Tag Archives: Little Ones

First Week of School

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After all of those posts about Oliver, I thought I’d better write an update on his first week of Kindergarten.

This is how he felt about that first morning:


And this is how I find him every day when school lets out:


I have to say – for all of the worrying we do about Oliver and transitions, he is kind of a superstar. It’s always hard for him at first, but he assimilates so quickly. And in a highly structured environment where he knows what to expect, he thrives (i.e. school is better for him than hanging around with his disorganized mother all summer).

He was very comical that first day. I didn’t say much about going to school for fear of starting the avalanche of anxiety, and I didn’t even try the bus that morning since I knew the chaos and waiting around was just a recipe for disaster. Instead, Chris went to work late so we could drive him over and take him in ourselves. The one block walk from the car to the school felt like death row. He was mildly resistant, but ultimately resigned. I half expected the other children we passed to start clanging metal mugs against bars to the cry of “dead man walking!” He kept a running stream of quiet comments going: “No school today…no Kindergarten…no thank you…let’s go home now…” But he was just going through the motions. He saw the writing on the wall.

We had visited his classroom the week prior (which was fairly successful as far as my very low expectations were concerned – he didn’t get upset but stayed in the doorway for the duration). So he knew exactly where we were going and just walked in without any drama. After a quick hello to his teacher, that would have been our cue to make a fast exit, but OH NO…Dad had to make a special goodbye splash: “Okay buddy – have a GREAT day! I’ll see you when I get back from work tonight. Have fun today!” Then Oliver’s stoic front crumbled and he dissolved into tears. Nice work Chris. Rookie…

But of course, after a little attention, he was just fine and really did have a GREAT day. By morning #3, he was asking “can I go to school now?” So I think we’re in the clear. Yeah – he still likes school! Now we just have to worry about his academic performance and ability to make friends. Sigh… Baby steps I guess.

In the midst of all of this new Kindergartner hoopla, I also had to make two more trips out to Bethesda (during rush hour traffic) for Oliver’s last two sessions of auditory processing therapy (which has been fairly magical for us), go to a couple of orientation events for the twins’ preschool (which starts on Wednesday) AND do a home visit with the preschool teacher. Of course I completely forgot about the home visit and was totally unprepared when she arrived on my doorstep. The good news is that I had recently cleaned the house so she didn’t walk into the usual scene of chaos and squalor. The bad news is that I had JUST sent the twins downstairs to watch a movie while I did a little work and Eleanor was in her underwear. I’m all about the good first impression.

That same day, Oliver took the bus home (which he will do Monday-Thursday every week – Fridays I’ll pick him up to go to a play therapy appointment). He was HIGH-LARIOUS and was so excited to race off the bus to see us that he forgot his backpack. A nice older student brought it out to us though – so no chasing after the bus for me (like I would ever do that! I’d send him to school with a paper Trader Joe’s bag before I suffered that humiliation).

We did encounter a little mishap on Friday when I forgot to mention to his teacher that he wouldn’t have the Friday therapy appointment that particular week and should just take the bus. After watching every child in the neighborhood scamper down the bus stairs, I realized my error. Luckily, I have very “takes a village” neighbors, so I told my friend Diane to watch the twins and ran for my car. Since the school is approximately 45 seconds away this wasn’t THAT big of a deal, and the teacher seemed to believe me when I said that I’m really not a neglectful parent… We’ll just hope that all of the low bar setting I’m doing will serve me well in the long run.

Saturday we went to a Catholic U. football game, and Oliver loved it. We only stayed for an hour of course due to limited attention spans (and I’m not just talking about the kids), but we took a couple of cute pictures.



Nothing to report on Sunday which was pretty quiet and housebound due to inclement weather. But lazy days have their charm as well. At least for lazy people. Which we are. Lazy, I mean.

Coming up this week: The twins’ first day of preschool and MY first day of working at the preschool (it’s a co-op). Wish us all luck!

Some Pictures From Our Getting To Be Not-So-Recent Vacation

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I always do that… Say I’m going to post pictures from a vacation and then forget. Well – I don’t forget, but time gets away from me. So a month later…

Here are some highlights of our trip to California and Arizona (new and improved with super-long air travel hell!)


























It was a good time – and I can’t complain too much about the travel part. My kids were pretty good (with the exception of one sleep deprived three year old’s melt down and a meanie up front using the F-word about it).

And now…a much shorter child-free weekend in NYC! I certainly have the life this summer. (Do you doubt it? Next photo installment: the ridiculously good looking lifeguard at our pool. It’s not a heat wave that’s making the suburban moms in my ‘hood swoon…)

This is why …

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…I need to go to the “How to Edit Your Pictures and Make Them 10x Better” session at BlogHer:

I am so rarely IN pictures. Unless my Dad is around, no one ever thinks, Kate looks lovely today, we should really capture this moment digitally (I almost typed “on film”…days of yore…) OR if I demand that someone get a picture RIGHT NOW (like HERE).

No – I’m typically the one behind the camera. BUT every once in a while, we’ll be with friends or family and someone will actually take some candids or group shots with (gasp!) me in them.

I just looked through the pictures my mother in law took while we were on vacation in CA and found a handful of UNPRECEDENTED candids devoted to me interacting with my children.

But the lighting wasn’t very good:






And I think this one could use a little reduction magic in the nose department…


An photo editing class at BlogHer sounds like just what I need. My own point and shoot photos, as well as the ones I receive from friends and family are often “perfect if only…”

You just never know when you might need Photoshop expertise to make your own bathing suit pictures look more like this:


Yes – that’s my unedited sister in law. I’m think I’m going to start telling people I’m “the funny one.” Any other suggestions? In the meantime, I’ll look forward to getting some handy photo editing advice from my friends Pauline and Amy.

Broken English (Alternatively Titled: Fixing Oliver)

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When our children are first starting to put sentences together and use multi-syllabic words, we are gifted with hours of amusement and endless family anecdotes. My three olds make up words and butcher syntax like any other kids their age, and of course we think it’s all hilarious.

Within the past hour, George asked me if a knife was “only for peoples” (his way of saying grownups), and after ranting at me about something, claimed that he didn’t scream, he just “yellowed.” Eleanor doesn’t just wear dresses – she wears “ballerinas.” And for a long time, she would announce in her best ring master voice, “ladies and Jaqueline!” Sorry Jaquelines of the world, but I think my daughter just called you a ho.

From George’s vehement, “YES I are!” retorts to Eleanor’s newest addition to the dictionary: “lasterday,” we revel in their audacity – their uninhibited assault on the English language. And we never tire of recounting these stories to both doting grandparents and graciously indulgent friends alike.

She is something else…

He is quite a character…

But I’ve realized that we don’t tell as many dialogue-related stories about my oldest son. And this isn’t surprising since his delays have made him much slower to experiment with language.

Where the twins, like other children, fling new words like confetti, five year old Oliver holds them close, tucks them into pockets and puzzles over them like foreign currency. The concept of language is understood, but the values attributed to the various elements still elude him.

Of course, he has made us laugh over the years with his own grammatical missteps and mispronunciations. In fact he charmed me just the other day by telling me that I “misappeared.” But these moments have been fewer, farther between and always overshadowed by the worry over what the future may hold.

I’ve been thinking about that more and more as I see the unbalanced ratio of blog posts dedicated to the funny things my children say. Oliver is not very well represented – and that makes me sad.

Because he is just as much of a delight to me as my twins. But who would know it?

I guess we just assume that others won’t appreciate these stories as much as we do. They don’t know how hard he works for what comes so easily to other kids. His funny stories would be more common to children two years younger and don’t seem quite as cute in the context of a boy his age. For those of us who know him well and love him just the way he is, there is no difference. We laugh and beam with pride and find him just as entertaining as his siblings. It’s like an inside joke that only we understand. So why bother?

But that’s not fair to him at all. Especially since there actually are other perspectives or contexts in which anyone can appreciate anecdotes about Oliver.

For a long time, I’ve likened his more unusual social anxieties and his tendency to disengage at times to that of a tourist who doesn’t speak the local language. Or at least not well – possibly due to dialect. He may understand a little of what is said, but the nuances might give him the slip. He doesn’t feel safe much of the time. He doesn’t know what people want of him and what their intentions are. New people could seem nice but really have nefarious plans for him (hello, good natured lab technician who performs pediatric blood tests!) So often, when he feels unsure of himself or the situation he’s encountered, he’ll wander off – withdraw into his imagination.

I’ve frequently remarked that it sounds like he’s speaking second language – like he’s a tourist or recent arrival here. His conversations are more stilted and formal. There are more pauses and confused expressions. And much like an Ellis Island alum, he communicates through rather imperfect English. It’s not baby talk and his diction is quite good, but he mixes up his prepositions and tenses like an immigrant mixes his metaphors.

Just today at the pool when the the lifeguard called “Break!” he looked at me and said, “time to get out Mom, the pool is breaking.”

I imagine Cousin Larry Appleton and I could share many a laugh over these little gems. It’s funny! It’s adorable. And it’s worth documenting and remembering.

He’s something else.

He’s quite a character.

Now don’t get me wrong. We are doing everything we can to help him improve his communication skills so he’ll eventually catch up with his peers and engage in more intuitive, spontaneous conversation. And he’s making some amazing progress with both existing and new therapies this summer. But we’re certainly not in a holding pattern, waiting for the results.

We enjoy every day with Oliver. We think he’s spectacular. We couldn’t imagine life without him. Exactly the way he is.

“The way he is” has changed quite a bit over the past year and continues to do so at a rate that even I – the eternal optimist when it comes to Oliver’s potential – wouldn’t have dreamed possible. And just like a parent does with a typically developing child, I’m simultaneously thrilled and grieved by his advances. Probably a bit less of the latter since these changes are triumphs that can’t be taken for granted. But what can I say? I’m a mother. I miss my babies as much as I admire the people they are becoming.

Because we really do focus so much on helping Oliver gain skills, this is a common topic of conversation with people close to our family. And in that conversation, people sometimes say rather thoughtless things.

I typically try to hear these things as they are intended and don’t take offense – but I have to admit to one exception. On several occasions, different people have made a reference to “fixing Oliver.” As in, “once we get him fixed…“

I KNOW that this isn’t supposed to be degrading to my son as a person, but I can’t help it…it upsets me. And I can’t just say “ah well – semantics!” and move on. Because I know that on some level these same people do consider him defective. Broken.

And I’m not faulting them for that because technically, they aren’t entirely wrong. But I don’t take the same broad perspective. I don’t see him as needing to be fixed – I see delays or disconnects that need to be addressed. He’s not broken, but he’s different. And it’s holding him back. And we can help him.

But I don’t think we help Oliver by seeing him as a thing that needs to be repaired. Because there is one area in which he is incredibly advanced. He is very aware of how he is perceived. He feels our disappointment, our dissatisfaction, our displeasure. He knows when he fails – even if he doesn’t know why. And the wounded look in his eyes tears my heart to pieces.

My son is not a vacuum cleaner or a DVD player. He’s not useless until repaired.

Even if he didn’t make one single advance in therapy this year, he’d be just as precious – just as loved. He is kind and intelligent. He’s funny and full of charisma. He challenges us and teaches us. And he makes me a far better person than I ever would have been without him. He’s helped to heal many of my own broken pieces. He’s mended cracks and made me feel whole. And I would never dare to presume that he is any less for his differences.

So I marvel over what a beautiful boy I have and enjoy big belly laughs over his quirks and crazy English. And I hope that even if he does get fixed in the end – and no one would ever know that he was once “broken” – he’ll still retain some of his otherness. Because it’s the nicks and cracks – the rough edges and battle scars – the unique imperfections – that show our depth of character.

Good LIttle Monsters

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So much for posting every day… I really was planning to post some pictures from our trip – but our lack of a real computer (currently working with a memory-limited note pad) hasn’t provided much motivation.

In the meantime, here are some random shots that show the best part of being a mother to bad little monsters. Because when they are good…








And yes – I do consider sleeping, “being good.”

Also – want to see something side-show freaky?


Oliver was born March 30, 2005 and the twins were born October 9, 2006. They are only 18 months apart – but look at that size difference! It even startles me sometimes…

BlogHer 2010 Voices of the Year Were Announced Today! My Reaction: The Good, The Bad and The (Sad but True) Ugly

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Quick disclaimer for all of my non-blogging friends reading this: you will probably be incredibly bored by the subject…but if you skip down to the “ugly” part, I think we can all relate to some extent.First the good!When I glanced through the list of finalists this morning, I was thrilled to see that some of my very favorite bloggers (and even friends) will actually present in a couple of weeks at 2010 BlogHer Voices of the Year. I can honestly say that I’ve read pretty much every post from some of these writers (I mean – since I’ve been blogging…their pre-2008 material is before my time), and to think that they have been honored for words that made me laugh and/or cry makes me feel part of something bigger than my own little piece of Internet real estate.So the very first thing I want to do is congratulate…

Jill from Scary Mommy – Social networking and design dynamo – just try to match her. You can’t.

Marinka of Motherhood in NYC – one of the the funniest women online, hands down.

Amy of The Bitchin’ Wives Club – a perfect storm of creative talent and undeniable charisma.

(By the way – both Marinka and Amy are two out of three for the humor category. Apparently, I have very good taste in funny people.)

That’s three out of fifteen presenters. And believe me, I’m not nearly plugged in enough to be familiar with even 20% of the people whose posts were submitted. So I’m feeling quite proud on their behalf.

I can’t wait to hear them read their words on stage AND to see the art that will be auctioned off reflecting each piece.

And that’s part two of “the good!” Kirtsy has teamed up with BlogHer to curate an exhibition of works of art – each of which will represent one of the 75 posts that were finalists. These pieces will be auctioned off to benefit The Nature Conservancy and help in the long-term healing of the Gulf Coast.

One of my favorite photographers, Robin of Around The Island, will be there in spirit as her own work is shown and auctioned. Again! My friend! So proud… (She writes more about the reception HERE.)

But what about the bad? What could be bad about that?

Well – here’s the bad.

One of MY nominations that I was so confident would be in the top 15 didn’t get picked. But it’s not all bad… Anymommy (of Is There Any Mommy Out There fame) was still a finalist for Matching, and I very much look forward to seeing the art created to represent her breathtakingly poignant writing.

I could say the same of Ann from Ann’s Rants, Jessica of Bern This, Sue of Laundry for Six and Renee of But Why Mommy who were also finalists. I’m thinking it was a hard call on their entries (and I could even say that “they were robbed!” but I won’t go there…)

So yeah – many wonderful blog friends have been recognized in one way or another. I’m really happy for them – and can’t wait to tell them so in person.

But.

There’s the ugly…

I’m sorry – but I’m trying to keep it real here because…well no reason really – I just feel like it today. And lucky you – you get to hear about it!

Before I get into the muck and grime, I’ll start with a little tale about a three year old angel of a girl named Eleanor. Eleanor is a delight. She’s lovely and full of fun (and – cough, cough – my daughter) – and she is at a very impressionable age.

The other week, we were in California on vacation with my in laws who had a fantastic time being a very bad influence on my children. Late night baseball game outings…unlimited snack food that they never get at home…special presents just because they want them… You know – grandparent stuff. And one evening my sweet little girl was lucky enough to have their undivided attention. They played a kids’ bingo game with the odds drastically stacked in Eleanor’s favor.

And then the sh*t talking started.

Mama Sue: Eleanor – we’re not going to let Papa win! YOU’RE going to win.

Eleanor (very much liking this line of thought): Yeah! YOU’RE not going to win Papa. I’M going to win. You CAN’T win!

And so on and so on and so on [insert uproarious indulgent grandparental laughter here].

SO CUTE, right?

I actually thanked them at the time for my own future hell to come when faced with the next preschool gaming situation.

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and we are playing another bingo game at home (what is it with us bingo anyway? We may as well hustle on over to the community center for seniors’ night out this Friday…) Anyway – we were playing a very fair game that included Eleanor, a semi-involved George and a completely disinterested Oliver. Eleanor immediately started in with her “I’m gonna win” talk, even though her brothers couldn’t have cared less. Since no one was getting special treatment, George (who may have been in the kitchen looking for snacks at the time) won.

Chris said, “Hey look! George is the winner!” And…Eleanor fell to pieces. She really believed that she would always win. No one ever talked to her about the reality of losing. So after some piercing glares and and semi-subtle head tilting from me, Chris took Eleanor aside to talk about what it means to lose.

And as I listened, it occurred to me that the bottom line is the same for everyone regardless of age. If you lose – you have to keep trying. Don’t get mad – just try again. It’s not anyone’s favorite answer. In fact, it’s tedious at best…but it’s very simply true. You really can’t win them all. In fact you might lose them all – but you have to try to have a chance.

SO that brings me to the ugly involved in this year’s BlogHer Voices of the Year selections. As much as we are over the moon excited for the winners – it’s unavoidable that some others were very disappointed.

Because you know what? I’m one of them. And I’m hideously embarrassed to admit that.

When a good friend asked if I’d like her to submit anything for me, I honestly hadn’t considered even trying. I mean, I like what I write, and my small circle of friends and readers give me positive feedback – but I’ve never been the one picked out of the crowd. Always a bridesmaid and never a bride and all that… And really that’s been kind of fine with me because I’ve always felt far more comfortable in the faded perimeter of the spotlight.

But just the idea of submitting something of mine gave birth to “what if.” And that is a very powerful concept. So for once I was bold and asked for recognition. I forwarded two links to posts that mean a lot to me – ones that fill me with emotion when I read them – and said “send them in.” Doesn’t sound like much – but it’s a BIG deal for a mild mannered girl such as myself.

Then time passed and my “what if” was put into the proper perspective. It was a “wouldn’t that be nice – but it’s highly unlikely” (the overcompensating, insecure hope of “what if”).

Most of the time, I really didn’t consider it, but every once in a while something would be mentioned about Voices of the Year, and I’d notice that pretty little “what if” sparkling on my right hand ring finger. I’d taken it for granted, but was happy to admire it now and again.

At some point last week, I read that the 75 finalists as well as the 15 winners would be announced today. And I did something previously unthinkable.

I hoped.

I dreamed.

I even planned.

Why not? I typically live so small – what would it hurt to think big for a little while. Even knowing that disappointment was probable, couldn’t I weigh the universe in my favor with my longing? The Secret said it totally works! Ah well…I think we all let our imaginations get the best of us sometimes.

Last night when I was talking to Chris about BlogHer and the agenda (he’s in the conference planning world, so he’s actually interested), I explained how the Voices of the Year session was planned. I mentioned that I had a couple of posts submitted, “but – they’re two out of a thousand – so you know…”

His reaction was a little more positive though. He said “why not you?”

And that small part of me that wants to be bigger than I really am thought, “that’s right! Why NOT me?” So for one whole night I believed in myself. Not just “what if” – but “why not?”

Well – I don’t need to give too much detail on the obvious outcome. Even if you’re not familiar with the list of finalists, you can pretty much guess that I wasn’t one of them.

And I was disappointed. Not so much that I wasn’t one of the top 15 (remember – I like the peripheral area of the spotlight), but more so because the words that once poured directly out of my heart weren’t even an almost.

It’s not pretty – but it’s the truth. And we’ve all experienced this at some point in our lives, so I’m not afraid to put it out there. I would be very surprised if there was anyone who couldn’t relate to this on some level.

But you know what? I don’t think disappointment or jealousy or envy are so bad. They’re just feelings. And at the very best, they are a sign of trying. Of wanting. Of putting ourselves out there and risking rejection. There is honor in that. And I’m proud of my battle scars.

Envy isn’t a particularly attractive emotion – it’s even classified as a sin (one of the top seven!). But a little green eyed monster never hurts anyone if kept on a short leash (and kenneled as quickly as possible). At worst – it shows our ugly. At best, it keeps us real.

So for anyone else who felt a little “why not me” today (or even “why never me?“), I’d like to honor you for trying. It takes courage to try. You’d be surprised how many people never do.

And in return, I’d like to ask you one thing. Please read my own small attempts:

I am so proud of those words. This blog is the first real writing that I’ve ever done outside of work documents and personal e-mails. I always lived so small – never tried to be noticed. I had ideas but didn’t bother to recognize their value.Then I started a blog. A small thing really – but so big in my own cautious little world. Putting words online is literally putting yourself out there. Asking to been seen and heard – and it’s opened my eyes to endless possibility for me.I may never win anything – but I’ll keep trying. Because “what if” holds far more power then “why bother.”And what about you? I want to hear your voice too. Did you submit something there or elsewhere? Did you find out that a friend did so for you? OR did you not even try for fear of disappointment or exposure? E-mail me at bigpieceofcake@gmail.com. Send me a link to the words that make you proud, the ones that make you believe in yourself – or should. I will read them.

I still believe in myself. And I’ll probably submit something of my own next year. I hope you do the same.

Have courage. Be bold. Keep trying.

Hey – it worked for Susan Lucci.

Hot Men’s Fashions Currently Sweeping…My Family

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So I thought Eleanor was the most stubborn of my children with her insistence on wearing only dresses… But not so!

Both Oliver and George are standing firm on some of their own inconvenient (for me) fashion statements.

My oldest, Oliver, who was once rarely clothed by choice, has turned into that guy at the beach who refuses to take off his shirt. I’m not sure if it’s poor body image or poor circulation, but that boy won’t take off his damn shirt. Ever. This was kind of ridiculous at the pool – so I had to just buy him a surf shirt and be done with it.



He looks pretty cute though. Wonder if the haircut I plan to enforce on him tomorrow will ruin his scruffy surf boy look.

Then there’s George.

That feels like the theme of my life sometimes…”and then there’s George.”

Chris came back from business trip to Portland, OR recently with “Oregon” shirts for all the kids. George made the executive decision to make this shirt his daily wardrobe and scream his dog whistle shriek whenever it’s not available. I mean I have to wash it at LEAST once a week right? Anyway – here it is:


I know! Why THAT shirt? I don’t even question these things anymore. It’s just one of the arbitrary decrees that come down from Kid Parliament every now and again (why England? I don’t know – I only have five minutes to write this stuff!)

He calls it his “Letter Shirt.” I guess because of the neon letters on it? Either way, I’m disappearing it next week when we’re on vacation. The two blankies are enough. He doesn’t need a third that he can wear.

But I must say…it’s a far preferable alternative to another look he’s been known to bust out now and again. When you have a twin sister and you’re a bit too young to completely understand gender roles, tutus happen:


That kid’s two bananas away from Carmen Miranda!

George has only himself to blame for me posting that incriminating picture online. Stop drawing on my walls fifteen year old George! I don’t care if you haven’t done that in 12 years…I’m annoyed with you now. Disobey me now – suffer the consequences later. Karma’s a bitch kid.

I Think We’re Alone Now…

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…the beating of our hearts is the only sou-ound.*

Chris is sitting on our front steps with the kids right now, so I seem to have one of my five minute windows to write a little something…

You know what I’m just loving about summer vacation so far? Being with my children TWENTYFOURSEVEN! Never a dull minute, I tell you…

Well, I do find Max and Ruby kind of dull…but I don’t say anything since it might hurt feelings. The rest of the day though? Laugh-A-Minute.

The whining, the crying, the fighting, the general exactly-when-are-you-going-to-grow-out-of-that-ishness… Good times.

Here is my favorite thing that anyone said all day:

Eleanor: Mo-om! George pooped on the wa-all….

That little rapscallion… What WILL I do with him?

And that’s just the twins. Oliver had me in stitches all day with his antics. Running in front of that truck in the Target parking lot…taking his seat belt off while I was driving 65 miles an hour on the Beltway… Hot on the heels of locking himself in the car in 90 degree weather while I frantically searched the neighborhood for him. Stop it Oliver! You’re killing me! I’m serious.

I thought that we could all use a break from the hilarity sometime in the late morning – so I dragged everyone to the YMCA. They ran around the kids’ gym while I took a pilates class. The first pilates class I’ve ever taken, I might add. And let me tell you – I feel great! I’m hoping that I might actually be able to walk again tomorrow.

Since I didn’t want to set the bar TOO high for our summer fun – I thought we’d better skip the community pool today. And they were all pretty cool about it. After a Valium and five popsicles, Eleanor took this minor disappointment in stride.

We really had to save our strength anyway since this is the second week of Oliver’s auditory processing therapy in Bethesda, MD. And we had that rush hour commute to look forward to.

I don’t know what I enjoyed more… Eleanor having a pee pee accident in the car on the way there with no change of clothes…or Oliver spilling ice cream soup all over himself on the way back. Oliver has an edge since his mess was the result of him shoving his fist into the cup to make this really cool squelching noise…. But no…no, George gets a gold star for the day with his shrieks of frustration over anyone trying to interrupt him. When he was ONLY talking nonstop the whole way there and the whole way back.

They had me at pooped on the wall. They complete me.

Seriously though – I do love those little boogers. And they really did have just as many adorable moments of brilliance today. I can’t remember any at the moment…but they happened. And I’ll treasure them always.

*This post was sponsored by Tiffany and Prozac.

The Worst Fear (Alternatively Titled: Oliver’s Grandmothers Probably Shouldn’t Read This)

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Since I’m fairly certain said grandmothers have not heeded my advice, I’d just like to put it out there that everyone is OKAY.

With the exception of maybe me… Though my robotic ability to shut down emotions when they threaten to render me unable to cease crying for the rest of my life did kick in about five minutes into my nervous breakdown. So that’s good.

This talent of mine serves me well because at the core, I’m a very fearful person. I worry about everything. When I was little I would worry about tidal waves and twisters. I worried about nuclear war and my parents dying. I had night terrors and no matter how irrational, I couldn’t stand next to my bed after dark without imagining a hand reaching out from under to grab my ankle. The world was fraught with danger and I was keenly aware of every awful thing that could possibly happen to me. I saw shark infested waters – both literally and figuratively.

So now, I disconnect. I just don’t think about it anymore. I simply don’t have time. I have too much to juggle and it’s made me very practical. I’m a good person to have around in a crisis. I’m calm and analytical. I wait to hear all the facts before forming an opinion. And I don’t consider the worst until the truth grabs me by the neck and slams me against the wall. Even then I’ll hold it together. For me, it’s a matter of survival.

But we all have our breaking point. And I hit mine yesterday when for about five to ten minutes in the late morning, I lost Oliver. Meaning, I searched my immediate neighborhood and I couldn’t find him anywhere.

One minute I was walking in my front door to get Eleanor a cup of water and the next I was racing around our block, frantically calling his name.

When I left him, he was sitting about ten feet away from our house in (of course) a patch of dirt. He was drinking the first cup of water I brought out for Eleanor since he drained his own so quickly that I just gave him hers and ran back in to get more.

When I stepped back outside, I found George engrossed in turning on the water for the garden hose and the absence of Oliver. A yellow plastic cup lay on its side on the patch of dirt. No spills – no mud. He drank all of it.

Ignoring Eleanor’s constant chatter behind me, I asked George to turn OFF the water – he knows that he’s not allowed to play with the hose – and WHERE did Oliver go.

My younger son pointed vaguely down the block and said, “down the hill.” It was obvious that George had no idea where his brother went, but I started walking in that direction. It was as good as any other.

Oliver tends to wander off. Never far, and typically to predictable locations, but I always have that brief pang of “what if?” The one that we barely register since it borders on unnecessary drama and fully crosses the line of unlikely. And by the time it could possibly gather momentum, the child appears – blissfully ignorant of the big bad world and its predators lurking behind every theoretical corner. Then we yell or hug or get distracted by another child. But the resonance of that pang stays with us long enough for a glimpse of perspective. What truly matters in our lives. Those lost earrings become a welcome price to pay – the trade off for this moment of relief. So lucky…a charmed life I’m living, really.

But when I reached the end of our townhouse row and turned the corner, my child wasn’t there.

And when I turned the next corner, he still wasn’t there. Or the next corner. Or the next. And suddenly, I was back where I started.

I looked at the strange men doing landscaping and noticed for the first time that they all drive vans. Then I asked George again, “WHERE did Oliver go? Is he inside?” Before even hearing his answer, I crossed the street to look in the good climbing tree. Then I doubled back to try the path to the bridge where we throw rocks in the water. Our neighbor was walking his dog there and said he hadn’t seen Oliver. So I went up another set of steps that would lead me back to the area behind our house.

Then I quickly returned to the front and ran into the house, still calling for him. Eleanor said he wasn’t there but I kept calling. At the door to the basement, I heard how hoarse my voice sounded. I didn’t notice that I was still holding Eleanor’s second cup of water until I hurled it down the stairs.

Back outside. More searching.

Too much walking and running and calling “Oliver…Oliver…OLIVER…OLIVER…OLIVEROLIVEROLIVER!” The twins echoed my calls and I realized that they were now both on the front lawn, trying to aid me in my search. Within minutes they would be lost in the neighborhood too, so I pushed-dragged them to my friend’s house two doors down, and barked, “stay there I don’t know where Oliver is stay THERE!”

We had all been at this house earlier for a casual brunch, and several other mothers were still there. My friend asked if she should call the police and I think I said yes – but I may have just showed her the yellow cup in the patch of dirt. Because he was JUST there a minute ago.

But more than a minute had now passed. Many minutes. Too many. And with each one, the vapor of “unlikely” continued to gain substance. I ran back across the street and through another cul de sac, distantly aware of other voices calling my son’s name.

It was only when I was looking down a hill at the nearby creek that I heard my name. Someone (or everyone) was calling for me. And that meant they found him. It never occurred to me that it could have been anything else. Anything else would be unbearable.

As I rushed back up the street and my house came into view, I saw another neighbor helping Oliver step out of my car. MY CAR. He was in my car.

Me – the city girl who once never left her car unlocked for a single minute. Not even to run into the house for forgotten sunglasses. Because leaving a car unlocked meant that strangers could get in. Maybe steal it. At the very least, pilfer the meter change hidden away in the glove compartment. That city girl, now lulled by her quiet suburban neighborhood and distracted by multiple children let locked car doors fall off the radar. Constant vigilance was reserved for boiling pots of water on the stove and cleaning fluids locked under the sink. Not the car.

And my five year old son climbed into a black Ford Expedition with tinted windows and child safety locks in 90 degree weather.

If one of my friends hadn’t seen a flicker of movement, who knows how long it would have taken for me to find him there. And what that could have meant.

Let’s play hide and seek mommy! Where’s Oliver…

That is real fear. The vampires and sharks of my childhood look like Smurfs and Care Bears when pitted against the fear of losing my child.

I barely said thank you to the people who helped me search for Oliver as I silently led him into the house. And the minute the door closed, I burst into tears. I was SO scared. I couldn’t find you. You were LOST.

I could have yelled or spanked him. I could have sent him to his room for the rest of the day. I could have held him tight and asked if he was okay, told him everything would be alright. I’m here now. Mommy’s here.

Instead I sat and cried and said I was scared. So scared.

At first he laughed. The nervous laughter we’ve all experienced when faced by something impossible. It wasn’t just a crack in his mother’s composure. I dissolved before his eyes. I fell to pieces and I couldn’t help myself.

But I think this probably made more of an impact. If he was scared while locked in the car, he didn’t show it. He has his own walls – his own habits of disconnecting with reality. But he too has a breaking point, and apparently, it’s me. We both cried and said we were scared. And said we were sorry.

Then joined by the twins, we fell into a teary, sweaty heap in front of the TV and decided not to leave the house until it was time for Oliver’s therapy appointment.

I sat with all three of my children and basked the luxury of knowing that they were safe. Nothing bad could happen to them in that moment – I could protect them with four walls, air conditioning and the tedium of passive parenting. With my physical presence. As long as we could see each other, nothing could touch us.

Hours passed, therapy was received, and commuter traffic was endured. And when we returned to the slower speed limit of our neighborhood, the last traces of our anxiety dropped away. I opened the windows and turned up the radio. Warm air rushed in to remove the chill of fear.

In my side mirror I saw Oliver putting his hand out the window to feel the breeze. Part of me thought, “keep arms and legs in the vehicle at all times…” but I remember pushing my own palm against the wind when I was his age. No tree limbs or other cars ever came close enough to hurt me. I never worried about that. Earthquakes maybe…but not losing my hand to swerving motorcyclist.

So I decided not to worry about it now. I put my own hand out the window and felt the pressure of wind. My own flesh and bone, solid and invincible against the blast. With a little tension and concentration, I couldn’t be moved. I could even push back.

The what ifs will never go away. They linger on the edges of our every movement, decision, omission… And sometimes they catch up with us. There is always a terrible story to hear. To simultaneously feel sorrow for others and immense gratitude for our own luck, grace, karma.

I once read a brilliant line about what it means to become a parent. While the source left my memory long ago, the sentiment stayed with me – that someone’s child was born and “fate took a hostage.”

Every day I feel the truth of this. And it humbles me. I have to take responsibility for my power and accept my powerlessness and ultimately just hope that my luck will hold.

And I do that every day. I guess we all do.

It’s a charmed life I’m living. Really.