Pressure

There's something I need to confess. Two things really.

First, this has been weighing heavily on me for awhile but it's time to publicly admit that I bought a running fanny pack and it's everything I thought it could be and more. I can only assume that at some point I will throw full caution to the wind and embrace it for all personal carrying needs. And that my 12 year-old will officially hide when he sees me in public.

Second, this kindergarten thing has got me feeling crazy, but not in the way I think many other mamas are feeling. I don't have any sappy or weepy needs to curl into a ball. I didn't stare out the window all morning or look at baby pictures or stalk the school playground to check in on him. 

I went on a long, exhausting, exhilarating run, the kind of run that clears your head and brings things into perfect clarity. 

About 10 minutes into it, I realized that I have been a perfect mess for the last week and I realized why: these past two years since my son started to have really significant trouble in school, since we had to pull him before he got expelled from preschool, the specialists, the therapists, the prayers, the tears, the rage, all this has led up to the moment of truth. 

Can he and will he be able to handle...scratch that, THRIVE, in Kindergarten? 

No parent wants his or her child to just get by. To be tolerated and then talked about behind closed doors of teacher meetings. No parent wants that child to be labeled or to have low expectations put on him. I have seen the people who expect the best from him and I have seen those who have diagnosed him on their own (without credentials to do so) and basically made us feel like failures as parents. I've met doctors who believe me and others who question my honesty. Those who want to medicate and those who want to heal- and yes, I've learned there is a HUGE difference. 

There is only so much that I can control about what happens to him. We had spent weeks leading up to this day: we had prepped him for goodbye, prepped him for getting on the bus, tried to get him to go to an event for rising kindergarteners to practice getting on the bus to no avail and he had finally, excitedly, woke up ready to do it. He was out waiting for it 20 minutes before it should have come wearing his adorable little kindergarten label and a huge smile.

It never came. 

When that bus didn't show up and my happy, excited, passionate child started to let disappointment and nerves creep in, I got angry. We had to change course. After ALL the prep and conversations, the bus wouldn't be taking him in after all. And for kids like my son, that one thing can literally be THE thing that undoes the day. That tanks the mood. That starts the tears or anxiety or defiance.  

My husband explained the change in situation to my sad boy and he willingly, miraculously got in the car. I watched them drive off to school with my heart in my throat. Not because "my little boy was heading off to kindergarten and wasn't he just a baby yesterday" but because of all the what-ifs. All the ways I still don't know if he is ready, if his teacher will be able to handle his challenges and get the best out of him. If he will rise to it the way I know he can. 

I watched the phone, waiting for it to ring. I paced. I snacked. I ran until I couldn't breathe. 

In truth, I put a ton of pressure on myself for his success today. 

Have I done everything I know to do? I think so. 
Is it probably everything that can be done? Nope.
Have I failed him along the way? Absolutely. 
Have I likely been unwittingly rude or snappy with a medical professional? You bet your patootie. 
Has the system been frustrating to navigate? Of course it has.
Do I have any control over how this day goes? Not at all.

And there's the rub. I have done my part. 

He made it to day one. We all did, with scars to show. 

And right now, as I know he is heading into his last hour and a half at school, I can't help but wonder how long this feeling will last. When will I be able to breathe? To rejoice in having at least made it to day one? Will there be a moment the scars start to fade a little? Or will there be a fresh battle to fight yet again? 

I can't answer these questions and I also can't spend all day asking them. Putting that much pressure on oneself is utterly exhausting, but I often don't know how to do life any differently. I really am trying, despite what it looks like. 

I am hoping he will walk off that bus this afternoon with his gorgeous grin and chatter away about all the good that happened today. 

And I'm hoping by the time he does, I'm ready to greet him with a smile of joy and hope and help him get ready for day two.  

The Nine Words I'll Never Say

Last week I found myself leaving our YMCA in the midst of dramatic spectacle. My 2 year old was upside down (I was holding him by his legs because he is so strong that once he decides he is IN IT, I cannot actually hold him by his body any longer.) He was mad because..well, actually I don't know. It came on suddenly and inexplicably and no amount of logic or talking was going to break it. We just needed to get the heck out.

So as I tried to stay calm (and thanked God that I had no other children along on this outing because HOW??), we walked through the foyer of the Y, my son suspended in midair, flailing about like a landed fish. People stopped talking, they stared.

One woman smiled and said "I remember those days!"

And I cringed...because I wondered if she was going to say it.

The words that ALWAYS make me feel worse no matter what kind of day we are having.

You know them. Maybe you've said them. Or been the recipient.

"Treasure these moments. They grow up way too fast."

Right.

Thankfully, in this instance, she didn't say it. I let out the breath I was holding, praised God for bicep curls that enable me to carry my 40 pounder with one arm and moved carefully out the door to the car.

So here's the thing.

I get that statement a lot. Sometimes verbally, sometimes people post articles telling me not to miss even one beautiful moment(which I click on for some inexplicable reason), sometimes I just see it in people's eyes.

And do you want to know my honest reaction?

Guilt.

Yep, guilt. Now, admittedly, I dabble in guilt more than the average person. It's my constant companion, the area of my life that I have to continually crawl back to God with and ask him to remove. It's not His fault I feel guilty. It's all my own. Self-forgiveness is a huge challenge for me.

But when someone looks into my life and tells me to treasure each moment, that they will pass too quickly, all I feel is terrible. Like I can never possibly do a good enough job because on top of feeding them, getting them on good schedules, changing them, wrestling them, loving them, enduring the freakouts and public humiliations, I am somehow supposed to find this magical all the time and remember every moment or I will regret it later.

That is a LOT of pressure.

And we almost never know the story of the person to whom we offer these trite phrases.

What if this was said to a woman suffering from post-partum depression? Or post-adoption blues? The parent who has a child with severe needs who is just beyond exhausted and doesn't know how he or she will do it again tomorrow? The father who cannot connect with his son or daughter and blames himself for somehow not being a good enough dad? The mom who battled her two-year-old from 7 am to 7 pm yesterday and had just enough energy to physically put herself to bed just after?

Yes, some day I will probably look back and miss some elements of when they were tiny. Heck, some days I manage to treasure it in the now, I really do.  When we are having a good day and the boys are reading to the baby or the older ones are tickle-wrestling and the giggles are abundant. Even when some of the moments are hard but I can see the progress we're making, I can find moments to pause, to reflect, to be thankful, to see the magic in childhood.

But on the days where I am just covered in spit up, when I've been kicked in the head trying to get someone in the car, wrestled two squirming humans through 12 diaper changes, forgotten what it feels like just to be a clean, reasonable woman...on those days, we just do life. Without magic or treasure.

Maybe the women who say this (and I have NEVER had a man say it) to me really felt in their element during the young years or maybe they are in the midst of it now and by speaking it aloud they are trying to remind themselves. But I've said it before and I'll say it again- we all have different gifts. I feel like I'm a pretty darn good mama some days, especially to my 9 year old. I am willing to play crazy games, chase him around the yard, shoot goals on him so he can practice soccer, paint cardboard to help him make a lego city, curl up for an hour reading Harry Potter together. I feel good at it.

But the younger years? Every day I wake up and have to ask God for deep grace and patience because the younger years don't come naturally to me. I'm not a "baby" person. I don't look at them and think "Oh, don't grow up!" I look at them and think "hmmm..if you could tell me rationally and eloquently using your words, we wouldn't be having this miscommunication." Or, rather, I would think that if my brain were capable of such verbiage in the midst of someone kicking me in the head.

All this to say, you can go on saying those nine words to people if you really want to. I, however, will not. I don't know their story, I don't know their gifts.

What I will say is this:

"I see you. You might be great at this right now or it might not be your strength. But you're trying and that's what matters. God's got the rest."