Tag Archives: first time

First day of school tears (for me)

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2016-09-01 06.38.46-1

Obligatory first day photo shoot.

Ethan and Lauren started school today. Sixth and first grades. And I cried.

I don’t remember crying when they went to preschool or kindergarten, but this year was different – and super emotional. The kids are going to a new school. Each to a different school, actually. And I’m happy and I’m sad and I feel completely and utterly overwhelmingly guilty.

When Mike and I decided to have kids – actually before that – we agreed that we wanted the kids to have a Catholic education. It was so important that I converted to Catholicism before we got married so this would be a family thing.

When the kids and I moved here, Mike was fairly involved in the “finding a school” process. We continued to agree that the school should be Catholic. As I looked at areas to live, Mike was looking at schools (via the Interwebs). While he never visited the schools or talked to anyone, he had a say in where our kids would go.

And I really liked the school we chose. Then Mike died.

I’ve written about it before – just weeks into his new school, Ethan was called down to the principal’s office to get the news. His teacher, the principal, the priest, the families made us feel so welcome and so much part of the “school family” in those difficult early days and weeks and months (and beyond). Same when I was diagnosed with cancer. I truly loved love the families at the school.

But…

The school isn’t a good fit for Ethan. That’s hard to think, to write, to say because I did a lot of research to find this school.

 

  • With only a couple of exceptions, school activities are limited to sports-related things, and Ethan’s not sporty. At all. (Plus sports remind him of Mike, who coached Ethan in little league and soccer, so there’s an emotional connection that Ethan associates with sports. And not a good one since Mike was sloppy drunk the last year he coached.) New school has OPTIONS, so many options, like a robotics club, a reading club, chess, yearbook – and several less competitive intramurals like dodgeball.
  • And when I found out two of Ethan’s greatest allies/friends were leaving the school, I knew middle school would be hard for Ethan without these boys. These boys stuck up for one another, and Ethan would be miserable and bullied – with no support. I know he had other friends, girls mostly, but that only added to the bullying he was experiencing at the end of the year.
  • Ethan has asked for years to go to a different school. Having his dad’s death happen so soon into his time there AND finding out at the school have tied all those memories together. I’m not sure Ethan can separate things in his head, and that’s made for some self-imposed difficulties at the school. The new school is a fresh start. A clean start. No one knows him there, and he can create the persona he wants to be (starting with today’s outfit, which he introduced as his “new look” – much different than the athletic shorts/stained t-shirt boy I looked at all summer).
  • I won’t even go into Family Life or the repetition of explaining childhood grief to the administration and teachers… New school has an onsite counseling DEPARTMENT, and it hosts workshops and meetings for kids who’ve lost a loved one, or have anger issues, or are dealing with family status things (remarriages, parents dating, divorce, etc.)

And I feel guilty about making the decision – the best decision for him and one he’s asked for for several years – to change schools. Guilty because Ethan will attend public school for sixth through eighth grades. And that’s not what Mike and I agreed to. And Mike’s not here to support or refute my decision. And I can’t discuss it with him. And I can’t get his okay.

I CAN’T GET MIKE’S OKAY. I will never have his okay…

 

So, regarding Lauren, I decided to move her to a different school, too. I’m keeping her in a Catholic school (for now). I’ve met with the principal and her teacher to discuss the situation, and they seem more competent/compassionate/understanding. I’ve explained some of the childhood grief issues we had at the other schools, and they seem better equipped to handle it. Lauren’s a completely different kid with different needs. She’s going to be alright no matter where she goes. I feel really good about her new school, and wish I would have moved Ethan here last year (it only goes to fifth grade, unfortunately).

Focus on love and bullying: a response to “Karen”

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“Karen,” I don’t know your situation or what you know about kids and grief, but it’s a horrible, bumpy, rocky road. There are steps forward and giant leaps backward. There’s regression and repeating the standard grief steps over and over as he reaches different maturity milestones. As a parent, you just never know what will trigger a regression or how long it will last. Continue reading →

We need roooooommmm! Basement remodeling decisions

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I was going to write about my sister and how she’s really pissing me off by making my mom feel guilty and she’s passive aggressively dissing mom on social media. But when I started writing, I realized giving Julie that much of my time and attention was making me really, really angry. She’s crazy, and always will be. (And for anyone I know IRL who’s following Julie’s FB “health” drama, don’t believe the hype, and please don’t think my mom and I are not involved. We just know how this plays out because we’ve been there, done that, and we’re over it. Julie’s using and abusing the new BF and his family – they’re just too new to know who/what my sister truly is. But, hey, Julie’s getting a newly remodeled home out of the deal, so grossly exaggerating things and lying is okay, right?)

Ahem.

Let’s talk basements. The topic will still stress me out, but in a much nicer way.

When I bought this house, I really liked that the basement was unfinished. I’d seen some homes with poorly designed basements, so a large, empty, open concrete slab (with decently tall ceilings), was a selling point. Clean slate. Do what I want, when I want, figure out what works for the kids and me.

In the four years since we’ve lived here, the basement has become a four corner dump pile – storage here, kids’ toys there, stuff for a yard sale here, holiday decorations there. There are also about 15 large moving boxes STUFFED with packing paper, making a cardboard wall separating kid space from yard sale stuff. Organized but not useable.

Sure, the kids will play down there every once in a while. And I’ll run/walk on the treadmill (which can’t be plugged into the outlets in the basement, so a heavy-duty extension cord runs up the stairs – super classy). But it’s cold (no heat), and a little dark, and really not inviting.

Last year, I thought I’d get it finished, but, you know, cancer. (Damn, 2015 was a wasted year.)

Now this, THIS is the year: the kids are older and need more space – Lauren’s dollhouses and dress up clothes and babies are taking over the living spaces where I never intended toys to be (dining room, front room, living room, entryway, kitchen – girl stuff is EVERYWHERE); Ethan doesn’t always want to watch “Wild Kratz” or other Lauren-type shows and is at an age where he needs to have a little bit of his own time and space. And I’m tired of stepping on Legos when he spreads himself – and those damn plastic foot-destroyers – across the living room floor.

And, as B and I work toward merging our family together, more usable space is becoming necessary – a place where all six of us can (comfortably) gather, a place where he can play his bass and I can arrange/organize/use crafty and gift wrapping stuff.

I started getting bids for the job.

  • First guy: REALLY young (not that age is a big deal), ridiculously quick, didn’t seem super thorough, plans didn’t reflect some of the things I asked for, some of the design elements didn’t make sense (i.e., walling around the furnace and water heater so close that neither would be able to be removed should I have to replace them in the future), kind of got the sense he might nickel-and-dime me when things don’t go as planned.
  • Second guy (and his wife who is his design partner): straight shooter, super thorough, pointed out some things I should correct now (whether or not he does the job), his bid was about $10K more than I want to spend BUT I think he’d do an amazing job (and he guarantees not to go over the budget).
  • Third guy: walked him through what I wanted, spent half the time he was at the house talking on his phone to someone (I was upstairs; he was supposed to be doing measurements), pointed out stuff I should do now (like guy 2), can’t get me the estimate until he has his electrician AND plumber AND carpenter all come out separately – like “Hey Dude 3, what’s your job if you’re not qualified to figure this shit out?!”
  • Fourth guy: got his name from an remodeling referral service at a home improvement show this weekend (he was the only one of four names sent that had a website, and I’m leary of builders and remodelers who are not showcasing their work on the internet or social media), from his website he is really receptive to working WITH the homeowner on budget and design, GREAT phone conversation with him, he’s coming out tomorrow.

This is a CRAZY big decision to make. It’s a lot of money. I want it done right. I want it to feel like part of the house, not just an afterthought or nasty scary basement. I don’t know enough about remodeling or building or plumbing or electric or drywall to know if someone is doing a good job or not. I need to have full-faith in the person doing the work.

Guys 1 and 3 are out.

I like guy 2, especially his no bullshit attitude, but he’s expensive.

Guy 4 *might* be the answer.

Oh boy, adult decisions are hard.

Ours

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“Beautiful children. Are they all yours?”

We stopped for lunch at a mom-and-pop restaurant in a smallish town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, on our way home from spending Thanksgiving with B’s parents. (More on that another time.) An older woman behind the counter asked the question.

B was carrying his youngest daughter, following the server who was taking us to our table; Ethan was close behind, talking nonstop in B’s ear about something or other; and I was shepherding Lauren and B’s other daughter as we traversed the small entry of the restaurant, filled with knick knacks and tchotchkes for sale.

“Yes. Yes, they are,” I said, barely making eye contact with her as I made sure the girls’ heavy winter coats didn’t knock over something I really didn’t want to buy. I was busy holding the hand of one girl while directing the other by the shoulder.

The woman behind the counter followed it with, “But you both look so young…” and a sort of tsk-tsk sound.

Crazy lady, I thought. Of course they’re ours. What other kids would be with us? Does she think we found some kids alongside the road and brought them in for Swedish meatballs and limpa bread?

We were at our table at the back of the restaurant when it finally hit me what the woman meant.

“Are they all yours?”

Oh… are they OURS? Like O-U-R-S, mine and B’s? Well…

I felt a little foolish for  misunderstanding the woman. Yeah, they’re ours, but not technically O-U-R-S. Like if we start getting into if they’re our biological children and genetics and stuff… well, then…

But then, I realized I didn’t misunderstand the woman at all. YES, they are O-U-R-S. Damn, it, all four of them. For all their faults and all their goodness. For all the little arguments we referee. For all the cuddles we share. For the goodnight stories and kisses and late night movies and board games. For the helping make Christmas cookies. For the knock knock jokes at dinner. For the tears, for the laughter. For better or worse.

“Are they all yours?”

Hell, yes. Yes, they are mine. Yes, they are B’s. They, all four of them. They are ours.

That time I confronted a stranger who assumed I was a man

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I’m shaking as I type this. I’m angry. I’m embarrassed. And I’m a little nervous about the confrontation I just had.

Background: My hair is growing back, but it’s in a really awkward stage. It’s no longer “Oh, look how cute! Little hair!” And it’s not long enough to do anything with. It’s just…there. I’ve overcompensated lately by dressing more girly than normal – dresses or skirts, soft colors, scarves, makeup, jewelry – things that scream “GIRL!” Or so I thought.

I was standing in line at the sandwich place in the food court of the Union. It was pretty busy, but I was hungry and sometimes this place has a decent sandwich. I stood there in my jeans (rolled at the ankles to expose cute black flats) and white t-shirt with a ballerina in a mixed-medium lace skirt. I wore red lipstick. I carried a bright pink purse and checked Facebook on my phone covered in a bright pink and gray case. A pink Fitbit on one wrist, and a delicate purple stone and silver ring on the other hand.

Do I look like a fucking man?!

Do I look like a fucking man?!

I placed my order at the counter, and then the student worker called, “Next!”

The older man behind me said, “Did you get this man’s order?” and pointed in my direction. At this point I was looking directly at him.

“You mean HER order?” the student worker corrected.

“Yeah, his order,” the guy said again. Then looked me in the eye and said, “Oh, HER’S…” It was a condescending, sing-songy tone.

He patronizingly patted my left shoulder twice. I looked away.

I was seething. My eyes started to get liquidy (not tears, but I tend to leak from the eyes when very angry). Do I say something? Do I let it go? I played a couple of scenarios in my head, a few things I’d like to say. The kind of things you think about but you know you won’t really say aloud.

I was stuck. This guy was an older white man, dressed in a suit coat and tie. I work at a university, and dress code is usually pretty casual, except for administrators (most of whom are older white men). Do I dare jeopardize myself, and possibly my job, by saying something?

I started to shake.

I grabbed a drink from the cooler and made my way to the cashier. After paying her, I realized the guy was behind me. And I realized that I was really pissed.

“Hey,” I said, looking him right in the eye. “You called me a man back there. Referred to me as a ‘him.’”

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking. Your hair…” he said, his eyes wide.

“Yeah,” I pointed to my head. “This is called breast cancer. Six months of chemo, 17 radiation treatments, and surgery. I’m a women, god-dammit, regardless of what my appearance might suggest.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” he said again, looking down.

“Just do me a favor. Maybe you should LOOK next time. Really look.”

I turned and walked away, out of the Union, back to my building, into the elevator, and to my office.

I don’t know who that dude was, and know what? I’m not sure I’d change a thing if I DID know who he was.

Now, I’m going to enjoy my lunch before my next class.