A Letter to A First Grade Teacher: Take Care of My Girl
Dear First Grade Teacher~
Somehow sending my sweet girl off to school for first grade was nearly as bittersweet as last year’s steps into Kindergarten. I should be good at this by now, right? I’ve seen her in her uniform. She’s been under a teacher’s care for the full day. She’s come home stronger, smarter and sassier.
And yet, I still feel compelled to share a few words with you. I want you to know her.
That goofy nature, the desire to make silly faces, the contagious giggle? She gets that from her Daddy. She comes by her love of play and joking ways honestly. From him she has learned to laugh and tease, smile and see the best in most every situation.
The sensitivity? The dramatic? I’ll own up to those traits. She and I share those. Oh, and the freckles, too.
But that tendency to be a bit shy? She doesn’t get that from either of us. That is all her. So is her heart, her kindness, her wish to be independent, her beautiful singing voice, her love of friends and that deep-down-belly-laughter.
She doesn’t love to read yet, but I’m trying. Math and Science are ok, but art? And music? Just try to stop her.
I just want you to know, in walking my little girl into your classroom, I am both excited and apprehensive. I’m thrilled for the adventures that lie ahead of her. I’m delighted she has you to guide her. But I am watching time slip away. With every uniform skirt she dons, every classroom she enters, with every word she learns to read and write, with every moment she lets go of my hand to take a friend’s, I am forced to let a little piece of my baby girl slip away.
I know you will handle her with care. I have watched you with the children, the eye contact, the smiles, the enthusiasm, the genuine love you share. For this, I am grateful.
And if you would, warn her second grade teacher. I don’t think I’ll be letting go by then either.
Love,
Delaney’s Mom
Are You a Good Parent?
I yelled at my kids today. Loud. Like gave-myself-a-headache-loud.
The small people often respond with ‘what???’ when I call their names. It is like nails on a chalkboard.
And they don’t always say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. They ‘forget’ to clean their room, make their bed, pick their clothes up off the floor, let the dog out or eat their breakfasts.
I’ve let them eat McDonald’s. Twice in one week.
I’ve made pancakes for dinner and let them skip the fruit and vegetables.
I often think they are spoiled. Life is so easy for them - their rooms are too big, they have too many toys and they have someone who picks up after them ALL.THE.TIME. (me)
They say “I caaaaaannnnn’tttt” all the time, have actually rolled their eyes at me and have been known to throw a world-class tantrum complete with stomping up the stairs and screams of, “I KNEW you didn’t love me”.
But I do. And their Daddy does.
And they know it. And I know they know it.
Yesterday, my husband looked at me and said, “well….they are happy. I guess that means we are doing something right”.
I think he is on to something.
I spend a lot of time worrying about being a good parent, a fair parent, a guiding parent. But the loving parent? There is something to be said for being THAT parent.
Kids sense when they are loved. It is because I love my children that I sometimes yell, that I stand over them to ‘remind’ them to clean their room, pick up their clothes and let the dog out. It is because I love them that I try to teach please, thank you, and ‘yes, Mommy’ instead of ‘whaaaat?’. Love is what motivates the ’stern’ parent in me - the one who enforces bed times, separates fights and holds them responsible for poor decisions - like coloring on the wall. It is love that drives the need to teach lessons, give hugs and yes, even the desire to see the smile that comes with the occasional skipped vegetable or trip to McDonald’s.
It is the comfort of knowing they are loved that puts the sparkle in their eyes.
And even when I’m not feeling like a ‘good parent’, it is knowing that they know they are loved that makes being a Mommy simply extraordinary.
What reminds YOU that you are a good parent?
The Pain of Parenting Begins
A green smiley face.
That is what marks my sweet girl’s behavior daily at kindergarten. There is a calendar - and every day I know - green smiley face = good Delaney. If she misbehaved a little, I’d see that warning ‘yellow’ and well, you can see where this is going, red = notsogoodatall.
One time. That is how many times she has come home with a yellow this school year.
Until last Thursday. But we didn’t know until Monday.
Why? Because she was taking the calendar out of her folder and hiding it.
As for me, well, I forgot to ask. Because she always came home with a green.
My husband figured it out. As soon as he asked, the tears started. The hyperventilating began.
She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t stop crying. We promised we wouldn’t be mad - we just needed to know what happened.
My heart fractured a little more with each tear, with each labored breathe - what in the world could have happened to cause this type of trauma?
I actually started to get scared.
Little by little, the story came out in spurts.
She had kicked a little boy.
He hadn’t done anything wrong.
She had been told to do it.
By an ‘older’ girl she adores.
Hence the devastation. Even at ‘almost-six-going-on-sixteen’, she feels betrayed and embarrassed.
And I feel like the air has left the room. I wasn’t ready for this. I’m not ready for this. I’m hugging her tightly, as if I can block the pain of growing up and realizing you can’t trust everybody with my embrace. I quickly wipe the tear that seeps from the corner of right eye. It wouldn’t help her tears if she saw mine.
I think….I hope….we covered everything.
No, she can’t kick someone. It is ok to make a mistake. Trust your own little heart - even if someone tells you to do something - you do know right from wrong. We aren’t mad at you. You can ALWAYS talk to us. We WANT you to talk to us. We trust you. We love you. (Did I miss anything?)
My heart hurts as I write - just knowing we are the very beginning of the long and treacherous road of ‘growing up’. I hope I am equipped.
If you have suggestions, well, honestly, I’d love them.
A Baseball Analogy Gets the Job Done
So, the conversation always begins like this…..
“So, Danielle, picture yourself as the 2006 St. Louis Cardinals…..you are preparing to win the World Series….”
Or, better yet, I’m the pitcher and the ‘other guy’ is the batter….or maybe I’m the batter and the ‘other guy’ is the pitcher.
It might be the bottom of the 9th, I might be setting my stance for a Grand Slam, I could be watching the game from the top step of the dugout prepping to storm the field the minute the win is secured….
No matter the situation, regardless of the circumstances, there is a baseball analogy on the tip of my husband’s tongue.
He talks me through business, through friendships, through parenting challenges.
He is both friend and coach.
Reason #217 I adore him.
Mommy is another word for Guilt
Let’s be honest.
I’m a mom and I feel guilty all the time. I think it is just part of the territory. But damn, it pulls at my chest like webbed fingers grasping for a final morsel of chocolate cake.
When the small people were itty bitty - the guilt was minor, but seemingly all-consuming:
“Am I doing this right?”
“What? She isn’t supposed to have peanut butter until she is 12?”
“He is supposed to get 26 hours of sleep a day?”
“Am I allowed to take a nap while she rests? What if she needs me and I don’t hear her?”
The nagging refrain that echoed through my soul taunted me: “are you sure you can be good at this Mommy-thing?”
I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.
Now, I feel guilty about a million new things and the corresponding mom-hats I wear:
- How did I not know it was dress-down day at school? (the disorganized mom)
- How come no one told me I was allowed to join her for school lunch? (the uninformed mom)
- I want to work out, but they want to play outside? (the selfish mom)
- Did I really just skip a page in the bedtime story because I am JUST.TOO.TIRED? (the selfish and tired mom)
- I have work to do, they want to paint. And painting requires my full attention. (the non-get-down-on-your-knees-and-play mom)
- Yes, I did, in fact, just pull your shorts out of the dirty laundry - you can wear them again. (the lazy mom)
- I am wishing for you to just.go.away because I can’t stand the fighting anymore. (the impatient mom)
- No, for the 17th time, you may not skip dinner and eat dessert. (the un-fun mom)
- I know it was ‘your turn’, but….. (the unfair mom)
And that is just today.
What about you? What Mommy-induced-guilt-hat are you wearing?
Joy in the “did not’s”
Sure, it is the little things - those sterling moments etched on your heart…leaving the same mark a Sharpie would on your arm that keep us going, remind us what matters, why we are here and how important it is to relish the journey.
But every know and then, those moments shift to the left….like the clouds the small dude is always watching….hoping to recognize the shape of a goat, a baseball field, or an ice cream cone. And when they shift, you stare into nothing.
And nothing can be great.
There are a handful of ‘nothings‘ or ‘did not’s‘ that defined my weekend.
Cooper did not hit his head again. Therefore he did not require staples, a trip to the emergency room or the requisite waking every hour over night.
Delaney did not have any type of croup attack - and therefore was not up all night coughing.
I did not have to get up at the moment the sun slithered into my bedroom.
My husband did not wake up to the puppy barking overnight (for the first time since December 25th).
My children did not make their way into our room over night, so I did not wake up to a foot in my kidney. (or in my face)
Delaney did not cry when I removed her earrings for soccer. And she did not cry at the end of the game because she didn’t score.
So what did we do? Everything else.
And it was good.
Breathe in….Breathe out…repeat
I’m having one of those days. (or couple of days)
I’m horrendously disorganized - like ‘can’t-find-my-checkbook-amidst-the-massive-pile-of-papers’ kind of disorganized.
Every time my husband asks me a question, I panic - like, “what time is Coop’s doctor’s appointment tomorrow?” or “do you have you receipts from Vancouver?” or even “are the dishes in the dishwasher clean?” Why do I panic, you ask? Because I DON’T KNOW. I should know these things, right? Doctor’s appointments, receipts, home stuff? But, right now, I don’t.
My house is a disaster zone. Like ‘the-housekeeper-is-on-strike-disaster” except I don’t have a housekeeper, so apparently, I’ve been on strike.
The laundry has been done since 1987.
And dusting? Fuggehtaboutit.
My kids are not listening to me. At all. I say, “Delaney let’s get your homework out so we can get started on it.” and she promptly heads to the cabinet, pulls out a coloring book and sits down next to me to color. So, not only does she ignore me (I still have a voice, right?) but she doesn’t care that she is ignoring me.
The pile of papers I mentioned above? Threatening to take over my life.
And my kids - I adore them, and yet, I have severe mommy guilt. Cooper cracked his head open while I was in Vancouver. Clearly, he is fine - two staples (that come out tomorrow) and he was tackling Daddy and the dog the next day. But I felt (still feel) sad and guilty that I wasn’t here when it happened. Feels like a great big #mommyfail.
*Sigh*
We are hard on ourselves, aren’t we?
I’m so empowered by the events of the last four weeks - the traveling, the conversation, the people, the learning, the engaging, the amazing Olympics…..
And yet, I am tired. I am overwhelmed. And I need to focus on breathing. Do you ever have to do that? Just breathe? Well, that’s me.
Just breathing.
Barring the dust, laundry and paper fiasco, tomorrow is a new day, yes?
