Spinning Yellow

That Kid, Son of That Mom

When Scott was younger and we were out and about, he would often draw the attention of those around him.  He was the kid who took someone else's toy, or threw a fit in music class, or perhaps tackled someone.  He stood out.  It wasn't intentional, he just didn't fit in easily and was quirky, noticeable.  The boy who always wore a baseball hat and ran around in circles at My Gym.

There was this day, when he was just over 3 and Jane was an infant, that I always think of as indicative of his life, our life, at least at the time.  We had a birthday party to go to and then an event at a preschool, the one he was supposed to attend for summer camp and then in the fall.  It was a busy, frantic day, rushing from one event to the other that included missed lunch, rushed nursing and a skipped nap.

Over and over, things went wrong.  Scott was scolded (and me too) at the birthday party because he was putting a handheld fan in a kid's hair.  When we arrived at the carnival, he saw a kid he knew and raced after them, only to push the girl into the pavement.  He was afraid of the bouncy rides and didn't want to take off his shoes.  At one point he was playing in a big sandbox with some other kids.  The children built a large sand pile using dump trucks, working hard for 10 minutes or so, while Scott stood off to the side watching.  Once the boys were finished, Scott took a flying leap right onto the top of their sand structure, flattening it.

An older woman, probably a grandma, who was next too me, cried out, "That's awful!  The kids worked so hard on that!  Who's kid is that, anyway?"  I sheepishly looked down at the stroller with Jane in it and muttered, "That kid is my son.  He wasn't trying to be mean, he was just playing."  And I quickly gathered up Scott and made a beeline out of there.  I have to put in a side note here that one of my friends later said, I should have looked around puzzled and said, "I don't know, the little bastard," pretending he wasn't my kid (I wish I had thought of that!).

I can't help but think about these events, even though this kind of thing rarely happens now.  I do still hold me breath when Scott is in a group of kids, wondering if he will be too rough, or too emotional.  And I am beginning to think I will be That Mom, not the one that Her Bad Mother wrote about so hysterically (I just searched for the post and could not find it, it was hilarious, so you'll have to take my word on it), but the one that, at his high school graduation says something like, "Back when he was four and loved the color yellow and couldn't poop during the day, we never thought he'd graduate from preschool, let alone high school!"  You know That Mom, the one who tells embarrassing things about their kids because she just can't come to terms with the fact that the kids have grown up, are not babies anymore.

But, what I've realized lately, is that he is still getting noticed as That Kid.  But instead of hearing, "There's the kid who hit me on the playground", I hear, "That kid is really fast, look at him play!"  And dads will say to me, "He's quite an athlete."  And moms will say to me, "He's so cute with that curly hair."

And Matt and I will worry if things aren't going well, knowing how intense he can be.  We are concerned about the fallout from a game lost or an event that doesn't go his way.  But we still hope for the moments when he is noticed for his talents.

Like when Matt took him to the baseball evaluations last week and he threw perfect pitches.  Every one right over the base, as hard and as fast as any kid his age could possibly throw.  Going all out, of course.  The other dads smiling and looking at Matt, "That kid has quite an arm," they remarked, enviously.

Or today, when the basketball game was tied, and went into the second overtime.  Scott taking the ball up and going for the shot, over and over again.  So intense, so determined.  The other team scoring with less than 10 seconds to play.  Scott, the point guard, dribbled the ball around the side and went for it.  Sinking a basket in the last second.  He wasn't going to let that other team win.  He was completely in the moment.  The play maker. The game winner.  That Kid.

Two men next to me, who had entered the gym for the next game, yelled out, "Wow, what a shot!  That was unbelievable!"  And I couldn't help but exclaim proudly, "That's my kid!"

Yep, I'm That Mom.

Fire Drill Clairvoyant

Yesterday was one of those unseasonable warm days that we typically get once or twice during the winter. As Scott was getting ready for school and doing his usual complaining and stressing about the day ahead, I was thinking about the nice weather.

"At least you'll have outdoor recess today!" I said, cheerfully. Then I added, before really thinking it through, "Maybe you'll have a fire drill."

"Why?"

"Because it is warm and the school has to get in a certain number of fire drills for the year, so this is a good day to do it. When Grammy had the day care, this is the kind of day when she would have a fire drill. Well, if the fire alarm goes off, you'll know that it's most likely just a drill, and not a real fire or anything. Plus, you'll get to go outside and it will take up some of the time when you'd ordinarily be doing school work."

Scott mulled this over for a bit and then started in with his typical concerns. They wouldn't be allowed to play football at recess, school is boring, he'd have to sit next to the kid that bugs him, he didn't want to play on the blacktop where some kid threw up (in, like, December, I think), on and on.

"I don't want there to be a fire drill," he moaned. "I hate school. I don't feel well. My stomach hurts. I think I should stay home."

"Nope. Time to go catch the bus. You'll be fine."

This is a fairly typical morning for us, so I didn't think too much about it as I went on about my day.

Scott has been on edge lately. We can always tell when things are getting bad because we start yelling at him more, sending him to his room, and arguing about everything. He's been grumpy, or perhaps I should say, he's been grumpier than usual, which is pretty crabby to being with.

He's been sick with the coughing thing he gets every year and also a fever thing that kept him out a few days. And this school year is so dull. The work is easy and his teacher is lame. She's not bad, but she's far from good and he knows it. He feels like he is biding his time, waiting for summer. He's been talking about germs again and other things. The stuff he frets over, obsesses about.

While I was driving home from preschool with the girls in the car, I got a call from the school nurse telling me Scott was in her office pacing around saying his stomach hurt. He didn't have a fever and didn't feel like he was going to throw up, but he seemed out of sorts. I told her I thought he was anxious, concerned about a possible fire drill and maybe about recess and whether they'd be able to play football. I talked to him and he pleaded to go home, but I said, no, I had the girls, he had to stick it out, he'd be alright. We hung up.

As soon as I walked in the door at home, my cell phone rang again. It was the school nurse. What, so soon? Did he throw up? No, she said, she just wanted to know why he was worried about a fire drill. Was it the noise? Or something else, because, that's right, they were, in fact, going to have a fire drill! Nobody knew but her because the principal just told her.

"You have to warn him!" I demanded, then backed off. "Can you tell him? I mean, he's mostly just concerned about not knowing, the anticipation, and whether it is real or not." Then I remembered, "He used to have it in his IEP, in Kindergarten, to be warned, because he is anxious and the noise and the confusion, the unexpectedness, it scares him."

She told me she'd talk to the principal and I said I thought Scott now sees her as an ally and that she might need to put me on speed dial because he gets the worry bug a lot.

I immediately went to the computer and started Twittering. And, of course, the tweeps responded, assuring me that I had done the right thing and that the school would prepare him.

I felt, as I do so often, like I was walking the line. How much do I interfere? He needs to learn how to get by without special exceptions and yet, he really needs help sometimes. Am I doing too much or too little? Should I push for an IEP for the anxiety and the OCD? Or do I just keep plodding along, hoping he can mange, taking each situation as it comes?

School is so difficult for Scott. The bathrooms, the lunch, the kids who talk too much, or get in his personal space, the ever present germs, the teacher who might yell at him. All of this is overwhelming, and, yet, he is excelling. He just got his second marking period progress report and it was all S's and +'s. Not one area or subject that he isn't mastering. But all the other parts of school are a nightmare for him.

I made a few phone calls and was able to get my sister who offered to have her son, Scott's favorite cousin, come over for a bit after school as a special treat. As soon as Scott got home we went to pick up my nephew.

"So, did you have a fire drill? Did anyone tell you beforehand?" I asked Scott after he got off the bus.

"The nurse came in at lunch and told me. She said it was a secret and I couldn't tell the other kids, so when the alarm went off, I knew it was just a drill."

"Oh, that's good. How was the rest of your day?"

"You know, it's funny, after the nurse told me that, my stomach didn't hurt anymore."

"Hmmm. Do you think that maybe you weren't really sick and maybe it was just the worry bug?" I tried not to sound smug.

"Yep. I guess so. Well, and before I went to the nurse's office I was in the bathroom and that kid with the acid reflux came in and he does that thing where he kind of throws up in the sink and it grosses me out and he doesn't even wash his hands."

Yuck

"Yeah, I can see why that bothers you. Maybe you can use another bathroom?" I tried to think of other solutions. I mean, would you want to use the bathroom if you thought someone might come in and throw up in the sink?

God damn it is hard to be a kid sometimes.

But he's going to make it through.

And the next time I forsee a fire drill, I'm keeping my mouth shut.

Say Something

"Say something, say something, anything

I've shown you everything

Give me a sign

Say something, say something, anything

Your silence is deafening

Pay me in kind"

James

So ..... I haven't been posting here, obviously. And I never know exactly how to get back into blogging when I've fallen off the wagon. Do I explain why I haven't blogged? Do I try to make excuses? Do I just ignore the fact that I haven't written anything in over two months and write whatever?

I started this blog nearly two years ago because I had a story to tell. But before I detailed that ordeal, I started writing about what was happening in my life in the moment. And I realized, quickly, the true essence of blogging. The real time sharing, the community of readers and writers. I was hooked.

But. Over time I've also become somewhat disenchanted. My insecurities flaring up, telling me: you are not a writer. you've said everything you have to say. you have become redundant. you are not good enough. you do not deserve this space or an audience.

All of that is true. And at the same time not true at all.

I might not be schooled in writing but I am nonetheless writing. I've said what I originally set out to say, but I always (just ask anyone who knows me in real life) have more to say (my parent's used to call me Lori-Last-Word because I never stopped talking). Sure, I repeat myself, and I have common themes that resurface here, but so do all bloggers (and all writers, come to think of it). And it is absolutely true that I hold company with people who are far better writers than I am. Woman, mostly, who amazing me every day with their prose. But that doesn't mean that what I have to say, the content of my posts, matters any less.

I can't decide if I would be more upset if no one reads here anymore or if people do read this. Because then I will feel guilty for my lack of good blogging citizenship. For not reading and commenting on others' blogs.

I simply cannot keep up. As a person who is prone to being overwhelmed to begin with, blogging presents a most difficult challenge. It is so time-consuming. And emotionally exhausting. I never need ideas for what to write about, quite the opposite, I have so many things I want to post that I can never decide what to go with. I find myself agonizing endlessly about posts I never wrote, stories I didn't get to, opinions never expressed.

But my life is immensely richer for having started this blog. For writing here and forging the relationships that I have.

I've been in a funk. Well, now I am passed the worst part of it. I go through bouts of depression. Times when I feel inadequate and hopeless. At forty, I can spot these episodes easily, and I know what to do to get out of them.

You start by doing something, anything. Taking a walk. Calling a friend. Cleaning out a drawer. Something to get you moving, so you feel alive, no matter how little. Just enough to get a tiny bit of momentum. Because one step always leads to more. Always.

So, I am back to running. I am in my second official week of training for the half marathon that I did last year and signed up for again. This time, though, I am also back to doing my workout videos on non-running days.

I knew if I could just get started, I would be alright again.

And so it goes here.

Say something. Anything.

Now I know I can take another step.