It has recently come to light that a member of my family is hopelessly addicted to a powerful substance, one that has such a grip on this person that it even disrupts her sleep.  She wakes several times a night for a quick fix, though during the day she is able to function normally, if a bit crabbily.

Yes, my boobie milk is that good.

Paige has recently regressed to the newborn stage, where she insists upon waking every hour to have a wee sip of breast milk. I know that her waking is not out of hunger. She eats heartily at dinner, especially now that she's added some table food to her diet. And many nights John puts her to bed with a nice fat bottle of formula. But still, from about 11 o'clock on, she insists on waking and fussing until I let her nurse. She latches on for about 5 minutes and then goes right back out. And it's getting very very old. Very very very old.

I know, I know, I'm a sucker. If I wasn't so wimpy, I'd be a mama with a backbone who makes her too-old-to-nurse-every-hour 9 month old cry it out. But I've always had trouble with that technique. Something in me just won't let me leave my babies bawling and wondering why I'm not coming to the rescue. I have no problem with the technique itself; I just can't seem to follow through.

So I'm walking around rather blearily these days, biting everyone's heads off over the slightest indiscretions.

This hasn't been the best of weeks anyway. We've been casually browsing real estate a nearby town, and I've developed new house fever.  Right now it's about a 30 minute drive to and from Owen's school, and since we want all the kids to attend there, it makes sense to move closer, especially since we're past ready for more space anyway. But realistically, we won't be ready, financially or otherwise, to move until at least the spring. I've worked myself into a lather over a couple of perfect houses I've come across in my browsing, lying in bed wracked with angst that we can't do anything about these perfect houses. So I've decided to stop looking for awhile and trust that the right house will appear when we're ready for it. (It will appear, right? RIGHT?)

Another not-so-great part of this week: an email from Owen's teacher asking about his noise sensitivity. She told me that he's been falling apart before the intercom comes on in the morning and in the afternoon, crying and covering his ears. Apparently he also lost it during class, as well, when his reading teacher used an electronic timer during their classwork. We knew that the intercom was bothering him, but he had not shared with us that he'd been as upset as his teacher indicated he was, and it breaks my heart that he has been struggling with this on his own. That he hasn't told us tells how scared he's been shows me that he's trying hard to work through it and that he's a little embarrassed. Poor kid. We do have an appointment set up with a child psych that a friend recommended. I'm hoping it will help. This anxiety is only getting worse, and I'm afraid of what it will grow into if we don't teach Owen to cope now.

And to top it off, it's been over 100 degrees every day this week. Dog days for sure. Yipp-flippin'-ee.

His first at-school meltdown. Oh just rip my heart out and mail it to the top of Kilimanjaro. It did me in. I'm likely to homeschool him from here on out. If only homeschooling didn't require any discipline on my part, I'm sure I could do it.

Many moms of elementary schoolers are probably already familiar with the "stoplight" system of discipline in the lower grades, but in case you're not savvy, here's an overview: Staying on green is the goal. Every kid has a stoplight and a clothespin. The pin starts out on green every day. If a child misbehaves, he gets an "X" on his behavior card. In our school, 4 X's mean the child's pin moves to yellow. Staying on green all week results in the much coveted trip to the treasure box on Friday.

Yesterday John picked Owen up from school. When they got home, Owen blew past me, shirttail out, shoes untied, and went to his room calling back to me, "I gotta unpack my bookbag!" I was puzzled, as he usually stops to say hello and blather about his day for a bit before moving on to anything else. When John passed me, he gave me a dark look. Something was amiss.

Before going back to check on him, I learned from John that Owen had gotten an "X" on his card. Just one. No change to his "green" status, just one little "X." This, apparently, was NOT okay with our little rule Nazi. In fact, it fairly undid him, and, John reported, he bawled all the way home from school. Sigh.

So I had a little chat with Owen, and he told me (after some snuffling and a round of fresh tears) that he'd been playing with his glasses when he was supposed to be doing something else, so the teacher had given him an "X." He got so upset about it, the teacher sent him to the restroom to calm down. I hugged him, wiped his eyes, and explained that everyone makes mistakes, told him that what happened was no big deal and one "X" wasn't the end of the world. I said that know he knew that he needed to listen closely to what the teacher wants him to do. He seemed much better after realizing we weren't disappointed in him.

I'm not sure which part of this is most painful to me. To imagine him feeling ashamed and humiliated and embarrassed with no one to turn to is gut wrenching. That he had to leave the classroom to get himself together is the saddest thing ever. And that he ran past me to unpack his bookbag before I could see any evidence of his "X" bothers me. Did he think we'd be angry about one little mistake? Does he see us as that hard nosed?

My reaction to this relatively small incident is so first-time mom of me, I know. But all of this letting them step into the world alone stuff is hard as hell. What's hardest for me is standing by while he faces moments of sadness or embarrassment or loneliness by himself, without us there to turn to. It's necessary, of course. But he's only 5, and that first push out of the nest is damn hard.

I'm sure I'll feel this way again, as we reach other milestones. Like college. Holy crap, college. Maybe if I start brushing up now, I'll be smart enough to homeschool him to a BA.

I made a person. A real, live person with a life independent of mine, who goes on about his day while I go on about mine, our paths crossing only in the afternoon, at the end of the day. Someone whose peers will now influence him almost as much as I do, whose teacher will know things about him that I don't. A person with an inner life who is, as I type, sitting alone in a room full of strangers, calling up all of his young emotional resources to adjust to a new place, a longer day, new friends and authority figures. A person who's doing very well with his first year of big kid school. Mostly.

I have been trying to write this post since Wednesday, Owen's first day, but my computer is acting wonky again, and I don't have time to take it over to tech services. But it's almost better to have a few days under my belt, a bit of perspective. I was fine when I dropped him off on Wednesday (maybe a wee bit sentimental), and he was fine, too. I looked back once as I walked to car after delivering him to his teacher, and he wasn't watching me, just sitting among the other kindergarteners on his new red and blue nap mat with a bravely stoic expression, that look we get when we're somewhere new, a little disoriented, and don't really know what to do with ourselves. He gazed around kind of blankly, waved when I finally caught his eye and gave me a small smile.  Part of me wanted to run back and scoop him up, spare him those first few awkward days. I just kept thinking, he's only FIVE years old, and I'm leaving him in this brand new place with all of these strangers. Adjustments like that are scary even for grown-ups. It amazes me how he's taking it in stride.

So far his favorite things about kindergarten are art, recess, reading, and the discipline system, since his teacher rewards good behavior with a weekly trip to her "treasure chest" to pick a prize. He's striving with all his might to earn that damn treasure, so I guess the system works.

However. I'm also afraid what I feared may be happening. Remember the post about Owen's fear, where I predicted the conversation we'd have if he found a noise to be anxious about at school? That conversation happened this morning, almost word for word as I imagined it. But it's not a school bell that's bothering him, it's the building's intercom system. It startles him when it comes on with morning announcements and to call the kids' names for carpool. On the way to school this morning he said, "Mommy, I want to stay home and do fun things with you." Shit.
 
When he came home on the first day, he announced that they had a "speaker" in his classroom, then assured us that he wasn't scared of it at all. Not me. Uh uh. No way. But that's how his anxiety starts: first he denies it, fights it, tries to pretend he's not feeling it--hoping to get past it, I suppose. So when he tells me he's not afraid, he really means, "I'm very worried." Then it escalates. The second day he mentioned the intercom again, still claiming to be fine with it. Then this morning.

I knew why he wanted to stay with me, so I saved him having to tell me and asked, "What's bothering you? The speaker?" He said, "You got it!" Sigh. I told him he couldn't stay home, that he'd have a very sad and boring life if he let noises keep him home because noises were everywhere. I explained that every child in his class had something he or she was trying to get used to, even if no one else was worried about the speaker, and that everyone would feel more comfortable in a few days. I told him that the intercom was a very small part of a really fun day and he shouldn't let one part of the day ruin the rest of it. I assuaged him for now. I only hope his anxiety doesn't grow further.

I hate that his worry about that stupid speaker is complicating his adjustment to kindergarten. I wish we'd gotten in touch with a child psych before school started. I wish he could be reasonable about the whole thing and overcome it. Because when I imagine him, alive for only five years, on his own at real school for the first time, waiting for me to pick him up in carpool with his hands clapped over his ears and that alarmed expression on his face that makes him look like almost like a baby again, it breaks my heart. Why does life have to get harder? Why does it have to pull us farther and farther apart, separate an anxious five year old from his mother?

But truly, I know why, and I'm proud of him for doing as well as he's done so far. I'm proud of him for going without hysteria and tears today, for trying to listen to me and get past his fear. He left the car this morning with a quick hug, and I could almost see him brace himself for the day. That's one "first" I didn't expect--his first public face. The first mask he'd wear for everyone else. The first year he's old enough to realize that sometimes we have to grin and bear it, even if the grin masks fear.

    

Entertain himself for hours taping handmade price tags to our belongings. (TV: $400, Lamp: $6.00, Exersaucer: $50.00, Entire Bathroom: $600.00)

Offer a tutorial to the savviest of technophiles on the little-known features of the digital cable remote. (I bet you don't know how to sort your favorite programs by theme)

Follow his mother through the Dollar Store begging (and I mean a GROVELING begging ) for a suction-cup car sign (ala "Baby on Board") that reads "Bad Cop. No Donut." (The kid loves signs)

Memorize the school day schedule (down to the minute) after seeing it only once and then rattle it off to any passers-by who happen to make the mistake of asking if he's starting kindergarten this year. (He's most excited about the TWO recesses)

Bring his own gumball machine along when eating dinner out in case the restaurant doesn't have a gumball machine wherein he can spend his quarters. (Tonight he decided to spend them on a skill crane instead)

Ask for Tootsie Rolls for breakfast and when denied suggest popsicles as his second choice. (He settled for Cinnamon Life)

Beg for a new t-shirt at Target (but they're on SALE mom!) rather than a new toy. (The tackier the better)

Fear the toast popping out of the toaster. (Among other things)

Have a meltdown about learning to tie his shoes. (He gets frustrated easily)

Name "guess what number I'm thinking of" as his favorite game. (And we're talking ANY number, no limits here)

  

  

  

                        

First let's just get the milestones out of the way real quick: Tonight we went on our first school supply shopping trip with Owen, and Paige wore a little pink barrette in her wispy baby hair for the first time and looked adorable as sin. And there was a first for me, as well. I do believe that tonight may have been the first time I ever truly had the urge to tell my children a story that began with the words, "In MY day..."

Because, get this, school supply shopping was no big deal to Owen.

That's okay, I'll wait for you to collect yourself.

In MY day, school supply shopping was a major event. We got excited about it from the moment our supply lists arrived in the mail, and once in the store, we took our time, painstakingly choosing our pencils and crayons and notebooks. When we got home, we spread out all the supplies and admired them and placed them lovingly in our new bookbags and tried the bookbags on and wished we could go to school at that very moment, just so we could open everything up and use it.

But no, not my child.

Today's events unfolded thus: After lunch, we convinced the boys to take a little nap because, we told them, it was Saturday, and sometimes on Saturday nights we like to do something a little special, a little fun, something that may keep us out a bit late. This was our bargaining chip and not a false one; it's true that we often go out on Saturday evenings, sometimes to a movie, sometimes to get ice cream, sometimes to browse the bookstore. So the boys napped. Then, after dinner, their expectations were raised.

Owen asked what we were going to do, and I announced that we were going to Target to get his school supplies. He seemed fine with that. I naively thought that getting school supplies would be a fun thing to do. As I mentioned, in MY day...

Now, I've had the school supply list for about 2 weeks, and I've been waiting for Target to set up their seasonal school supply section where the markers and crayons and erasers are displayed in big inviting bins and marked down a good bit from their usual prices. I was also savoring the list a little bit, not wanting the school supply shopping to be over with too quickly. So, see, I'd been anticipating this errand, like the true nerd that I am.

We got there and had a grand old time picking everything out. We let Owen choose whatever he wanted, even hideous licensed crap like Transformer folders and Hot Wheels notebooks.  We spent the most time (and rightly so) picking out a new lunch box, a task which I thought was hella fun. When we finished, John took the kids to the in-store Starbucks get us some coffee, and I checked out, forking over nearly 40 dollars for the goodies. When we met up again, Mitch said, "Are we going home?" And I joked, "What, wasn't that enough fun for you guys?" and John said, "Actually, no. Owen just finished falling apart in Starbucks." I looked down and, sure enough, the child's face was red and splotchy and twisted in frustration. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me, "I thought we were going to do something FUN tonight" and proceeded to fall apart some more.

Well. I went on a little diatribe which eventually led to Owen's telling me on the drive home, "Okay, okay, it was fun, mommy!" Later, I continued the diatribe, though in a calmer, kinder voice, until I finally felt like Owen was really listening and beginning to understand why his behavior had been spoiled and bratty and spoiled bratty. When I finished he was silent for a moment, then, in soft voice, he started, "Mommy..." I waited for the acknowledgment, the apology, the recognition. But he said, "Mommy...can I play on the computer?"

The school supplies are still in the bag. I don't know what kind of monster I've raised.

Owen keeps mixing up the 4th of July and New Year's. I think it's because we lit some leftover sparklers on New Year's Eve this year, and naturally he associates sparklers with 4th of July. He thinks we're supposed to stay up til midnight tonight, so okay, whatever, we'll stay up til midnight. At least Mitch, John, and I will. Owen probably won't make it, just as he didn't make it on New Year's Eve, despite much shaking and nudging to wake him for the ball drop.

Today I have a random assortment of funny moments to record. One happened yesterday in Target. Owen was begging for a Transformer (though I can't imagine why--it's not like they're being heavily promoted or anything), and I told him no. He was whining, begging, asking whhhhhhy? And I answered, "Cause I'm a mean mommy." He poutily crossed his arms and hmmphed, "I know. I saw it on your website." Well good, so now we're clear.

The other one was this morning. Our darling blond son is still having poop issues despite a recent improvement. He is consistently going in his pants again, and he knows that it irks us. So I came out from putting Paige down for a nap this morning, and Mitch looked guilty. He came over to me and quietly told me, "Mommy, I talked to my pants."
"You talked to your pants?" I sensed where this conversation was going.
"Yep. I talked to my pants, and I told them I wasn't ready to poop yet."
 By now I could smell where this was going. "Oh yeah? And what did your pants say?"
"They said, um, I don't know. I just. I just told them no pooping."
"But your pants pooped anyway."
Solemn nodding.
"Well please tell your pants that they're big pants now and they need to put poop in the potty. K?"
"Okay. But can you change my pants?"

I had to fight the urge to follow the logic of the conversation and explain that if we changed him into new pants, those pants wouldn't know  what we'd told his current pair of pants about being big pants and waiting for the potty, so maybe he should just sit his doo for awhile until his BOTTOM remembers the whole deal about pooping . But the child is obviously confused enough, so I refrained.

Sigh.

Anyway. Happy New Middle of the Year. Here's hoping that 2007-and-a-half brings blessings, growth, and potty training before preschool starts in September so Mitch doesn't get booted from the 3 year old class for having disobedient pants.

This picture really doesn't do the haircuts justice (I think the kids themselves are just too darn cute):

Two scares this week, and that's enough for me, thank you.

The first one happened on Wednesday. I'd had just about enough of the Bobos ("big brothers"), so I hauled them off to their room for a nap. Naps are rare for the boys these days because if they nap, they don't go to bed until at LEAST 9:00 if not much later, but some days I just can't wait for bedtime to restore my sanity.

Top Ten Idiosyncrasies of the Big Brothers

ONE: Owen's fear of the beeping coffee maker, which causes him to hide on the stoop in the carport every morning, hands over ears, until the coffee has finished brewing.