Kindergarten Makes Me Throw Up In My Mouth A Little

Oh, you guys.

It's been forever.  All of the excuses or just move on?

Let's just move on.

The point is that you love to hear when I'm struggling, and trust me. . .I'm struggling.

It's the week before Cole's first day at Kindergarten.  Just saying "kindergarten" made me throw up in my mouth a little.  Not because it's kindergarten and that's so cute and he's getting so big and before you know it we'll be dancing to "You Are The Sunshine Of My Life". . .

. . .although I hope we don't dance to "You Are The Sunshine Of My Life" because that's what me and my dad danced to and it was super cheesy back then and I have to believe my son will have better taste than that. . .

. . . but I'm struggling because I don't know kindergarten.

You know what I mean, right?  Like know it?  Know where you put your boots? Your lunchbox? To know which are the nice parents and the strange parents and the parents that will never invite you to their kid's birthday party but that's okay because who really wants to go to that Jump All Day While Screaming Place And Chase After Your Kid with Hand Sanitizer Because We've Been Healthy for 7 Whole Days, place anyway?

I don't know it. 

I've complicated the know, too.  We've decided to send him to private school.  The kind with uniforms.  And traditions.  And things that everyone else seems to know that I don't.

The kind of school that has a special way you're supposed to drop off, and pick up.  The kind of place where you have to know about the 9 and 3/4 platform already.  Think Mr. Mom.

And socks.

They have special rules about socks.  I'm not even sure if it's a color or size rule.  I'm starting to sweat just thinking about it.  They have rules about shorts.  About hair.  About crayons. 

About CRAYONS, people. 

See? I know daycare.  I know that devil.  I know that kids show up smelly and sticky and stinky and that's okay.  Parents rush in and rush out and drop off diapers and blow kisses from car windows.  I know that place.  I'm comfortable in that place.

I don't sweat like a pig in that place.

In this new place?  I have to ask friends to come with me to the used uniform sale because I'm so nervous.  I read and re-read the parent handbook. . .from last year because I don't even have this year's edition yet. 

I hope they don't make too many edits.  I almost have 2011 - 2012 memorized.

This new place has big door and echo-ey halls and scary old ladies at the front desk.  Okay, that's not true.  That was just for dramatics.  They're old.  But adorable.  Stinking adorable.  But they don't take no lip.  That's for sure.

Especially not from some newbie.

I've been enjoying this "Orange is the New Black" show lately.  It's on Netflix.  Watch it.  This really sweet and innocent thirty-something ends up in prison.  Trying not to get hurt. Trying to navigate the system.  Learn the code. Stay alive inside. 


This feels kind of like that.

What if his shorts are too grey?  Too long?  Too short?  What if he doesn't write as well as the other kids?  Speaks as well?  Eats as well? Sits quietly in a chair as well?

At the used uniform sale, the headmaster greeted me by name on my way in. "Hello, Erika. So nice to see you today." 

I don't know how to pronounce her last name and I'm too embarrassed to ask:  "Oh, hi. . .you.  Good to see you."

(*facepalm*  idiot.  total idiot.  hi...you?!?  brilliant, Erika.  seriously brilliant.)

Then? Almost immediately after I run into a woman that I knew from high school.  . .

"Hey Erika.  Great to see you!  Do you have kids that go here?"

I can't remember her name and I'm too embarrassed to ask: "Oh, hi . . .you. Yeah, a little tiny boy."

(a little tiny boy?!? what kind of answer is that?  like he's so small he fits in your pocket? so little and tiny that he lives in a fairy house in the backyard under a tree? and on top of this you couldn't spare his name? would it have killed you to ask for hers? could have been your only chance for a kindergarten friend and you blew it.)

He needs to wear a tie.  I got him one today.  It's 18 inches long.

Do you realize how long that is on a 5 year old?  I got Cole a 6th grader-sized tie.

It's like I'm intentionally trying to make him the misfit.  The kid who's mom blindly grabbed whatever she could at the used uniform sale.  Clawed wildly with eyes closed.  Stuffed it into a bag.  Paid whatever they told her it would be without question, and ran like hell.

That actually sounds pretty accurate.

I feel so silly.  I'm a confident person in other areas of my life.  I handle myself well, professionally.  Personally, I have good, close friends.  A healthy marriage.  Good kids.  When I get into a pickle, I can usually squeeze back out.  Rely on my wit.  My sense of humor.  I'm generally a pretty smart gal. But when I get within a quarter mile of this school, I turn to jelly.

I just don't know it.  And it's terrifying. 

I try to relate it to something I've felt as a parent before.  I can recall nothing similar. 

One time I went to a funeral in jeans.  In my defense, I didn't realize I was going to a funeral when I got dressed that morning.  Joke was on me.  The thought of kindergarten feels kind of like that.  Like everyone knows I don't know what I'm doing.  And it's so obvious that I can't hide it...like a gigantic pair of jeans at a funeral.

But am I supposed to?  Isn't every. stinking. milestone. that happens with these kids the first time I do it at all?  Why is this any different? I didn't sit here and try to reason my reaction the first time a kid pooped all the way to his neck. The first time they called someone "fluffy middle" or "smooth head" in the grocery line.  The first time I took them to church.  The first time we went to the mall by ourselves.  The first time we left the house in underwear.

These are all reasons to sweat, my friends.  To exhibit a visceral reaction to the situation. And I was fine. 

Kindergarten, though. . .has me shaking.  And I figure, if there's one group of people who would be sympathetic to my needs at this moment, it would be you.  To give me advice.  Support.  Kind words of encouragement.  Or to tell me to shut up and take pictures.

Gosh. . .I hope Cole handles this kindergarten thing better than I am. ;-)

Where I Say Penis 40 Times on the Morning Commute

This is a true story.

The only reason I'm telling you is because Bill said I had to.  I was whining to him that I was terrible mother, feeling sorry for myself and sorry for my children that luck drew them this cruel card.  He laughed his a$$ off and told me I had to write this down for you.

Because it's real life.

This is the story of the morning I said the word penis 40 times parked in the car, on the side of the road, in front of a bus stop.  Enjoy.

It was Valentine's Day.  About 8:43 a.m.  Just late enough to make a difference.  The morning had been tough, but not impossible.  A bit of prodding to eat breakfast, to brush well, to find shoes that matched and to hurry out the door.  

I got the kids in the car.  Remembered the lunches.  Remembered my keys.  Things were looking up.  I turned out of the driveway, and on to the main drag.  A busy street that wasn't plowed well at the time after a big snow.  It was then it all started.

"Mom.. . I need some help."

"Yes Cole. What do you need?"

"My penis.  My penis is wrong."

"Wrong? What do you mean, wrong?"

"Up.  You know.  Up in my pants.  Up in the car seat."

Cole is still in a 5-point car seat and sometimes the buckle in between his legs catches him just the right (or wrong) way.  It's not so much a matter of his penis being uncomfortable as it is the pressure of his pants against his buckle. . .but nonetheless, it was wrong.

"Well fix it.  I can't pull over until we get to school."

"But my penis mom! My penis is up!"

I'm annoyed.  We had just had a ton of snow and around here, that has major implications for things like driving and parking when you show up late for work.  And I have about 3.5 minutes of leeway here, people.  Certainly not enough time to be fixing penises.  

"Cole. Fix your own penis. That's final," I say in my this-is-final-and-every-other-mom-cliche-voice.

Till starts in . . .

"Yeah Cole. You have to fix your oooowwwnnnn penis.  This isn't a car for everybody to fix everybody's penis, you know."

"Thank you Tilly. That'll be enough."

"Even my princess? They fix penis.  They fix their own penis and go to the ball, silly."

"ENOUGH Tilly."

 "I just can't mom.  I just can't fix my own penis.  I can't even get at it."

In one hand he's holding a paper bag full of valentines cards for his friends.  He practically slept with that bag he was so excited to give them away this morning.  In the other was a stuffed sea turtle.  A story for another day.

"You're just going to have to put something down and fix your own penis, Cole."

Now Cole gets angry.. .

"No MOM. I won't. I can't fix my own penis. It's up and my penis won't come down and you have to fix it!"

This is where I start to lose it.  I have to pull over.  I'm late yet another day and I have to pull over on the side of an un-plowed, un-safe road.  Which, just to help set the scene, is a super busy, one lane road that about 4 gazillion people drive on each morning and who, quite frankly,  are super-jerks who won't let you merge back on for anything.  And I don't want to do it.

I pull over.  In front of a bus stop.  Don't think I realized that at the time.

"Fine Cole.   If you can't take care of your own penis, then fine."

Crazy, crazy stuff starts to come out of my mouth.  Crazy stuff about taking responsibility for one's penis.  Checking a penis to make sure it's in the right spot so that your mom isn't late for work.  Asking Cole how he thinks he's going to manage with a big-boy penis if we're having trouble with this one.

Tilly is practically repeating everything I say.  Crossing her arms and nodding her head in approval of my ranting.

"Yes, Cole.  Gotta handle your penis. It's the only way."

"Your penis makes mom have a tough job.  I don't have a penis.  So I'm a good girl."

I'm grabbing frantically, angrily behind me. . . clawing at anything that feels like a penis.  He sits right behind the driver's seat and remember. . .this is a busy street with no breakdown lane.  Cars and vans and milk trucks [okay, that's dramatic...are there even milk trucks anymore?] are whizzing by my car, shaking it from side to side.  I'm not opening the door and I'm not getting out.  The only thing that makes sense at this point is to get super angry at Cole's penis for putting us in this position while contorting my body (still in a seat belt) to reach directly behind me and into Cole's pants.

It doesn't work.  I pull something in my neck and the pain, hot and intense, travels literally from the back of my right ear all the way down to my hip.  And that's when I get madder than I can remember being in a long, long time.

"COLE. This. Is. RIDICULOUS. There are so many moms who don't have to pull over to tuck in little boy penises that aren't even big enough to be up anyway!  Why can't you handle your own penis?  It's your penis! Won't there be one morning before you are 18 where I get to work on time and without a stress headache?!?!"

I know it was the pain talking.  The pain, and the thought of walking in the slush for two blocks after I finally found a parking spot at work.  I was wearing nice shoes. . .not remotely appropriate for the weather and they were as good as ruined at the rate we were going.

And I lost it.  You know? The way you just lose it sometimes?  Right? . .tell me you lose it sometimes.

Except this time was over a penis.  A five year old, defenseless penis.  Not my best moment.

I unbuckled my seat belt, threw one leg over the console and started to fish in Cole's pants.  His penis, by the way, was not up but merely tucked inside the flap of his undies.  I fixed it.  All the while saying crazy, angry things like. . .

"Other moms don't do this with their mornings. Their boys tuck in their penises before they leave the house."

"I tuck in my penis, mom."

"Yes, thank you Tilly.  Mind your business."

I finally looked up at Cole and his pupils were wide.  Big, slow, soap-opera worthy tears started pooling in the corners of his eyes and rolling down his face and that's when I realized I was a serious contender for the worst parent of the year award.

"Mom. I'm so sorry.  I just don't know what my penis thinks sometimes.  I just can't help it. It does what it wants, usually."

[enter joke here about figuring that out early. . .arf, arf.]

You know those times where apologizing won't ever be enough?  Those memories that you have when you know something had changed? That life changed? A corner was turned, a life moment reached that you will forever share with your therapist as, "the day you knew. . ."  This was certainly going be Cole's.

"Oh gosh buddy.  Mommy's sorry.  Mom is so, so sorry.  Sometimes moms get so mad and they say silly things.  Your penis is great.  There's nothing wrong with you or your penis.  Mom loves Cole and his penis."

"And Tilly loves Cole's penis."

"Yes, thank you Tilly. That is nice."

Cole wipes away tears and asks for a tissue.  "It's okay mom.  Everyone makes mistakes, right?"

"Oh yes, Cole.  Everyone makes mistakes."

At this point I'm fully in the backseat, jammed between two car seats with my hand still in Cole's pants.  We hug.  I wipe tears. I say sorry again.  And I look up.  Faces. . .in the windows?

. . . there's about 5 people waiting for the bus right on the side of my car that must have been watching this THE ENTIRE TIME.

Effin-a.  Why me?  Why is the day I finally break in front of a bus stop and over a penis?

I smile nervously.  Put up one hand in a half-wave sort of way and mouth 'good morning.'  Get back into the driver's seat.  Slap both kids a high-five and off we go.

It's  9:05 a.m. 

I'm not only the worst parent on the planet, but have probably just given my child some sort of serious psychological penis issue. . .AND I'm late (again) for work.

I drop the kids off at school and hope they won't say a thing about our drive in.  Tilly runs into her teacher's arms and as they watch me walk down the hallway to leave...  I hear Till say . . .

"Mom doesn't get that angry at my penis. I always tuck it in."

Oh shit.

eating lunch in the morning and other real life stories of the unruly three year old

The Tills turned three last week.

Three.

I had to go back to read what I had to say about Cole when he turned three. I wasn't very nice about it. I apparently really, really didn't like year three.

I'm not going to be nice about the Tills and her year three now, either.  But at least I'll be honest.

Cole was nasty at three.  They were his rules.  His terms. I eventually folded and obeyed.  Things got much easier for me once I did.  Thankfully, through it all, it was our secret.  Our little dirty family secret.  

The secret that the three year old won because he literally outlasted (and oftentimes, outwitted) the grown ups.  Mentally and physically.  Let's even add psychoso-maticaly.  In fact, we should have added that one, first. He was still the sweet, kind, rule-obeying boy everyone loved at school, with his grandparents, and even (at times) with me if others were watching.. . .just not when we were alone.  Not ever when we were alone.

With Tills, it's different.  She is just as nasty.  All of the rules are her rules.  The terms? Hers.  The difference?

She doesn't care if it me, her father, her grandfather, her teacher, her teacher's teacher, the president. . .whoever!  She's not listening to anyone.

Anyone, people.  And it's getting bad.

Now...before you get all "you're the parent and you need to get this kid under control", trust me.  I've tried.  I'm trying.  I'm dishing out time outs and taking away toys faster than she can push another kid to the ground.

No, wait.  That's the problem.  I'm not dishing them out faster than that....but I'm going as fast as I can!

I literally dread dropping them off at daycare in the morning.  I try to get in, get out, and not make eye contact with anyone.  Leave no trace.  Be a whisper like the wind. 

This is usually the scene:

I'm late for work (again) because Tilly took her clothes off three times throughout the morning, put a shoe in the toilet and then hid her lunch box.  So clearly I'm already annoyed.  I'm trying to get in, get out . . .but they stop me.  I know it's coming, too.

"Oh, Erika. . .I was hoping it was you.  Got a minute?"

Just typing it makes me get a knot in my neck.

"Oh, good morning Miss It-Doesn't-Matter-Because-Tilly-Doesn't-Listen-To-You-Anyway! Of course I have time."

Then the teacher tells me whatever terrible thing she did yesterday that centers around her complete disregard for any law and order.  They give her a time out.  She doesn't care.  They take away outside play time.  She could care less.

In fact?  The Tills?

Actually told a teacher that she wanted a different teacher to give her the time out, because she "didn't care for" the first teacher!

People? What am I supposed to do with that?  Of course, besides apologizing profusely and overcompensating with the teachers' holiday gifts?

She's got two settings: complete angel or not-listening-to-nobody-no-how-no-matter-who-the-hell-is-talking.

There was the time she wouldn't unlock the bathroom door and a teacher had to go in to get her.  But before they could get their big grown up body under the little kid-sized bathroom door, Till's has climbed to the next stall and took off running out of the bathroom and down the hall.

Or the time she hid all the other kids' art projects and wouldn't tell anyone where she'd put them.  (but come on. . .really? All of the projects? That one was a little tough to believe. . .)

Or how about the time she told the older teacher that she had a mustache like her dad.   Innocent? Yes. Helping her situation any? No!

And I just apologize.  Ask what I can do to help.  Tell them that she's really a sweet kid.  Because she is.  And I'm not going to be one of these people that thinks my kid doesn't do anything wrong because they are my kid.  I know this devil.  And it can be awful.

But she's still sweet.  Sweet and young and learning and exploring.

And defiant and relentless and smart and cunning and really, really good at hiding stuff.

So . . .I figure the only thing to do is to use what God gave me. .  .Cole.

I've started to have in depth conversations with him whenever she's around about listening.  And how much we love it.  And how grown ups are fantastic. And fun to listen to.

Cole plays along perfectly.

"Oh yeah, mom.  It's super fun to listen to grown ups. Plus they get you stuff."  Amen little buddy. Amen.

Okay, okay. . .maybe I've got some work left to do on Cole, but cut me a break for a bit.

Every morning, before school we stand in the kitchen and hold hands, we bow our heads and promise each other that we'll try our hardest to listen to grown ups today.  And to be friendly even if we don't like everyone.  And not to tell women that you see their mustaches.

It's never too early to learn that life lesson.

It works.  Sometimes.  Her good days seem to correlate to when I can spend uninterrupted time with her the night before.  Funny how that happens, huh?  Could it be that simple?  That she's acting out to get my attention...my good attention? 

So tough to find that time, though.  You know. . when there's laundry and dishes and dinner and "(*&#$ Till! Why are you touching your poop, again?!?"

It doesn't leave a whole lot of time for much else.  Because tomorrow is another day and if I'm late again because you took your lunch box, hid under the dining room table and ate what was in it while I was getting Cole dressed. . I'LL SERIOUSLY LOSE IT.

And we just turned three.  We still have three hundred-sixty-one days of it left.  It feels insurmountable. I'm just hoping it's kind of like when Cole went through that phase where he wouldn't stop eating his boogers, you know?

If I just repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat the message . . .maybe I'll get so annoying they will listen.

We don't eat boogers, Cole.
We don't eat boogers.
We don't eat boogers.
Boogers aren't for eating.
Do you need a tissue.
Don't eat your boogers.

FINE MOM. GIMME A TISSUE.
 

And I'm going to try to spend more of our few precious hours at home together in the evening just for them.  Uninterrupted.  Undiluted.  I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, any advice you can give me on ways to harness this independent energy into positive manifestations...would be appreciated.

Because I'm serious about her eating her lunch under the table while we're getting ready for school.  I can't take much more of that.

The Tills doesn't have to steal, but she does anyway.

Remember the time I took Cole to the Disney Store, and he stole a stuffed Bambi?  This story is sort of like that, except not at all, because my daughter doesn't have to resort to stealing. 

She just intimidates me until I cave.

The Tills and I were out shopping at the mall during the couple of weeks I needed to keep her home from school after her tonsillitis. 

Oh right.  It's not lost on me that I just said I was supposed to keep her home, yet went to the mall.  Two weeks is a long time.  And one of the best things for tonsillitis is shopping at J. Jill.  It says so on the internet.

Anyway, we went to a mall that I don't go to often. I parked right near the Disney Store.

Right there.  The game changer. And so early. . .I had no clue.

The thing about the Tills is that she's a great kid.  Great as in, tough.  She likes what she likes.  Not because it's what other little girls (or boys!) like.  Not because you surround her with 'it'.  Not because you tell her to. 

The Tills likes her peas in ranch dip.  That's just how it is.  She likes wearing socks on her hands and playing house with toy dinosaurs.  She must have her bottom sheet on top, her waffles with honey, not syrup, and until now. . .she was completely pleased playing with her hand-me-down boys toys. We loved that. 

Except somewhere, somehow it's changed.  Boy toys won't do.  Somewhere between begging for the hotwheels car with the purple racing flames and to sleep with her leaf collection, it's changed.  And it we've gotten in so deep, I don't think we're heading back anytime soon. 

Princesses.  Princesses are what's cool now.  Disney princesses.  Not just any old Disney character. . .princesses.  Princess movies and clothes and dolls and shoes and hair thingys and gummy treats at the grocery store.  Princess water bottles and vitamins and toothpaste.  Princess socks and tee shirts and pillows and pillow cases.  All of it.  All of the time.

And guess what? I give in.  She's so gosh darned cute when she's hugging her new princess, talking about princesses, and pretending to be a little princess, that I just melt and get something else silly.

We've got about 40 princess dolls.  So many that most are put away in storage.  We have princess dresses for dress-up.  Shoes.  Headbands.  Wands.  Blankets.  Toothbrushes.  Nightlights.  Name it. We've got it. . . or I'm looking it up on Amazon right now.

A gaggle of princesses. . . .and it's getting worse.

So back to the Disney Store.  I parked near the store without realizing . . . and of course she wants to go in when we walked past.  And how could I say no?  She had just had surgery people!

They're having a sale.  Of course they are.  The window display is full of Barbie-height Disney dolls.  Did that confuse you?  Barbie Disney dolls.  Of all kinds.  Of all movies.  And here's the cool thing. . . they had villains and princes!  The bad guys!  The princes! Not just princesses. 

They had the 2nd heroes.  The bad guys' moms.  The dads.  You know? The dads that don't let their princess daughters choose who they want to marry?  Those dads. 

In fact. . .just to prove my point, I've made a collage for you of the dolls they had that day.

Do you see Ursula?  Beast?  Fairy Godmother? Even that whiny prince from The Little Mermaid?  I told Tills she could get any one she wanted. 

After all.  She'd lost a body part that week of my scheduling, I owed it to her.

And she wants Rapunzel.  RAPUNZEL.  The same Rapunzel that's on her pillow.  And in her bed.  And on her jacket.  Her hat.  Her dress.  In fact. . .she might have been wearing that dress that day.

I reminded Tills that she had a Rapunzel doll.  Actually, four.  And two were the same.  Okay, okay. . not exactly the same, but one was a Disney doll, the other Mattel.  And the difference between them?  The bust size. 

She says Rapunzel.

So I say, how about Ryder, the prince?  "Rapunzel."

How about the wedding Rapunzel?  "Purple Rapunzel."

"Tills, you have two of those."  "Rapunzel.  My throat hurts," she says much, much louder.

It's like, 10 a.m. on a Tuesday so we're the only ones in the store. Till's last demand for Rapunzel got the attention of the Disney cast (that's what they call them, you know. . .cast.) and they ask if we need help.

"No, don't need help.  We have this doll already and she wants another. I'm just trying to get her hooked on one of these other great dolls."

So how about Ursula? King Triton? The fairies from Sleeping Beauty? An extra outfit for Tiana? Anything. . . but. . .Rapunzel.

We take a stroll (or seven) around the store.  I'm try desperately to entice her to choose anything else.  I'm committed to purchasing something at this point.  Would you like a new dress?  "Yep, Rapunzel."  Damn it, Tilly!

"NO MORE RAPUNZELS! AND THAT'S FINAL."

[side note: why do you talk like that when you're a parent? "that's final?" What is that?  Who talks like that? How does that kind of stuff just infiltrate your brain as soon as you give birth?!?]

That last one really drew the attention of the cast.  Because, I think, one of the not-so-good-things-to-say-at-the-Disney-store, is something like. . .NO RAPUNZELS EVER AGAIN.  In so many words.

She starts to cry.  I almost do, too.  I take her over to the coats and ask her to choose one.  She's starting to love clothes lately (who is this kid?) and she needs one anyway, so I figure it'll change the subject.  She chooses the Rapunzel model.

Whatever.  In the cart.

As we head back to the checkout, we pass the pajama section.  She asks for a sleeping gown. 

"Sure, which one?"  "Rapunzel."

Whatever.  In the cart.

And don't you know. . . she 5-finger-discounted herself a purple Rapunzel doll from the display while we were at the checkout and rather than pry it out of her still-bruised-from-her-surgery-IV-hands, I paid for it and left.

Now we have three, 12 inch Rapunzel dolls.  Two larger, 24 inch Rapunzel dolls, and a stuffed one.  And that's just the inventory of Rapunzels.

And when we got home? Whilst I still hung my head in over indulging my child shame?  I went around the house and took pictures of all the silly princess junk we have collected over her short 2.9 years of life.  And made you a collage.

It seems I'm into collages lately.

If it doesn't look like too much, that's intentional.  I might have been selective when including what to take pictures of, so you wouldn't completely disown me.

...but see the two Rapunzels?  Can you tell which one is the Barbie?  Just look at that low-cut corset. 
What. A. Hussy.

No one believes you were up in that tower. . .all alone, missy.

Now Lightening McQueen? That's a stand-up guy.  You could learn a thing or two from him.