His ordinary days

I really like Deaglan’s teacher this year.  I like her quite a bit. I wasn’t sure at first but after a few encounters I realized she was the perfect teacher for  him to have this first year at a new school.

A few weeks ago, on a Sunday evening, Deaglan lay between Shaune and me on our bed and cried. He was dreading school the next morning and didn’t understand why he couldn’t just go back to his old school. We explained again about zoning and reminded him that three of his best friends had also moved schools this year and were feeling the exact same way – something I was sure of because I’d texted back and forth with all of their moms.

He was dreading Monday morning because sometimes at recess he found he had no one to play with. Closer to the beginning of the year, when he was in a similar predicament, he’d make his way to the Kindergarten playground, and while away the time, chatting with his brother, separated only by a fence. They’d even invented their own sport where they threw a hat or sweatshirt back and forth over the fence, a makeshift game of catch. But lately, he explained, Naveen is always busy playing with his own friends.  

We told him that this was all a part of the experience of being a new kid – he was having a harder time establishing a set group of friends because most of his classmates had been friends since Junior Kindergarten but because  everybody in Naveen’s class was in the same boat - they were all new, it hadn’t taken as long.  We tried to assure him that by the end of the year, he’d feel like he belonged and always have a gang of guys to hang out with. In the meantime we promised to continue to have friends over as often as possible to help him develop these relationships.

He cried for a long time.

Our hearts ached. 

Up until now his life had been one fluid ride surrounded by friends, family and familiar places. He loved the old house and was blissfully unaware of its shortcomings. To him, it was the perfect size, filled with the perfect people situated on the perfect street. He didn’t notice the graffiti piling up on the neighbor’s fence or worry about the endless sea of unsavory characters coming in and out of the house across the street.  He didn’t care that we were tripping over each other all winter long, stuck together in one small living space.

Several days ago, I had to pick him up in the middle of the day – he had a temperature and upset stomach. I had a few minutes alone with his teacher in the office before collecting him so I told her about the Sunday night. Tears sprang to her eyes and she vowed to help out. I told her that although we tried to teach our kids the importance of all experiences, that each feeling played an important part in who they were,  we felt completely helpless watching our guy go through this transition.

The next night when we were doing homework, Deaglan told me that he’d felt really special at school that day. Not only had his teacher moved him beside one of his friends (a kid we’d had over to our house twice already) but she'd also told him that everybody missed him when he went home sick the day before. 

At parent-teacher interviews this past Thursday, I had a chance to connect with her again about it. After we discussed his academic progress, we chatted about other potential friendships she saw developing. We talked about our childhoods a bit, how sweet six and seven year olds are in general , and how important their friendships are at this age.  

I left feeling overwhelming gratitude that my son was spending his days being guided by this special person. 

We built gingerbread houses to welcome the Christmas season. Deaglan was meticulous with his, taking the time to carefully place jube-jube shutters and M&M doorknobs. 

Naveen looked like this the entire time. 

He cared very little about shingles and doorknobs. He wanted us to cut to the chase. "When can I eat my house????"

Which is all to say (as you can see from this picture - thanks Honey!) that I could have used a good stiff Christmas toddy to relax my jaw muscles after insisting over and over the Christmas house was supposed to be a decoration. Oh what fun!

When we looked at Naveen's gingerbread house this morning, it was no longer on the tray. The candy and icing were cleaned (read licked) off and there were several bites out of the roof.

You will be six on Christmas Eve

Dear Deaglan,

Early this morning you shouted from your bed, “Mom! Is it time to get up yet?” I didn’t answer even though your loud question woke me from a dead sleep.

“Mom!!” this time louder. “Is it time to get up yet????”

“Not even close,” I said turning over, “go back to sleep.”

Then a raucous climb down the ladder of your bunk, a jump from the last step to the floor and then thud, thud into the bathroom.  And then, thud, thud thud toward me. 

“Mom! One more day!” 

This is how we’ve started every morning for the past week. The countdown to your birthday.

To be accurate, it’s how you’ve started every morning for the past six years.  

One second you were tiny, gripping the sides of your crib, fussing eagerly to be picked up. And the next second, bam! All of your pants are too small, your feet are gigantic; and you are sounding out words on the sides of buildings.

On the night you were born, the moment I first held you in the recovery room, the world melted away. I forgot that this kind of thing had happened before. Babies had been born before. Mothers had become mothers. Families finally felt like families. 

I forgot everything.

I forgot about the possibility of separation. I couldn’t imagine a day when we wouldn’t be close. I forgot that kids grow up. Become independent. Disagree with their parents. Learn to want different things. I forgot about families who become estranged from each other.

I forgot grade seven.  

I forgot about elaborately folded secret notes denouncing parents as annoying and downright dumb. I forgot high school where I was sure that if I could just get my own place, I would be free of their tyranny, stay out late, apply all the eye make-up I wanted. I forgot the escape to university where I could finally get my nose pierced without permission, embrace grunge without disapproval. I forgot all those years where phone calls home felt obligatory.

I forgot all of it.

Because that night I first held you, I knew with great clarity that you and I were going to be different. We would reinvent the mother-child dynamic. It would be different for us. You would always want to be with me, always need me, always look to me for the answers.

You, I could tell then, would always be agreeable, always attentive. Always compliant.There would never come a day when we wouldn’t see eye to eye on everything. 

That day did come though.

My fog lifted and there you were, already a whole person, separate from me.  You had opinions on just about everything: Your new winter coat “sucks”, you said, because it takes too long to zip up. You can't wear the waterproof thermal mitts because they don’t allow for proper snow ball formation. You hate plaid. Naveen can sit on your bed only if he takes off his socks, holds in all toots and burps and refrains from coughing on you.

When I was sad, you told me you liked my shirt. And when I was really sad you said "I love everything you're wearing Mom!" And sometimes.  Well sometimes, I noticed that you said things just because it was easier. You appeased me.

This year, you understood the vastness with which your brother adores you. At a birthday party a few weeks ago for one of your mutual friends, I watched as he hid behind you, waited for you to pioneer the way; his shield in this life.

His guide.

You love your family and tell us so all the time. You love school, your teachers and your friends. You love your grandparents, aunts, uncles and all of your cousins too. You love candy and popcorn, hockey and forts. 

Oh and Lego, you love Lego.

And you are itching for adventure every minute of the day. When we tell you about an upcoming trip, you want to go that minute. Time is such a nuisance. Are we there yet? You ask over and over.

Are we there yet?

Well no. We aren't there yet. I don't want to be there yet, is that bad? I want it all to slow down. I want to marinate in the you of today, bask in your light and sparkle. Get caught up in the world through your eyes. 

Happy birthday my big, big boy, thanks for letting me live it all again, through you.

Love Mom.