Exercise, mental health, and butt scratching

I wrote a post today for Erasing the Distance's blog. Wait...you've never read Erasing the Distance's blog, you say? Well, what are you waiting for? Check out my post, and then take a look around. Explore. Read up on ETD. We are a pretty cool organization, if I do say so myself.

And for those of you that only read this blog to hear funny anecdotes about my kids and really wish I'd stop talking about ME, here's a little tie-in nugget for ya...

Sophie: "My friend Margot cries when we eat peaches at school, and I don't know WHY! That's just crazy."
Me: "Well, it's not "crazy" - it just means she probably doesn't like peaches."
Soph: "But peaches are YUMMY!"
Me: "Well, I think so too...but not everybody likes peaches. Different people like different things."
Soph: "You mean like how I like to scratch-a my butt but other people don't like to watch me do dat?"
Me: "Um...well...yes, that's exactly what I mean."

When you crawl around inside my brain, it tickles!

My friend Gen turned me onto this blog entry by playwright Catherine Trieschmann. Not only is the post exceptionally written, but I actually gasped out loud the first time I read it. While I recognize that juggling life and motherhood is a (sadly) common struggle, the author's specific insight into the challenges of raising a family while working in theater was particularly resonant for me. It was as if this woman had climbed into my brain, ripped out all the festering frustration and helplessness over how to balance being a mother and an artist, and rearranged the jumbled mess into a perfectly crafted missive.

What an odd experience to realize that, in many ways, a complete stranger knows me more intimately than some of my closest family and friends.

Thank you, Ms. Trieschmann, for allowing me to express myself through your beautiful words.

Latelys

Lately, Sophie has started adopting the phrase "speaking of..." into her vocabulary. Once in awhile, almost by accident, she uses it correctly. For example, I was talking about the zoo and she said, "Speaking of the zoo, can we go see the elephants when we get there?"

But usually she shortens the whole phrase and/or uses it incorrectly, yet always with this focused, thoughtful look on her face that conveys just how much she's trying to converse on an adult level. Sample exchanges from this morning:

Me: "What would you like for breakfast?"
Sophie: "Speaking of...can you read me a book?"

Me: "Clear your plate, please."
Sophie: "Speaking...it looks like it raining outside."

Me: "It's cold today, isn't it?"
Sophie: "Speaking of dat...I gotta poop!"

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Lately, Emma's robust ego seems to have taken a hit. She's doing okay in school and likes her teacher a lot, but her self-esteem isn't as healthy as usual due to a number of things - new environment, new kids, lack of old friends, harder curriculum, etc. She was scared to go to school this morning because she's convinced she'll get a zero on her reading test and the teacher will kick her out of class. The other day, she told Chris that everybody thinks her best friend is pretty and they want to be her friend, and nobody thinks Emma's pretty or wants to be her friend. It makes me so sad to hear my normally (over)confident daughter talking like this...not only because I hate hearing her unhappy, but also because I fear it is only the beginning of voluminous amounts of self-doubt to come as she grows older.

However, I was bolstered to hear her typical self-belief emerge in the car yesterday while playing with her sister. Although, per usual with Emma, she took it just a little too far.

Sophie: "I don't want to play that game."
Emma: "Yes, you DO! This is MY world and I make the rules!"
Me: "Em, what are you talking about? You don't control the whole world."
Emma: "I don't mean EVERYBODY'S world, Mom. Just YOUR world and SOPHIE'S world. Duh."

Hello, second grade. Nice to meet ya.

Last Tuesday was Emma's first day of second grade.

I rise at 6am so I can sneak in a shower before the rest of the family becomes conscious. After dressing and a little primping (I get nervous on the first day of school too...meeting the teacher, seeing other parents, etc.), I walk quietly into Em's room and mentally prepare myself for whatever spew of fury she might unleash on me upon her awakening. Technically, we have slept in this morning - normally the bus arrives at 6:30am, which means we rise very early indeed. But regardless of whatever extra minutes have been stolen because we are driving to school this day, history indicates that Emma will not be thankful. She HATES not being allowed to awaken on her own, and being the one tasked with getting her up and ready is not a job for the faint of heart. I take a deep breath and shake her gently.

For once, she doesn't whine or growl or moan or burrow under her bed or burst into wails of protest at the horrible cruelty of being forced awake at such a ridiculous hour. She simply stands and heads to the bathroom. I silently thank the first-day-of-school gods for this rare occurrence and walk to the kitchen, where Chris is making Emma breakfast. He has decided to take the day off work so he can hang at home with the little one while I accompany Emma to school without the distraction of my ever-present shadow, Sophie P. Once Em is fed, brushed and dressed, we grab her book bag, lunch and 5 lb. sack of school supplies (I am not kidding...that sucker was HEAVY) and head outside for the obligatory first-day-of-school-posed-pic before hitting the road.

We pick up her best friend O, O's mom and little sister on the way. By the time I drop Em off at school, find parking (impossible), lug the 5lb bag of supplies and my own sorry butt several blocks to the school, ask three different people where the second grade pod is, and find my way to where I am supposed to be, all the students have already been sorted (kind of like in Harry Potter, minus the hat) and I have missed it all. My grand plan of holding Em's hand during the class assignments and consoling her if she is separated from her best friend has gone up in smoke. I discover Em already sitting at a table in her new classroom with a shell-shocked look on her face. Her eyes are bigger than saucers as she catches me in her gaze, waves me over and says in a voice edging toward panic, "O isn't in my class. None of my friends are in my class."

At first glance, it appears true. Virtually none of her friends from first grade are in her class this year. Weird. Bad. Exactly what we feared! Seriously, Em has had nightmares for weeks about this. Oh no. Still, she holds it together pretty well. We listen to her new teacher, Mrs. Whitfield, explain how school will work this year, and I see Em relax a bit as she focuses in on what her teacher is saying. Mrs. Whitfield appears tough and no-nonsense, but also warm and caring. I watch her in action and marvel at how this tiny, lone woman manages to corral 30 seven-year-olds when I can barely handle one. I stay for awhile, help the kids get their school supplies filed away. I am tasked with aiding four kids with lunch money and one table of students with labeling folders. I complete neither task, because children are constantly pulling at me, shouting "Hey, you!" and "Mrs. Jen" and "Parent!" while asking me questions about this, that and the other. Mrs. Whitfield is very gracious when I inform her of my failure, and I wonder again how she keeps everything running (relatively) smoothly and finds time to clean up after parents like me who fail to finish the tiny assignments they are given. I feel good about this teacher, and I hope that Emma does too.

Suddenly, it is 9am. I've been helping for an hour, and now it is time to go. The school has not-so-politely requested that all parents get the heck out of dodge. Em is clingy as I hug her goodbye, and I fear she is going to break down. But she rallies as I whisper in her ear, "I am so proud of you, my little second grader, and I will see you when you get home." Then I flee the scene before either of us starts bawling in the middle of Pod 221. I am actually wearing mascara for once, so bursting into tears would be a disaster on more than one level.

I go about the rest of the day as best I can. I get Sophie to preschool, eat a lovely brunch with husband, enjoy a divine and much-needed nap. But all the while, I worry worry worry about whether or not Em is having a good day. I receive the most fabulous news ever around midday - that Em's new morning bus pick up this year is 7:14am! - which bolsters me for awhile. But as the hours tick by, my anxiety grows.

Chris is the one who gathers Em from the bus stop. He takes her for a celebratory slushie before arriving home. The minute they walk through the door, I know all will be okay. Em has a huge smile on her face, and she declares that she LOVES LOVES LOVES her teacher Mrs. Maria. (How cool, that she lets them call her by her first name? This sort of makes me love her too.) Emma is bouncing around, full of excitement. I sigh a huge breath of relief and settle down to hear all about the fabulous day of this glorious second-grader of mine.