my desk for almost four years. Its contents are dog eared and highlighted. Those resources have given me my son back. Project Enlightenment served a need, a desperate need, that no doctor or grandparent or teacher could have filled. Or fixed.

If our counselor at Project Enlightenment hadn't helped us, my resentment toward Bird would have surely escalated. I know this much is true. I find myself still battling it at the times he's particularly difficult or defiant now. My brain takes me back to those fits when he was three, and I think, "Haven't we been through this? Haven't I paid my parenting dues?" But now I know how to change. Now I know what resonates with him. Now I know. The self loathing I have from that time still haunts me. There are times I want to rewind, words I want to retract, steps I want to retrace.

Project Enlightenment, while unable to magically erase or rewrite the past, has enabled us to walk into a shinier future. Hand in hand.

Bird is now a thriving first grader. He has no behavioral or medical or psychological issues. Well, he does pick on his little brother and talks too much in class, but that's all normal, right? My Bird is bright, curious, eager, and awfully funny. He knows he is loved and adored. I still call him my first baby when I kiss him good night. We exchange Eskimo kisses, butterfly kisses, and lip kisses. Then he blows me a kiss from his bed, and I pretend to catch it and put it on my cheek. This is our ritual.

And we have Project Enlightenment to thank.

Join the Facebook Group here.
Send an email to the school board. You'll find their contact information here.
Write to the paper.

Raise your voices, people. Cutting funding for early childhood development and education will prove to be disastrous, and expensive. Our children are an investment, not an expense.

Michelle Obama's Let's Move Initiative and Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsack Have Me Fired Up

Tater tots, while funny in Napoleon Dynamite, are not the stuff of healthy lunches.

Green beans with no crunch and the slightly tinny taste of a can. I'll pass.

Cole slaw bathing in mayonnaise. Not the best way to dress the otherwise healthy cabbage.

Hot dogs full of nitrites, sodium, and um, meat parts perched in a bleached white bun. Gag.

Ketchup and french fries deemed vegetable servings. You've got to be kidding me.

Fruit cocktail in which the cherry is more the color of a mustang convertible than what grew on George Washington's tree. Gotta be FD&C Red #3 Erythrosine.

Chocolate milk. Strawberry milk. Soda vending machines. Looks like the Wiggles need to teach all youngsters to Gulp Gulp drink some water.

Such are the "healthy" options deemed appropriate for school lunches. The very institution that enriches our children's minds poisons their bellies. No matter how gifted the student, he'd be hard pressed to properly pronounce the ingredients and additives that comprise his lunch.

Propylene glycol.
Sodium nitrite.
High fructose corn syrup.
Monosodium glutamate.
Potassium bromate.
Butylated hydroxyanisole.
Butylated hydroxytoluene.

Sounds more like the chemistry lab than the school cafeteria. What a ghastly disservice to our kids. Some of those kids only get a "nutritious" meal at school. Some of those kids don't have produce drawers stocked with snap peas for munching and bowls of washed fruit within reach. While we're pumping our students' brains with reading, fractions, history, and the arts, shouldn't we add a healthy dollop of nutrition and activity? How many school districts do you know of that have reduced or all together axed their PE programs?

We as a nation of partisan bureaucratic greed mongers, choose to fail our children. This is not a byproduct of government snafus; this is a conscious choice. It's no cliche that children are indeed our future. Our future is starting to look bleak.

We see childhood obesity rise while test scores plummet. We sit back and nod our heads to news that for the first time a generation's life expectancy will be shorter than that before it. We cross our arms and ignore the rapidly rising rates of childhood diabetes. We are incredulous that children have high cholesterol. We wonder why health care costs soar to jaw dropping peaks.

Corn subsidies and continued policies that put the value of a buck over the value of a child are why we see such a drastic increase in childhood obesity. Look around, people. What you see ain't pretty. Chunky babies are cute; portly preteens not so much. While their bodies fail them their self-esteem gnaws away at their core. Eating disorders ensue. Yo yo dieting perpetuates health concerns. Broken self-esteem leads to grave insecurity and depression.

In the case of my childhood friend, poor eating literally lead her to the grave. Dead of anorexia at age 16. She battled weight her whole life, having been poked fun of as the chubby kid one too many times.

I was fortunate to participate in a conference call with Tom Vilsack, Secretary of Agriculture. He shared his personal tale of childhood obesity and the indelible mark it left on his psyche. He shared his vision of keeping our children safe and well. We talked about Michelle Obama's initiative Let's Move and how she, as a shining paragon of health, can help shape our nation's food policies and school programs. Fingers crossed!

The goals of Let's Move are simple:

• Give parents the support they need.
• Provide healthier food in our schools.
• Help kids be more physically active.
• Make healthy food affordable.

Do I hear an AMEN?!

And while I find packing lunches the most tedious task in my nightly routine, it's the most important one. I might fail my sons in multiple ways, but through their bellies ain't one of 'em.


For more of my food rants and raves, check out:
Foodie Mama
GoAskMom

Summer Slide

I love summer. I work fewer hours so I can be home with Bird and Deal while school is out (the biggest perk to running my own marketing consulting business!). Since Bird is perched on the cusp of first grade, I especially love the time we have together over the summer. He often feels left out when, at the end of the day, an anxious Deal who has patiently waited for his big brother to get home from school, sputters on and on about our adventures and escapades from the day. Bird shrugs it off, but I can tell he feels like he never gets to join in our reindeer games.

Our weekend jaunts are markedly different from the places we frequent during the off hours Monday to Friday. We rarely go to the same places with the boys over the weekends because a warehouse full of jumpy houses is utter mayhem. A stress factory. So I suppose Bird does get ripped off. I promised him that our summer would be chock full of adventures, popsicles, Happy Meals, matinees, swimming, exploring, duck feeding, and general frolicking. The boys have half-day camp one week a month, all by design. There's no need to over schedule kids, for childhood is precious. Bird, Deal, and I spend our days relaxing and romping.

We stay in our pajamas until lunch time.
We eat pancakes and waffles and breakfast sundaes.
We build LEGO vehicles and race them down the hallway.
We watch Ace of Cakes.
We make Playdoh cannolis.
We paint.
We make popsicles.
We eat store bought popsicles because we are too impatient to wait for ours to freeze.
We rock out to Mamma Mia.
We build ramps and catapults.

And that's all before lunch.

But the lazy days of summer can go too far. Education is not folly.

Three months of no teachers, schedule, routine, or homework can be detrimental. Imagine doing your job after a three month hiatus. I don't want my kids to spend the first two months of school re-learning everything they accomplished. Bird ended his kindergarten year as a pretty strong reader and mathy kid. One month into summer vacation has killed it. He loses a brain cell for every firefly that lights up its glowing bum. The adage "practice makes perfect" should not be reserved for the September to June months.

Now I'm not a believer in summer tutors, ruler-on-the-knuckles study time, or any such Draconian measures, but I do think summer is a time to keep the ole noggin fresh. And I ain't talkin' a certain "preschool on TV" variety.

And so I traipsed off the to Teach Me store to stock up on school supplies. Bird has some workbooks to complete, and Deal has letter writing to practice. They actually enjoy their "school" time, and they'll never admit to this, but they like the break from running around like banshees. Deal learns an awful lot just from watching and listening to Bird. Bird likes to engage his brain and thrives on taxing himself. He's a creative, energetic, precocious kid who loves T-Ball and Transformers. But he gets jacked up on learning too. What a disservice it would be to take that away from him. We don't have formal study hall or anything and we don't even pull out the pencils everyday. But we do have workbook time throughout the week, and I squeeze in a seat at the kitchen table to chat, explain, and help.

I know naysayers are out there grumbling the whole "they're only kids once" drivel. I echo that with an emphatic yes, they are only kids once. We owe it to our children to teach them about balance, education, discipline. The Spartans believed in a sound mind and a sound body. I think those toga clad dudes had it right. Learning and Fun are not mutually exclusive. At any age.

So if you're looking for ways to engage your kids, come up with clever crafty ideas, or just figure out what to do about swimmers ear, check out Shine from Yahoo. And get yourself a subscription to Family Fun magazine. Oh, and here's my secret to making reading seem like a video game...BrainFlips online flashcards. There are tons of fun ways to exercise those blank slate kiddie minds. A little laughter tossed with a little learning will go a long way.

Here's to "Summer Slide" referring to just the playground equipment and a kicky pair of sandals!

Wordless Wednesday: And Off I Go...

Today marks my baby Bird's flight. He finished kindergarten today. sniff sniff. Hats off to you, my first baby.

He would be tickled to read your words of wisdom and congratulations so humor a proud mama, mkay?

Word Up

I hereby present to you a challenge. A word challenge. Insert evil laugh here. Bwahhhhhh!

Following are Bird's spelling words from the Word Puzzle Box in his kindergarten class. Use them in order in a sentence. I'll award the winner bragging rights. Consider it my MasterCard gift to you; it's priceless.

Now tie on those thinking caps and get ready to write!

Shell
Mucous
Land
Foot
Tentacle

Contact is the Secret

Does anyone else remember this show? I used to love it when I was geeky youngster. It fed my love of science, even if my grades didn't reflect it.

Barefoot Books: Reading With Your Kids Has Never Been More Delightful

I love books. I devour them. There are not enough hours in the day for me to get through my book list. Nothing makes me prouder than to see Bird take such interest in reading and really putting his heart into learning the beauty and magic of how letters form words and words form sentences that glide us into wonderful escapes, adventures, and daydreams. I can tell that he is already learning an appreciation for words. He might be the only kindergartener who excitedly remarks when he comes upon a homonym. He is now learning about palindromes too and is so tickled that a word can be spelled the same forward and backward. Through his eyes I recall feeling that same sense of wonder when I was five. I do hope his math skills don't suffer as mine did.

Bird now reads to Deal time to time. Let me be clear; reading involves sounding out words and sounds and making up the story as he goes along. Deal loves nothing more than sitting with his side pressed into his brother's hips as close as he can physically get as he listens to a story. From afar they look like Siamese twins. That Deal must have been a furry cuddly lap dog in another life. Through Bird's lessons Deal is also learning his letters and developing a curiosity for words and books. As you can imagine, this makes me beam.

I was thrilled when the kind folks at Barefoot Books gave me the opportunity to review a couple books. Barefoot Books is an independent book publisher that was started 15 years ago by two working moms with seven children between them. The many books in their collection focus on celebrating diversity, appreciating myriad cultural traditions, nurturing a sense of curiosity, and fostering a global perspective. The company is still a grassroots organization and lives by its mission and values cemented in the early days of its inception.

I cannot tell you how wonderful it was to read something with no corresponding licensed character merchandise, computer generated animation, formulaic plot, or television counterpart.

I read My Granny Went to Market and Shopping With Dad. Both books had lovely, colorful illustrations that were vibrant, engaging, and works of art.

My Granny Went to Market was the hands down favorite of my little bunch. The illustrations are charming enough to warrant a frame and some picture hooks. If I had another copy of the book I would tear out the pages and do just that. The story is a counting story but not one of those stupid ones about ducks swimming away or putting eggs back into a nest. The premise is about a grandmother who travels the world collecting various goodies from faraway lands. It all starts with a magical flying carpet found in Istanbul (which as we know from They Might Be Giants, was once Constantinople). Nesting dolls from Russia. Paper lanterns from China. Kites from Tokyo. Drums from Kenya. It is a delightful little book that is a great introduction to global understanding for small children. It's a pretty good reminder for us grownups too.

Shopping With Dad has fun illustrations (gee, I am a sucker for illustrations) and perfectly captures the chaos of grocery shopping with a toddler in tow, especially when the grocery list calls for things like Octopus Underpants, Extra-Clean Germs, and Strong Anti-Grump Pills! Deal even referred to this story when we were at Harris Teeter this afternoon. He assured me he would not sneeze (You'll get it once you read the book.).

What I love about both books is how the authors inject a global perspective without being preachy or obvious. It is simply a snapshot of the world that I was raised in; people of many cultures living, playing, working together. The town I live in does not share the same diverse culture I enjoyed as a child so these books are a wonderful tool to give my kids a broader perspective of the world. The pictures in these books are not merely black and white; the characters represents cultures, not colors. Such is Barefoots Books' distinction.

Bird attends an International Studies school so he eats up learning about other cultures and loves gazing at the globe to see where our various family members live. Barefoot Books will be a perfect accompaniment to the curriculum he follows at school. We are going to put up a map in the play room so we can mark the cities we have visited. And if we can't make it to the many corners of the planet, we will bring those corners to our little corner.

I am adding A Calendar of Festivals, The Barefoot Book of Blessings, The Faerie's Gift, The Story of Divaali, and The Tear Thief to the boys' Christmas lists. I think we're all going to enjoy the ride.

And as a way to deal with this sour economy, you can get 30% off through November 3 if you click here www.ReadingBarefootBooks.com !

Help Kids Get Classroom Supplies. Please.

Bird has the privilege of going to a top notch school. Public school. He has a gecko in his classroom. And some pretty cool snails that require his teacher to have special snail certification. He has books galore, comfy nooks to curl up in, a microscope, dozens of Legos, crayons, markers, pencils, glue, glitter, construction paper, notebook paper, newspaper, bubbles, baubles, and building blocks. Those schools want for nothing. Well, the teachers probably want more money, and I cannot blame them.

Robeson County is North Carolina's poorest county. The median income is $13,244 (I could spend hours poring over Census data!). Now imagine feeding, clothing, protecting, transporting, and nurturing your children for that amount. And that's not to mention healthcare and insurance. Or god forbid birthdays and holidays. This is a place where parents hope their kids don't lose their baby teeth because the Tooth Fairy is flat broke.

I'd like to do my part to help those kids get a more enriching education. And to equip those dedicated teachers to give those kids every opportunity my Bird has in kindergarten. It's the least I can do.

Donors Choose helps teachers make requests for specific items they need to supplement their classrooms and curricula. I'd like to help out a teacher in Robeson County and I'm asking my readers to give a dime or ten too. Literally one dollar would help. Like with exercise and with voting, every little bit helps. In aggregate we are more powerful than as one.

Just click on the Donors Choose little widget thingee in my lefthand sidebar. It's fast and easy to donate. And it'll feel better than those warm fuzzy slippers tucked by your nightstand.

5:00 Fridays

One of the hardest adjustments about kindergarten for me and Deal is the fact that Bird is missing from the table at lunch everyday. I suppose Deal misses the G-rated Beavis and Butthead schtick they have going on. I just miss seeing my little boy's dimpled cheeks and silly grin while hearing about the goings on of his day.

Now Bird takes his healthy lunch of various sandwiches, apple slices, Cheez Its, and snap peas with ranch dip in his Batman lunchbox to school everyday. One day a week he grabs a sectioned tray and fills it with standard elementary school fare: nuggets, french fries, pizza, canned green beans, macaroni and cheese, corn dogs, sliced carrots, pudding, Jell-O, and oh, his favorite, strawberry milk. I recall an alarming amount of technicolor Jell-O sqaures jiggling in the aluminum tray at the Hollymeade Elementary School cafeteria from back in the day.

What marks a back-to-school drink better than the staple of school cafeterias everywhere?

Jell-O Shots!

Bocce Ball Jello Shots
1 large box of orange Jell-O
8 ounces boiling H2O
4 ounces cold H2O
4 ounces Amaretto

Mix the Jell-O mix with the boiling water and stir until the powder is fully dissolved. Add the cold water and the Amaretto. Pour the mixture into either shot glasses or those little plastic ramekins. And yes, even the humble Jell-O shot warrants garnish; add a couple slices of canned mandarin oranges (soaked in natural juices, not heavy syrup). Chill until the concoction is solid.

Finally, jiggling that's more appealing and less appalling that the other jigglers in my life. Hum the Jell-O jingle and enjoy!

Kindergarten: Beginning or End?

I wrote about the unofficial start to kindergarten last week. Today was the real deal. Does today's milestone mark the end of a beginning? The beginning of an end? Is it an end of sorts or simply a new beginning?

Bird was a champ, even humoring me, posing for photos. He was silly, excited, anxious, and delightful. I think his Batman lunchbox gave him super special powers.

Me? I should win an Oscar for Best Performance by a Mother Dropping Her Son Off for the First Day of Kindergarten.

Mac Daddy, Deal, and I accompanied Bird to school. We drove separately since Mac Daddy had to leave to head out of town. The boys rode with Mac Daddy, leaving me with nothing but NPR to distract me. That was a tall order for BBC News Hour today. I silently wept to myself, not even wiping my tears with the back of my hand. Not the full blown heaving cry, but tears that trickle and sobs that whisper. Five years flashed before me in a nanosecond, which is about the amount of time it seems has passed.

I spend much of my time butting heads and wills with Bird and I admittedly threaten to put him on Ebay an awful lot (I have said that I would pay someone to take him. Mother of the year, material, I know). I even put him in time out on his birthday, but that's another story. However, at the end of the day, he is my kindred spirit. I feel his pains and joys like they are my own because he is me. I see myself in his every action, word, grimace, sneer, chuckle, pang, aha moment.

And so I wept for the hiccup of time I had with my son before he turns his wings to glide elsewhere. My wingspan no longer enough for him.

Bird positively galloped down the steps and hung up his backpack as if it were on the hook in our own mudroom. The kid didn't miss a beat. I ran ahead to dutifully fulfill my shutterbug responsibilities. I nuzzled my face into his hair and shed some more tears. Super silent this time, lest I project my anxiety onto him. Bird was hesitant to sit at his table at first, but one look at the gecko eyeballing him from the neighboring table distracted him enough to take a seat and stare back. We hastily gave our kisses, hugs, squeezes, words of encouragement, more kisses, and were on our way. I peeked through the forest of little heads and snapped a photo of Bird cracking up while cozying up to his tablemates. That kid lights up when he has an audience.

Cue Niagara Falls upon my feet hitting the sidewalk. Mac Daddy gave me a hug, said his requisite words of comfort, and left. Truth is, he didn't know what to do with me. Truth is, his world does not change. He'll still see Bird before work, after work, and for the random lunch date here and there. It is my world that changed forever today. It is I who grew the wings and sent them off to fly today.

I swallowed my tears, grabbed Deal up into my arms with an extra hard squeeze, and hit the gym. If there was ever a day I needed Jason to work my ass to a pulp, it was today.

I am not worried about my Bird at all. He will make me proud and have the guts and gumption to be and do more than I did.

And me? I'm anxiously waiting for 3:45.

Kindergarten Tears and Triumphs

Cesar Chavez. Jim Henson. John Lennon. Jane Goodall. Albert Einstein. Pablo Picasso. Mahatma Gandhi.

Those are the faces peppering the halls as you enter my son's school. An international studies magnet school (public! free!) in our homogeneous neck of the woods is a dream. Five foreign languages taught starting in kindergarten. My Bird's gonna learn French! Curriculum designed to cover a global perspective. Again, a dream, considering my children say the words for grandma and grandpa in three different languages. We are the UN of families, and we are not alone as soon as we walk through the brick corridors of my son's school. My. Son's. School.

I have no reason to feel such trepidation. No reason to be anxious. No need to be so scared. So sad.

Millions of parents do it every fall. Most live to tell about it. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

I couldn't.

Let me get one thing out in the open. I cried. More than tears welling up in my eyes with a dumpling stuck in my throat but less than Niagara Falls. I'm saving up my boo-hooing for Tuesday, when school officially starts full time. Five. Days. A. Week. Oh, and when I have Mac Daddy at my side to mop me up. I treated today as a test drive. Denial. They say admitting it is the first step to recovery.

Bird, my Baby Bird, started kindergarten today. A milestone indeed. I suppose this is the stuff that makes people hate and doubt "mommy bloggers." I say fuck you. This stuff is important and has an impact on the human spirit, certainly a mom's spirit. Sending your child to spend more hours with someone else than you is a giant step. We spend so much time wishing away the time that we often forget to enjoy the ride. "I can't wait for him to talk. I can't wait for him to walk. He's making me nuts. When will school start?" Well folks, school has started, and I miss my Baby Bird already. Day One.

I have arranged my work schedule to eat three squares a day with my boys. I also take them to school and pick them up everyday. Now Bird is sitting in some cafeteria eating a ham sandwich and edamame out of his Batman lunch box with rowdy 5 year olds talkin' smack about Star Wars and Bumble Bee. Oh, and some little bully's gonna tease him about eating edamame and other stuff like snap peas and hummus. Bird told me that he met a bully today, in fact. I guess the kid headbutted Bird in the belly. When I asked Bird what the kid's name is, he responded, "I didn't ask, Mommy. I don't care what his name is because I don't want to be his friend." Then he asked me if I thought the bully would beat him up for not being his friend. Gawd, I can't handle the social pressure at the tender age of 5 (technically 4 til Friday!).

Yes, that's right. Bird will be 5 in two days, making him the youngest kid in kindergarten. Yet he makes the cut off. And you know what, he's totally ready. I know he's ready. I know Mac Daddy and I made the right decision to send him to kindergarten. No waffling here. The simple truth is, I'm not ready. As one feels intimate with one's mortality after a tragedy, I feel time slipping away more briskly than I thought possible. I never understood the whole time flies speech from seasoned parents when my guys were newborns. Now I've been initiated into the club. I get it. Every second is palpable. I hear the sands' of time grainy count down. My heart beats to the tick tocking of the clock. I get it. Time is the elusive beast.

My Bird, in the end, fared exceptionally well today. He took a good 10 minutes to let go of my leg and squeeze past the book shelves in the library to join the throng of kids. He refused to sit at a table with other kids, choosing an empty table instead (totally unlike his gregarious personality). Bird and Deal (who was also stressed, sensing it from us, no doubt), proceeded to color and draw rocket ships, aliens, and such. When it was time to get in line, Bird grasped my legs again. I silently willed him to break away lest I cry. My tears would have exacerbated an already tender situation. Alas, I realized I left my keys by the bookcase and had a legitimate excuse to step away. Those wily teachers took that opportunity to whisk him away. I took an extra long time to gather my keys (and umbrella that I would have forgotten on this soggy day) so I could do some quick yoga breathing and put on a happy face for Deal.

Deal and I spent the day as we usually do: gym, Starbucks, Target (2 1/2 hours!). In fact, at Starbucks, Deal insisted I buy an extra Horizon vanilla milk for Bird to enjoy when he gets home from school. That's my sensitive boy. I'll be too much of a wreck to blog when my baby goes to kindergarten. Now I know what my mom means by the "baby of the family" mess she blabbers on about when she refers to me. Even pushing 40, I'm still a baby.

My poor Bird spent 30 minutes of his first day of school with his head under a desk because we had tornado warnings in our county. Apparently the teachers and staff operated with aplomb. Teaching is tough enough without Mother Nature stumbling in the path. And let's face it, all the other mothers are probably more challenging to deal with.

When I picked up Bird from school, he greeted me with a gigantic grin and an ecstatic, "Mommy, my day was awesome!" At dinner his thank you for the day was that he got to go to kindergarten.

And so it goes. Once again my children are the ones teaching me a life lesson: Children are way more flexible and resilient than we give them credit for. Moms are another story. At least this mom is. I'm torn between tears of sorrow and tears of pride.

The Incredible Edible Egg

San Diego Momma has doled out the most eggsellent writing idea for today's PROMPTuesday. I have 10 minutes and 250 words to write about an....drumroll, please, egg. An egg. So what comes to mind? Fertility? Chickens? Omelets?

Here's what came to my mind:

At 20, they were plentiful. At 30, their legions were slimming. At 40, worthless. From enviable to inviable in 20 years.

And yet, the swimmers came. Somewhere between 32 and 42, there was a love connection. Puzzle pieces adjoined. Penetration yielded penetration. One egg is all it took. And from that egg was borne the son who starts kindergarten tomorrow.

Anatomy 101

I have boys. Boys have penises. Boys love their penises. For that matter, men love their penises too.

I recall a time in seventh grade math class (It was dummy math since I am the only Indian in the world who is bad at math and science.) when this kid J.T. was called to the blackboard to solve an equation. The teacher kept calling J.T.'s name, but J.T. just sat and sat and sat with a startled stare in his eyes that made me think he had made it all the way through sixth grade without knowing English. This would explain why J.T. was never in my other classes, which were at a much higher level than the math I was demeaned to take because the understanding-of-the-basic-concept-of-empirical-value gene skipped me in a rare genetic mutation. After a few very uncomfortable moments, J.T. arose. In light of something else that arose, said moment was exponentially more uncomfortable. J.T. scrambled to untuck his kelly green Polo shirt (upturned collar, of course, it was 1981) from his baggy Duck Head khakis. He hobbled up to the board and proceeded to fumble his way through the problem. I can still vividly remember seeing him try to steady the chalk in his quivering hand, face abashedly crimson.

At the time, I had no idea why the room was suddenly filled with a din of snickering. My parents neglected to explain any birds and bees details to me so I had no concept of boys' bodies, or of my own for that matter. After class, my dear friend Cat explained the gory details to me. Her mom worked for an Ob/Gyn so she had the benefit of candor and honesty in place of the shame and the if-you-don't-talk-about-it-it-isn't-real mentality I faced at home. Come to think of it, I learned an awful lot from Cat.

So now when my boys inquire about their penises, I think of J.T. and how clueless I was. I'm trying to equip them with as much information and honesty as their 4 and 2-year old minds can handle. For starters, we call "it" a penis. Not a willy. Not a wee wee. Not a johnson. We call an arm an arm so why should private body parts be any different? When Bird first learned that girls don't have penises, he would randomly go up to girls at the playground and inform them that, "You don't have a penis because you are not a boy." To him it was no different than saying "Today we had waffles for breakfast." Just a fact with no baggage or editorial attached to it.

Now the questions are becoming a bit more challenging. For instance:

"Is a girl's penis thing just behind all the hair?"

"Why is my penis up sometimes? Why won't it go down?"

"Why can't I play with my penis on the couch?"

"What do girls pee out of?"

My answers:

"No, girls don't have penises."

"Because sometimes it feels good and happy. If you let go of it, it will eventually go back down."

"Because that's private. And it's rude to have your hand down your pants. Now go wash your hands."

"A vagina."

Then I change the subject or leave the room. Perhaps I'm not ready to be as thorough as Cat's mom was. But it's an improvement. And for the record, Mac Daddy never gets these questions. He is far better equipped to answer them, no?


This post is dedicated to my niece, Nic, who has a 3-year old boy who loves his penis.