Kindergarten Here We Come

I can hear her little sing-song voice all through the house…

“Kindergarten here we come,
and we will have lots of fun.
Reading, writing, numbers too.
Kindergarten, we love you!”

Last year’s dress rehearsal for this year’s graduate.

I stop listening at “Kindergarten here we come.” The rest of the song is lost as my internal Momma voice screams “Noooo! Not my baby!”

The Young One is rehearsing for pre-school graduation. Actually, she has been practicing for over a year because technically she graduated last year when she was five. The Hubs and I, however, made the decision to wait…to *gasp* “hold her back”. We put off the inevitable, and now as a six-year-old, she will walk the commencement exercises of the Kids Academy Pre-K Class of 2013.

We thought one more year would better prepare her…another year to mature…another year to grow…another year for Momma to keep her baby close.

Some well-meaning friends warn us she’ll be bored in Kindergarten, and kids who are bored in school find ways to get into trouble. Others praise us for offering her a better chance to succeed as the oldest child in the class, and still other more sports-minded acquaintances pat the Hubs on the back and congratulate him on red-shirting his daughter in preparation for a bright athletic future.

The Older One’s first day of Kindergarten. He’s the little one on the far left. What was I thinking?

With the Older One, we never considered not starting him in Kindergarten at five-years-old, even though with his early August birthday, we would have been more than justified. We were younger then, less financially secure, and weekly daycare expenses were a strain to the budget. We were ready to move to the next phase of child-rearing, and away he went. Just a week after that milestone birthday, I packed his lunch, helped him load his backpack, and put him on a bus to spend the day with strangers.

Flash forward 14 years, and I’m dreading August when I will send my daughter into that fanciful Kindergarten she sings about. What if she’s not smart enough? What if she can’t make friends? What if the teacher doesn’t like her…or me! What if I fail in my fashion sense and send her to school in last year’s early elementary school trends? What if her hair isn’t right? What if her shoes aren’t tied? What if she comes to the conclusion that the words in that song are all lies?

I’m either smarter or more paranoid than I was the last time, or maybe times have changed. Stranger danger is more ominous. Violence in schools is making headlines that have me wanting to hold onto both of my kids forever. Plus the Young One is a girl, and everyone knows they are just plain mean to each other in a way boys aren’t. Even though I’ve been here before, this is brand new territory.

Then again, maybe 19 years of parenting have altered the way I remember the prior Kindergarten experience. I love the Older One just as much as the Young One, and my fear for their well-being is equally strong. So I imagine I was most likely just as anxious last time as I am this time. I’m sending my beloved child into the big, bad world.

I suppose she’ll survive the trauma. The last kid did, and now he’s at the US Military Academy at West Point making friends and scoring A’s in physics and statistics and foreign languages I didn’t know existed back when he marched from pre-K to K. He is a Division I athlete and will one day soon be a leader in the greatest Army on the planet. I guess Kindergarten at five didn’t hurt him too much.

I think I’m going to start singing another song…

“Kindergarten here we come.
I hope you think it’s so much fun.
Momma’s crying, worrying too
Because she loves and cherishes you!”

If you’ve done the Kindergarten thing already, what are your best/worst memories? If you haven’t, what are you worried about? What are your thoughts on holding kids out of Kindergarten?

***I started this post in response to today’s Five Minute Friday prompt, “song”, but after I got started, I found I had more to say than could be written in five minutes flat. So, I broke the first rule and wrote for more than my allotted five minutes, but it was worth it. If you think you can get it all out in a measly five minutes, join us at Lisa-Jo Baker’s site every Friday where a great group of bloggers say a lot in just a few minutes.

The Comfort of Socks and Time Machines

I carry a sock in my pocket.

This is not a sock. It is a time machine.

Every spring and fall when the morning temperatures start to cool I pull out my lightweight jacket. Eventually, I reach into the pocket for the first time and feel a small bundle of soft cotton. I wonder what I have just found. I pull it out and smile widely because I have just transported myself back in time.

Suddenly, it is no longer, May 2013. It is September 2008, and I have just dropped off the very Young One at daycare. She is only a year old, and this is one of her first days at her new school. We are in a hurry this morning, and I grab shoes and socks on the way out the door, thinking I will somehow save time by putting the footwear on in the class room instead of the bedroom. When we finally find the time to finish dressing, I discover an extra white sock in the ball I’ve grabbed from the dresser.

I quickly stuff it in my pocket, and forget about it…until the next time, I reach in my pocket…and the next time…and the next time…and countless next times for the next five years. Each time I touch it, I see that little baby I fell in love with. Now that little baby has just celebrated her sixth birthday, and I find comfort in that sock.

The sock that forever rides at my hip on frosty mornings is a constant reminder of little feet, little hands and little arms that locked around my neck at daycare pick up.

I have no desire to remove the sock from my pocket.

It transports me to a time when I had started a new adventure as a momma to a girl. It gives me a smile on a cool, rainy day. It makes me laugh at my own silliness. It is my time machine. It is my comfort as my Young One starts her journey to kindergarten and beyond.

This sock will stay in my pocket. Its comfort will warm my soul as I watch my daughter transform from pre-schooler to young girl to young woman. She will grow out of many more socks, but she will never grow out of my heart.

Do you have every-day mementos that give you comfort? What are your time machines?

* Today’s post is brought to you by Five Minute Friday and the word “Comfort”. If you are really looking for some comfort today, join us on Lisa-Jo Baker’s site.

A Flock of Friends

With springtime comes sunny days, warm breezes and friends who want nothing more that to run and play and laugh.

It only takes one friend on a swing to attract a whole flock!

I look out my window to watch the Young One swing on her favorite green swing–the one that doesn’t creak when she soars high. Soon, she is joined by one friend, taking the a seat on the noisy yellow swing. Minutes later, I watch as another little friend races across the yard to claim the trapeze between the first two.

Between giggles, they swing and sway and flip and hang.

Then someone…probably my Young One, as her reputation is that of the “ringleader”… yells a dare, “Betcha can’t do this!” I glance up to see her standing on the green swing. Sure enough, her friends won’t be outdone and quickly do the best aerobatic feat a five-year-old can accomplish.

More giggles, then a race up the ladder.

And silence…

What could these three pre-school friends be plotting on a warm April afternoon?  I watch them huddle around the top of the sliding board, and then in coordination with some unseen signal, they give a girly war cry and slide to the grass below.

Then they are off, like a flock of birds. One friend…then two…then three…racing to the next yard…to the next swing set. Then on to a driveway for bikes, scooters and roller skates before taking off for the sidewalk with chalk in hand and artwork on their minds.

A carefree afternoon in the sun.

Just fun.

Just friends.

Just perfect.

Do you remember those all-day plays with your friends? What was your favorite activity?

This post was brought to you by Five Minute Friday and the word “Friend”. If you have a spare five minutes, join us on Lisa-Jo Baker’s site. You won’t regret it!

Welcome Home

Joy is coming to my home this weekend, and it’s bringing its friends Excitement and Peace along for the party.

Right now, as I type, they are preparing to make their journey home via bus, airplane and automobile….right after they play a football game.

This is what Joy looks like!

Yes, the Older One is coming home for his Spring Break from the US Military Academy at West Point. Shortly after the final snap of the Black Knights’ spring football game, he will shed his shoulder pads, trade his cadet uniform for cotton and denim and board a bus bound for JFK International Airport in New York City.

Final destination: HOME!

Meanwhile, the preparations for his arrival began a week ago. His room, vacant since January 2, when he said goodbye after Winter Break, is dusted and vacuumed. His bathroom is as shiny as low quarter shoes during a SAMI (aka Saturday AM Inspection).  Menus have been planned and grocery lists compiled.

Tonight cupcakes will be baked and pups (both Furry and Fluffy) will be bathed as I anticipate the aromatic mix of buttery vanilla and wet dog.

I pass my time waiting by doodling.

A number of countdowns have been underway since he last walked the floors of our home. The usual Days to Go jar is happily light, and the Young one has been practicing writing X’s as she crosses days off her calendar, as well as numbers as she counts the unmarked boxes to one where I’ve written “He’s Home!”

Across town, in my office, I’ve been doodling my own countdown on my dry erase board for the past 10 days. Today’s artwork reads, “1 day!”

Our airport Welcome Home signs.

The sign is ready too–the one the Young One and I drew over a year ago to welcome our favorite person home. It travels to the airport with us every time we pile into the car for this much anticipated event.  Each time, the Young One insists on holding it…until we realize the Older One is making his way toward us, then she passes it to me, so she can run to him for the first hug.

Finally…HOME!

We’re ready.

Soon my son will be home, bringing with him a much anticipated joy, an overwhelming sense of excitement, and a quietly beautiful peace.

How do you welcome a loved one home?

**Today’s post is brought to you by Five Minute Friday and the very appropriate word “Home”.

An Ordinary Extraordinary Redheaded Stiletto-Wearing Momma

How can any day be ordinary, when I, myself, am so extraordinary?

I’m not bragging. I am simply stating a fact, and it is one we should all declare with a smile on our faces and a glow in our hearts.

The ordinary extraordinary redheaded stiletto-wearing momma in action!

How can I be ordinary, when the very hair on my head sets me apart? I’m a natural strawberry-blonde redhead, and when I look around at my office-mates, I see no one who looks like me. In my own household, a stray hair is a tell-tale clue of where I have been.

The spring before he reported to the United States Military Academy for basic training, my tow-headed son took advantage of his last days as a civilian and attempted to grow a beard. When the newly acquired facial hair sprang out and curled around his chin, I noticed a faint red-ish hue, and my heart rejoiced to see my genes. However, unless the US Army changes its firm anti-facial hair regulations, I will have to wait many more years for another glimpse of it.

My father’s hair matched mine once upon a time, so much so that his friends nicknamed him “Rusty”. I need only three fingers, however, to count the rest of the gingers in my family–one cousin, one second-cousin, one nephew. Among us, the shades of orange are different, making us all extraordinary in our very sameness.

I am extraordinary.

You are too.

Few people have my hair. None have the pattern of my freckles.

A handful of people have traveled the path of my life by my side. A few have experienced the same joys and the same tragedies. None of them share the exact memory of those incidents that have helped to form the extraordinary person I am today.

And let’s face it…many people have a closet full of shoes, but who among them can pull off a five-inch heel quite like I do!

Ordinary does not begin to describe who I am.

I am extraordinary, just like you.

What sets you apart from everyone else and makes you the extraordinary person you are?

***This ordinary extraordinary post was brought to you by Five Minute Friday and the word “ordinary”. Treat yourself to something special, and join us for the biggest blogging flash-mob in cyber space.

Restoring Imagination

The two-story house had sat empty for well over three decades. It was probably closer to four, but no one could really remember the last time the dwelling had been used.

Abandoned long ago.

Its bright yellow siding had faded from the color of sunshine on a bright summer morning to the hue of the powdered lemonade mix that settles to the bottom of the pitcher when it has been left to sit in the refrigerator past its time. The stark white trim, in the few places where it still remained, now shown no brighter than dirty water in a puddle.

Windows bowed and cracked in the summer heat while their panes slowly gave way and fell askew. Chimneys crumbled and eventually vanished as they turned to dust. The railing of the staircase leading to the attic bedroom had long since collapsed and the stairs from the main floor had become dangerously loose over time.

Years of disuse lead to destruction.

The Victorian-era furniture had all been wrapped with care before being abandoned to swelter in disuse. Over time, however, the protection had failed to keep a layer of dust from accumulating on the plush, emerald green sofa and a musty smell from overtaking the floor coverings.

This had once been the home of the Harris Family–John, Jeannie and their three children. The oldest child was Suzie, and while evidence of her and her parents’ names have been found on long-ago posted mail, the names of their son and baby daughter remain unknown.

John was a business man, leaving home every morning in coat and tie and returning in the evening to lounge on the emerald sofa reading the newspaper by the warm fireplace.  Jeannie, by all appearances was a homemaker, roasting turkeys and baking pies, while her children played Monopoly or read quietly in their third-floor room.

Evidence of family life.

Both sets of grandparents were known to visit frequently, often bringing with them gifts of kittens, toy trains or boxes of store-bought donuts.

This was a happy family. Happy, that is, until the driving force of their joy stopped visiting as often. That giver of joyful life experiences was a little girl with ginger curls and an active imagination. She would stop by the little yellow house every day to play with the children and help Jeannie cook dinner for her work-weary husband. She planned parties and birthday surprises. She was there when the grandparents came calling and when the children went to bed.

She…was me.

I was not much older than the Young One when my mother told me I was not allowed to enter the basement for a few weeks. I could sense the excitement in the new rule, and I knew that on the other side of that basement door was a surprise. Being a lover of surprises, I had no intention of crossing that threshold even when my brother was allowed access or when my granddad stopped by for an unexpected visit only to disappear behind that closed door. He and my father would be below for hours, leaving me to imagine what greatness awaited me at the end of their project.

My anticipation reached its climax Christmas morning when waiting under the tree for me was a shiny new miniature dollhouse all sunny and bright and handcrafted for me by my father, his father and his son. The draperies hanging on each sparkling window had been stitched with my mother’s own hand. Each subsequent gift that year offered another piece of the house and its family–a velvet covered sofa, a butcher’s block, a canopy bed. Then came the dolls with their painted smiles and fabric bodies, all waiting for me to tell their stories.

I spent years with the Harris family, but as girls do, I eventually outgrew the fascination. Playing with makeup and experimenting with hairstyles became more important, until eventually my mother covered the unused house with an old hoop skirt, wrapped and boxed each accessory and moved it all to a dark corner of the attic.

Housecleaning!

That is where it stayed…until two months ago when she decided the time was right to pull it out and re-gift it to her granddaughter. When my parents traveled the highway from Pennsylvania to Kentucky to spend Christmas with me and my family, they brought with them a van full presents and a long-neglected dollhouse.

The Young One and I are now in active restoration mode. We’ve disinfected every surface, vacuumed the carpets and laundered the handmade curtains. We’ve pulled off the loose trim and discarded the irreparable staircase railing.

And finally, we’ve awakened the wonder of the Harris family. Suzie is playing school again with her brother and baby sister. John is back at work after an extended leave and Jeannie is back in the kitchen showering her family with all the love she can fit into her menu.

Ready to play!

We still have work to do. The trim needs replacing, and the window panes need a fresh coat of paint. If an imaginary rainstorm comes to the neighborhood, poor Suzie and her siblings will be washed out as the roof currently has two gaping holes where the chimneys used to be.

Years of joy await the Harrises and their yellow house again, and I can’t wait to watch the stories unfold.

Have you ever passed down a beloved toy to your children?

Catching the Bad Dreams

I expect to be roused from a deep sleep a least once a week. Sometimes I even wake up before the Young One wanders into my bedroom. I hear the click of the door latch, and see the short shadowy figure approach.

“Another bad dream?” I ask in a whisper.

“Uh-huh,” she whispers back.

I take her hand and together we climb the stairs to her room. We’ve been doing this for almost a year.

Sometimes I think she just wants another momma-hug.

Sometimes I think she just wants a reason to get out of her warm bed and wander around the quiet house.

But other times I think she really is afraid. I learned quite a while ago that she has a vivid imagination and is sometimes afraid of the dark, so I’m not surprised when I hear about green monsters and zombies.

The Older One’s dream catcher hung over his bed for years, keeping the bad dreams away.

I am surprised, however, that it has taken me this long to think of the Dream Catcher. Years ago, while on a business trip in Phoenix, AZ, I walked into the hotel gift shop in search of a guilt gift–the trinket working moms buy to give to their kids on the back-end of a week away from home to say, “Sorry I had to be away. Here’s an over-sized pencil with the name of a far away town on it to make up for my absence.”

This time, instead of some logo’d key chain, I opted for a handmade Native American dream catcher, which according to legend, will catch bad dreams in the center of its woven circle and trap them there until they evaporate in the morning sun. It sounded cool, and looked even cooler–just the thing to raise the bar on my guilt gift giving.

I took it home and presented to my son. He eagerly hung it over his bed where it stayed for more than a decade. I rarely heard about bad dreams during that time, so maybe there is some truth to that legend wrapped up in twine and feathers.

Now, I think the time has come to revive the dream catcher for the Young One. Only, I’m a little skeptical of the power of a hand-me-down maybe-magic-ornament. (Plus, her brother’s red and black don’t go with her orange and pink!) So, I’ve scoured the World Wide Web for the coolest, girliest dream catcher I can find.

It’s being hand-crafted as I type, and I’m hoping it will help her not be afraid of bad dreams any more…and that I’ll get a full night’s sleep!

How do you keep away bad dreams?

**This post was brought to you by Five Minute Friday and the word “afraid.”

Until I See Your Face Again

When I first saw your face, it was red and angry–your eyes squeezed tight and your mouth opened wide as you screamed your dissatisfaction at being pulled from the only home you had known for the past nine months.

Later, while you slept peacefully in my arms, I saw your dimple for the first time. The same one that graces your daddy’s face. “Dimple on the chin, devil within,” my momma told me.

Dimple on the chin…

With your first smile, I discovered new dimples, and would soon learn they were the tell-tale sign of your “true” smile–not the one forced for the camera with a pleading, “Say cheeeeese!”

Your nose came from me, your hair, much to my regret, came from your dad.  No ginger-haired baby boy for me.

Around age four, I spotted your first freckle. At first, I scrubbed at it, thinking it to be just more playground dirt. But it stayed, and then I saw more and more and still more, until I realized they spread across your nose and cheeks just like the ones I see when I look in the mirror.

For seventeen years, I rejoiced at seeing that face every morning before you headed to the bus stop, every afternoon when I came home from a long day at work and every evening at bedtime.

Now, with you so far away, I must rely on pictures–the ones on my desk, on my computer, on my walls and in my head.  The ones with the true smile that lights up your eyes and crinkles your face with the appearance of those dimples, the ones with your teeth clenched in a “cheese” smile, and the ones with a goofy face meant to disappoint the photographer, but which only make me smile more.

For now, the images of that face will have to do. They make me smile when I miss you, laugh when I’m feeling blue, and bring you closer to my heart when my arms ache to hold you close.

These images will help me get through the next 42 days until I see your face again.

Miss you, my sweet boy. Hurry home.

Stiletto Momma

****Today’s post is brought to you by Five Minute Friday and the word “Again.”  If you have five minutes to spare from some unedited, from-the-heart blogging, join us on Lisa-Jo Baker’s site.

Cherish You

Dear sweet girl.

Only five years old and already so self conscious and critical.

“I don’t want curly hair.”

“I always lose.”

Quickly critical of yourself.

Sweet, sweet girl.

My hope for you is that you grow to be a strong, confident young woman, so my advice to you is this…

Cherish yourself.

Cherish each freckle, each imperfect curl that flows down your back. Cherish the rich, dark, long, lashes that frame your eyes and the golden highlights that streak you hair. Cherish your smooth tanned skin and your long, quick legs.

Cherish your strength–strength of body, strength of will, strength of character.

Cherish your intellect, your desire to learn, your ability to do anything you set your mind to.

Cherish your quick happy smile, your laughter and your playfulness.

That’s a confident, happy little girl!

Cherish all your differences, your uniqueness, your individuality…all those things that make you stand out from the crowd of girls striving for acceptance.

Cherish yourself.

Cherish you because before you can feel cherished by others you must first love yourself…all your goodness, all your flaws and everything in between.

You are perfect, and I cherish each and every moment of you as my daughter.

Stiletto Momma

****Today’s Five Minute Friday is brought to you by the word “Cherished”.  Check out more creative interpretations on Lisa-Jo Baker’s site. Try it out for yourself too. You won’t be disappointed.

A Snowy Opportunity

We haven’t seen snow in my part of the country in well over a year.

Okay, well…I take that back. We haven’t seen bundle-up-the-kids-and-go-outside-to-play snow in well over a year. Last Saturday that all changed when the Young One burst into my bedroom at 7:56 am and announced, “IT SNOWED! IT SNOWED!”

My snow-covered backyard.

How I managed to keep her in the house for the next two hours is still a mystery to me, but I did find a way to enjoy several cups of coffee by my nice, warm fireplace before donning boots, polar fleece and long-johns (silk ones, by the way, in case you have any doubt that Stiletto Momma would be anything less than stylish).

We were fortunate enough to be joined outside by the Older One, who had learned earlier in the day that “visiting” home for the holidays does not exclude him from the pool of eligible people to be delegated driveway shoveling duty. He strolled across the driveway, shovel in hand, while the Young One made snow angels. Within minutes, the driveway was clear, and he lobbed the first snowball. The Young One squealed  as she scrambled to make a ball of her own, only to cry in disappointment seconds later when her snowy missile looked more like a lump than a sphere.

Sighing, the Older One took the opportunity to impart some brotherly advice on how to form the perfect snowball.

“Let me show you,” he said, squatting down and digging his gloved hands in the cold for the makings of wintry ammunition. She watched with great attention as he demonstrated packing the snow then rolling it in his hands to form a perfect ball.

Snowball Architecture 101

I smiled through the lens of my camera, thinking how lucky this little girl is to have such a loving brother and how lucky I am to have both of my children with me against the backdrop of snowy treetops.

Family moments like these are few and far between these days.

With the Older One spending most of his days at the United States Military Academy at West Point, the only times we are all in the same space at the same time are when we see the Older One on the computer monitor courtesy of the webcam.

I’m not one to normally be all happy and bouncy about sledding and snowman-building, but the opportunity to spend an hour playing with my kids is truly a joy…even when they join forces to pelt their loving momma with an arsenal of freshly made snowballs!

INCOMING!!!!

What’s your favorite snow day memory?

Five Minute Friday is back! Today’s prompt is “Opportunity”. Check out Lisa-Jo Baker’s site to read more stories about great opportunities, or better yet, write and share one of your own!