Another Bipolar Morning

8:10 a.m. this morning. The kids were getting coats and boots on before catching the bus to school. There is a snowstorm in the forecast today, so I got snowpants out (each kid has a pair that fits and are clean - the planets must be aligned just right) and packed them in the backpacks. The daughter was searching through her hat and mitten bin for a hat that would fit just right over her Christmas tinsel and bell hairband. She tried on five hats and didn't like any of them. I started digging through the bin, throwing hats and gloves about until I found a pink hat that fit just the way she wanted.

Both kids were wearing boots today, so I went to pack their shoes in their backpacks, and I couldn't find my son's shoes. He always takes them off upstairs in the living room, so I went up there and looked around. Nothing. I asked my daughter to look, and she said she couldn't find them. Then she yelled, "And the bus is coming!"

Panic. I started screaming like a banshee, wandering from room to room. Finally, my son found his shoes in the entryway right where he is supposed to take them off each night, and just about a foot from his sister who claimed to have no knowledge of their whereabouts.

I lost it. I looked at my son and said, "Since when do you take your shoes off where you're supposed to?" The look of confusion on his face was priceless.

We raced to get out the door while I apologized for my tirade. No bus. Seems my darling daughter "thought" she "heard" the bus, so she announced that the bus was coming.

It was at this point that I lost what tenuous hold I had on my sanity. Who am I kidding? Sanity is way back there in the rear-view mirror for me.

And all I have to say for myself is that Kahlua is really good in coffee in the morning.

Here's one of my favorite videos - "No rain" by Blind Melon. The bee girl reminds me of myself searching for my "tribe" - someone to listen to my song and dance as silly as it is. One day I know I'll find my bee people. And we'll all be drinking Kahlua in coffee.

Letting Go

"I'm sad to see a new horizon slowly coming into view." Lyrics from "For the Love of You" by Hil St. Soul

My baby started kindergarten today. I've dreaded this day for at least five and a half years now.

He started his day off in winning form. He refused to wear the new red polo shirt I bought him (the very one he wanted when we were at the store). He refused to wear a different polo shirt, and he finally settled on a too-small old t-shirt with a picture of a motorcycle on it. He picked on his sister and pushed her down on the sidewalk causing her to cry because her new skirt now had dirt on it. My husband and I stood at the bus stop with them and gave hugs and kisses goodbye. If my son was nervous, he didn't show it. He walked right up onto the bus and never looked back.

I had fought back tears all morning. My neighbor came up to me after the bus left, and we chatted for awhile. I did some yard work. I came in the house and helped my husband get ready for a trip. I sat and drank coffee and read the newspaper uninterrupted. Every once in awhile, I'd stop and pick up a truck or a toy sword off the floor, and felt a pang of sadness that my little guy wasn't hanging around me asking to go to the park or play a game or read a book. I always thought I needed to do more things with him one-on-one, but in reality, we did quite a bit together.

I had volunteered to help the kindergarteners in the cafeteria at lunchtime. My little guy saw me all the way across the cafeteria and gave me a huge smile and waive. I am so happy that I helped out today. Quite a few of these little ones were scared stiff. Several were in tears. They had no idea how to put in their lunch code, how to take silverware or napkins, and they didn't know where to sit or where anything was. I watched my son sitting with his best friend - who happens to be in the same class - eating his pizza dippers. He was chatting up a storm. He even engaged the principal in conversation about the food. I helped the kids take their trays to a cart, empty them and put the silverware and trays in a stack. One little boy dumped the contents of his tray on my right shoe. My shoe will probably smell like pears for awhile. One little girl walked up to me and said she was done and pointed to her tray on the table. I told her she had to bring it up to the cart, and she looked at me in complete surprise. She brought the tray up to me and held it out and smiled. I had to show her how to do the whole process. (I feel very sorry for whoever her maid is.) Several of the little ones knew me from my son's preschool, and they seemed relieved to see a familiar face.

My son went out to the playground without ever saying goodbye to me. I thought about how he is the complete opposite of his sister. I could only go eat lunch with my daughter a couple of times a year because she would cry and put up a fuss when I would leave. I thought about how independent he has always been. He took his first few steps toward me, and then he's walked away from me ever since. I watched him on the playground for a minute and then went to sign out at the office and leave. He was fine.

Now I'm hanging out at home, putting on music and dancing around just because I can. No one is here. There are still pangs of sadness, but there's a feeling of freedom too. I had looked forward to this time. Finally, time to clean out closets, cupboards, basement, etc. However, now I find myself as busy as ever with volunteering at the school. I've even taken training to be (gasp) a Sunday School teacher at our church. I can just see several of you falling off your chairs as you read this. I know, it's an odd vocation for someone who is as fond of the F-word as myself, but I think I may have a lot to learn from these little ones (I'm teaching the kindergarten-age kids).

And right now, I'm hanging around waiting for the time when the bus comes and brings my kids back. I've got eyes as dry as marshmallows and a headache from crying this morning. I could run errands, but I've decided to stay in the house today. You know, the school might call me for some reason . . .

Hey Mamanista, This is Your Wakeup Call!

About a year ago, I went to a new hairstylist. I sat in her chair and told her what I wanted to change about my hair and asked for her opinion on the subject. We formulated a plan and she quickly got to work. She asked me to tell her about myself. I started in immediately talking at warp speed about my kids, my job, my commute, cooking, my husband, my house and my cat. She stopped combing out my hair and looked at me in the mirror. "And what do you like to do when you're not working or taking care of your family?" Silence. Why did she have to ask me such a hard question? My brain felt like it was stammering and fumbling for an answer. "I like to knit" was what I finally said, though I couldn't remember the last knitting project that I had actually finished.

This should have been a big moment. This should have tipped me off that something wasn't right. This should have been the moment in the story where, metaphorically speaking, the operator tells me that the calls I've been getting all night are coming from inside the house - or the moment where the guy who has been convinced that there's a serial killer at the party finally loosens up and admits he was wrong, right when the rest of the partygoers see the serial killer over his shoulder. It should have been like that. It bothered me a bit that I had such a hard time answering her question, but I quickly discarded the feeling.

I was cleaning out my bedroom closet one day. I stumbled on a small box labeled "master bedroom closet" from our last move many, many years ago. I laughed about how I always seem to have one box that never gets opened after each move. They just sit in a basement or a closet, and no one can ever remember what exactly is inside. I cut the tape on the box and opened it.
It was a time capsule. Two jewelry boxes containing my past. Abalone jewelry bought on vacation once, pins, silver barrettes with designs hammered on them, rings, and a cream-colored hair bow. Memories came flooding back. I once had a Chrisian Dior suit with a detachable collar that was the same exact color as this hair bow. I had matching shoes in the same color also. I used to wear white suits with pale camisols and all kinds of accessories. I used to go out for drinks with friends. I used to shop like it was an Olympic sport - and trust me when I tell you I would've medaled in it if it were. Matching handbags. Three-step skin care programs. Things I had long forgotten. When did I let it all go?

I carefully packed up the box, folded the top together and packed it back away in the far corner of the closet. Out of sight, out of mind.

Yesterday, I was driving home from the grocery store with my kids. I was reminding them that their bedroom floor needed to be picked up. My son started talking about how he wanted "a hundred million dollars" so he could get servants. He would get someone to clean up his bedroom floor. And while he was at it, he would get someone to do all the cleaning, cooking, laundry and dishes. My daughter looked at him and said, "Don't waste your money on that - Mom does all that." The child is subtle.

I've finally heard the wakeup call. I have to end this blog post now. I have a knitting class and a cooking class to sign up for. After that, I'm going to call about touring a new local gym. And then there's some earrings that I want to wear today, but I've got to get them down out of a box in the closet first.

"What you need to know about the past is that no matter what has happened, it has all worked together to bring you to this very moment. And this is the moment you can choose to make everything new. Right now." Author Unknown.