- A Day Like Any Other -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Launching Olivia -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Mama of a Gifted Child -- Regina Walker
- What I Did Over Summer Vacation -- Susan Krushenick
- Back-to-School Night -- Gerry Di Gesu
- Terror -- Gerry Di Gesu
- Dirty Eggs -- Lisa Libowitz
- How I Survived Seventh Grade -- Jane Kaplan Naliboff
- Caring for Billy -- Pat Gee
- NOW (a poem) -- Kimberly Simmons Merino
- 911 (a poem) -- Angela J. Perez
Showing posts with label September 2003. Show all posts
Showing posts with label September 2003. Show all posts
SEPTEMBER 2003
The GROUND ZERO Issue:
911 ( a poem)
By Angela J. Perez
Desolation and despair
ripped through the air
as jet planes are crashing
everywhere.
We are under attack
and feeling our lack
of knowing what's
happening here.
With terrors in the sky
we are left wondering why
who is responsible,
who wants us to die.
We must all join
in lover and prayer
for American people
everywhere.
That with faith we will win
we shall triumph over sin
and our country will be whole
once again.
************
Copyright 2003 Angela J. Perez
Desolation and despair
ripped through the air
as jet planes are crashing
everywhere.
We are under attack
and feeling our lack
of knowing what's
happening here.
With terrors in the sky
we are left wondering why
who is responsible,
who wants us to die.
We must all join
in lover and prayer
for American people
everywhere.
That with faith we will win
we shall triumph over sin
and our country will be whole
once again.
************
Copyright 2003 Angela J. Perez
NOW (a poem)
By Kimberly Simmons Merino
Now, I hesitate when a jet flies overhead.
I hold my breath when I turn on the news.
I hear sirens and I listen for more.
When I say goodbye, I add, 'be safe', and I savor that moment.
I think twice before entering buildings.
I am wary of large crowds.
I look with suspicion at others, and hate myself for doing it.
I have lost peace. And I grieve its death.
This unease will last forever.
And yet, I have gained.
Now, I measure my joy by little things.
The jingle of keys in the door.
The sound of gulping milk, slamming doors, backyard squeals.
The whispers of sleep that ruffle my midnight.
The squishy treasures found in pockets.
I say 'I love you' more frequently.
I say 'I am sorry' more often.
I share more of myself.
I am grateful. And I celebrate.
May this fragile thanksgiving last forever.
*******************************
Copyright 2003 Kimberly Simmons-Merino
Now, I hesitate when a jet flies overhead.
I hold my breath when I turn on the news.
I hear sirens and I listen for more.
When I say goodbye, I add, 'be safe', and I savor that moment.
I think twice before entering buildings.
I am wary of large crowds.
I look with suspicion at others, and hate myself for doing it.
I have lost peace. And I grieve its death.
This unease will last forever.
And yet, I have gained.
Now, I measure my joy by little things.
The jingle of keys in the door.
The sound of gulping milk, slamming doors, backyard squeals.
The whispers of sleep that ruffle my midnight.
The squishy treasures found in pockets.
I say 'I love you' more frequently.
I say 'I am sorry' more often.
I share more of myself.
I am grateful. And I celebrate.
May this fragile thanksgiving last forever.
*******************************
Copyright 2003 Kimberly Simmons-Merino
Caring for Billy
By Pat Gee
It's been 20 years since my life was turned upside down, given a hard shake, and was never the same again.
The "life-quake" was caused by the birth of my son, Billy, an occasion my family will be celebrating Thursday evening. But Billy won't be gobbling down the roast beef dinner like the rest of us.
You see, Billy can't really eat -- not stuff like roast beef or anything that has to be chewed. He gets most of his nutrition via a tube in his stomach. Yes, he gets to sample the soft foods, like mashed potatoes and brown gravy (his favorite), ice cream and frosting on the cake. But he isn't allowed to swallow much of it.
He'll sit there, humming to himself and twirling the ribbon attached to a big balloon (another favorite), coming out of his own world occasionally to smile and giggle at the goings-on, if we're lucky. Or he'll pull the tablecloth, and plunge his hand into the potatoes, if we're not.
You see, he can't hear or speak, so joining in the conversation is not how he entertains himself. Don't worry, he'll get to do something fun before dinner. I eat fast, with one eye always watching him, so that he can't do anything too mischievous or gross.
Life with Billy involves the ability to anticipate problems and being prepared for them. Frankly, he's a pain in the butt, but I love him.
Billy is pretty tine for 20, at only 4.5 feet tall and 58 pounds. He was born with a double cleft lip and palate, that was corrected by an operation that left noticeable scars, so his face is a bit lopsided. But I adore his face, and can't help covering it with kisses every day.
People, mostly kids, often stare at him as if he's the most repulsive thing they've ever seen, while other's immediately exclaim, "He's so cute!" It truly astounds me how beauty is a reflection of one's heart.
Raising a child who is autistic and severely handicapped is, to quote a philosopher whose name I can't recall, "like licking honey from a thorn."
You have to try to glean the sweetness of life under the bitterest of circumstances, without having the heart cut out of you. And somehow when you've managed this unlikely feat, the reward is all the more sweet.
What do I get out of it? His crooked little smile lights up my day, and he has an endearing charm that grabs my heart. His giggle is contageous -- except when I hear it at 3 AM, accompanied by his bounding out of bed and turning on the lights. When he reveals how smart he is, we all take the time to marvel at it.
To handle the heartbreaks and frustrations, I've been forced to become resilient and resourceful, comparable to someone with a tenacity to survive in the wilderness. But please don't put me to the test -- I hate camping.
I used to feel like a failure because I hadn't achieved my goals. But one day, I realized that without getting any promotion, becoming a millionaire, or doing whatever the world regards as being a success -- I am a very important person -- even if only to my son. If I were to die, he would suffer because no one would be there to love or care for him, as I have.
There's an inspirational message that sums up my feelings. It goes something like this: In 100 years, it won't matter what kind of car I drove, what kind of house I lived in, or how much money I made. The only thing of lasting value will be that I was important in the life of my child.
***********************
Copyright 2003 Pat Gee
It's been 20 years since my life was turned upside down, given a hard shake, and was never the same again.
The "life-quake" was caused by the birth of my son, Billy, an occasion my family will be celebrating Thursday evening. But Billy won't be gobbling down the roast beef dinner like the rest of us.
You see, Billy can't really eat -- not stuff like roast beef or anything that has to be chewed. He gets most of his nutrition via a tube in his stomach. Yes, he gets to sample the soft foods, like mashed potatoes and brown gravy (his favorite), ice cream and frosting on the cake. But he isn't allowed to swallow much of it.
He'll sit there, humming to himself and twirling the ribbon attached to a big balloon (another favorite), coming out of his own world occasionally to smile and giggle at the goings-on, if we're lucky. Or he'll pull the tablecloth, and plunge his hand into the potatoes, if we're not.
You see, he can't hear or speak, so joining in the conversation is not how he entertains himself. Don't worry, he'll get to do something fun before dinner. I eat fast, with one eye always watching him, so that he can't do anything too mischievous or gross.
Life with Billy involves the ability to anticipate problems and being prepared for them. Frankly, he's a pain in the butt, but I love him.
Billy is pretty tine for 20, at only 4.5 feet tall and 58 pounds. He was born with a double cleft lip and palate, that was corrected by an operation that left noticeable scars, so his face is a bit lopsided. But I adore his face, and can't help covering it with kisses every day.
People, mostly kids, often stare at him as if he's the most repulsive thing they've ever seen, while other's immediately exclaim, "He's so cute!" It truly astounds me how beauty is a reflection of one's heart.
Raising a child who is autistic and severely handicapped is, to quote a philosopher whose name I can't recall, "like licking honey from a thorn."
You have to try to glean the sweetness of life under the bitterest of circumstances, without having the heart cut out of you. And somehow when you've managed this unlikely feat, the reward is all the more sweet.
What do I get out of it? His crooked little smile lights up my day, and he has an endearing charm that grabs my heart. His giggle is contageous -- except when I hear it at 3 AM, accompanied by his bounding out of bed and turning on the lights. When he reveals how smart he is, we all take the time to marvel at it.
To handle the heartbreaks and frustrations, I've been forced to become resilient and resourceful, comparable to someone with a tenacity to survive in the wilderness. But please don't put me to the test -- I hate camping.
I used to feel like a failure because I hadn't achieved my goals. But one day, I realized that without getting any promotion, becoming a millionaire, or doing whatever the world regards as being a success -- I am a very important person -- even if only to my son. If I were to die, he would suffer because no one would be there to love or care for him, as I have.
There's an inspirational message that sums up my feelings. It goes something like this: In 100 years, it won't matter what kind of car I drove, what kind of house I lived in, or how much money I made. The only thing of lasting value will be that I was important in the life of my child.
***********************
Copyright 2003 Pat Gee
Dirty Eggs
By Lisa Libowitz
The mother was exhausted; I knew it as soon as I saw her dragging after her four children as they raced into the cave. My three girls had dashed ahead, too, eager to see the bats. I averted my eyes and moved away from her, knowing without words she was close to the breaking point.
We both pushed strollers into the darkness, straining to see. I walked slowly, confident for once of what my wild ones were up to and loving those moments in the quiet dark. We are members at the zoo, and had spent so many lazy summer afternoons there, we had a routine. I knew they would wait for me at the other end of the man-made cave.
But the sudden change from sun-dappled forest to artificial night blinded the other woman, and neither of us could hear our kids. Cursing, shepushed her stroller past me and rushed onward, summoning her children angrily. All she got for answers were giggles; they were playing hide-and-seek with mine.
I smiled; for my girls, this was all part of the routine. I knew there was no real hiding places, no mysterious side paths and no exits but one.
The other mother, clearly, had no such sense of safety; when her eyesight adjusted enough to spot her brood, she grabbed the closest one and slapped him hard across the face. “You stupid, no good...” By the time she had collected the other three, slapped and cursed each of them, and pushed them ahead of us, all her children were sobbing.
Even before they were out of sight, my girls had run to me, loudly questioning why this woman was such a bad mommy. “Please...please wait a minute,” I said, shushing them. Despite my own embarrassment, I had a moment of pure happiness. I felt so good, so superior. Hey, a voice whispered in my head, you don’t smack your kids and you don’t call them names. You’re not a
bad mommy!
But quick as a camera flash in that cave, I remembered dinner the night before. I left work later than I had planned, and traffic made the drive home a nightmare. Late picking up the kids, I was warned--again--by our child care provider that I needed to do better. Buckling the kids into the van, I had to break the news that I hadn’t had time to stop and pick them up a snack.
“But Mommy,” 3-year-old Olivia whined in that voice that, for me, is worse than fingernails on a blackboard, “I’m so hungry. You promised.”
“Mom, you forget all the time,” Hayley pouted, and I glared at my 5-year-old through the rear-view mirror.
“Yeah, and you packed me a peanut butter sandwich for lunch today,” her twin sister, Jessica, added. “And you know I HATE them. Hayley likes peanut butter; I don’t. Why do I have to take my lunch anyway?”
At home, our little 3-month-old terrier was so overjoyed that we’d finally arrived, she peed on the kitchen floor before she could make it outside. Starved for some attention, she jumped up and her little puppy claws ripped a hole down the new stockings I hadn’t had time to take off.
“Out!” I ordered, putting puppy and kids out the backdoor. “You can eat dinner outside tonight.”
“But Mom,” Jessica whined, “we’ve been outside all day. We want to watch TV.” “I’m hungry!”
Olivia yelled. “When are you going to make dinner?”
“Right now!” I yelled back, stomping toward the refrigerator--and into the puppy pee. I scrambled eggs and served them up on paper plates. One less chore for later, I thought. I carried them out to the girls and turned back into the house to pour milk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hayley, plate of eggs in one hand trying to pick up her puppy with the other.
Before I could move, the plate flipped--and so did I.
“What’s wrong with you?” I shrieked “You hadn’t even had a bite! You know you’re going to have to eat that, all of it--every damn bite!”
Only, it wasn’t my voice that came out, that ugly frightening snarl--it was my mother’s, and I knew it.
Suddenly, I was on the ground, scraping the eggs out of the grass and back onto the plate. From far away, it seemed, a voice--my voice--was screaming at me to stop, to forget it, but I couldn’t...in the silence, I could hear a baby’s cries two doors down, as his mother snatched him from his blanket and hurried into her house.
As soon as her door slammed, the trance broke.
“Hayley, I’m sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath. Too late I say the words I should have said first, “It was an accident, and I shouldn’t have yelled. I’ll make you some more eggs.”
“No, Mommy,” she whispered, her head slumped down and tears dripping on her
pink t-shirt. “I’ll eat these. I don’t deserve clean food.”
And I dropped the paper plate, sat down in the dirt with my child and sobbed.
I used to think I would be a perfect mother. I wasn’t going to make any of the mistakes my parents’ made. I wasn’t going to harm or humiliate my children, ever. After all, I loved them. I’ve always been a perfectionist. And it’s a mark of how narrow my life has been, or how stubborn I am, that until a few years ago, I had never seriously failed at anything. Sure, there had been setbacks and moments of self-doubt. But what I often lacked in skill or ability, I firmly believed I could make up for in sheer determination and effort--and almost without exception, I did.
Then I became a mother. My failures began before my first-born twins could talk. I caressed one lovingly, as she nursed, marveling at the perfect fingers and toes, in love with the silky soft body pressed against my belly. “Jessica, “ I whispered, shutting out the world, enchanted by the precious life in my arms.
But this love-in was pierced by the ugly shrieking cry of my other infant, full of fury and need and accusation. How dare I waste time leisurely feeding one baby, when she, Hayley was hungry? That cry bounced off the walls as I rushed through the rest of Jessica’s feeding, pounded a burp out with an efficient thump, and settled her back in her crib. I picked up Hayley, gazed down at her with love as she began to root for my breast, and helped her attach.
But just as I began to relax, another scream split the air. Jessica had not been burped properly. She was jerking her little legs up toward her belly, screaming with a red-purple face. I put Hayley down to tend to Jessica, and in a moment, I had two screaming babies, crying with that horrible insistence only your own newborn can have.
And instead of comforting either one of them, I reached for the nearest baby and shook her hard. Bounced her body against the crib, screaming at them both “Stop it, stop it, stop!”
And they did. Silence, so complete I hear squirrels skittering among the branches of the maple tree outside their room.
Then, another wail comes, but it is mine. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” And as Mommy breaks down completely, both babies start to cry again.
I wanted to put a bullet in my head. It was a shining moment of self-hatred, something like a black pearl. I would soon find myself with enough such moments to string a necklace.
For the first time, books and willpower did me no good at all. I’d read my parenting manuals, resolve to do better, to control my temper, but weeks of sleepless nights and days spent captive to my children pushed me time and again to rage. Sometimes, I’d grab a child and want to hit and hit and hit.
Somehow, I never did. Oh, there were a few swats on the behind when they were toddlers, but compared to what I wanted to do, those were miracles. I’d give myself a timeout, shuddering with rage and fear. Each episode rattled me more than my daughters. I didn’t know how to deal with myself. In the past, if something I did were going badly, I’d start over. A report, a poem, a story--all could be thrown away and reinvented anew.
Well, five years later and here I was, in my best red dress, ripped stockings, sitting on a carpet of dirty eggs, with my first born in my lap. I knew I couldn’t throw her out and start over.
“Why do you yell so much, Mommy?” she asked through her sobs.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe because when I was little, my parents yelled, too, and I could never yell back. Maybe because if I yell, I won’t do something worse. When I was little, my father hit me with a belt when he was angry.”
“Mommy!” she gasped, giving me a hug. “Did your parents hate you?”
“No,” I answered. “They loved me very much. They just did their best, and sometimes, it wasn’t very good.” I hugged her sadly. “When you were born I promised I would never yell at you. I wanted so much to be a good mommy...”
“You ARE a good mommy!” Hayley said fiercely. She places her small hands on
my shoulders and shakes me, and for a split second, I can see her all grown up. “You are you are you are.”
Yeah, I thought, that’s why that mother down the street flees into her house as soon as she sees me...like I have some horrible disease she’s afraid to catch: the bad mommy virus.
“Well...” I said. “I can tell you this: I’m a better mommy than my parents were. And you’ll be a better mommy than I am because you get to learn from all my mistakes. I know it. And you do deserve clean eggs!”
Just one day later, in the shadows of the cave, I’m ashamed of wanting to look good at this other woman’s expense. I hung my head again and sighed. “I don’t know why she treated her children that way, girls. I know they didn’t deserve it. No child does. But maybe she’s never done it before. We don’t know that she’s a bad mommy.
Maybe she’s just a mommy, having a bad
*************************
Copyright 2003 Lisa Libowitz
The mother was exhausted; I knew it as soon as I saw her dragging after her four children as they raced into the cave. My three girls had dashed ahead, too, eager to see the bats. I averted my eyes and moved away from her, knowing without words she was close to the breaking point.
We both pushed strollers into the darkness, straining to see. I walked slowly, confident for once of what my wild ones were up to and loving those moments in the quiet dark. We are members at the zoo, and had spent so many lazy summer afternoons there, we had a routine. I knew they would wait for me at the other end of the man-made cave.
But the sudden change from sun-dappled forest to artificial night blinded the other woman, and neither of us could hear our kids. Cursing, shepushed her stroller past me and rushed onward, summoning her children angrily. All she got for answers were giggles; they were playing hide-and-seek with mine.
I smiled; for my girls, this was all part of the routine. I knew there was no real hiding places, no mysterious side paths and no exits but one.
The other mother, clearly, had no such sense of safety; when her eyesight adjusted enough to spot her brood, she grabbed the closest one and slapped him hard across the face. “You stupid, no good...” By the time she had collected the other three, slapped and cursed each of them, and pushed them ahead of us, all her children were sobbing.
Even before they were out of sight, my girls had run to me, loudly questioning why this woman was such a bad mommy. “Please...please wait a minute,” I said, shushing them. Despite my own embarrassment, I had a moment of pure happiness. I felt so good, so superior. Hey, a voice whispered in my head, you don’t smack your kids and you don’t call them names. You’re not a
bad mommy!
But quick as a camera flash in that cave, I remembered dinner the night before. I left work later than I had planned, and traffic made the drive home a nightmare. Late picking up the kids, I was warned--again--by our child care provider that I needed to do better. Buckling the kids into the van, I had to break the news that I hadn’t had time to stop and pick them up a snack.
“But Mommy,” 3-year-old Olivia whined in that voice that, for me, is worse than fingernails on a blackboard, “I’m so hungry. You promised.”
“Mom, you forget all the time,” Hayley pouted, and I glared at my 5-year-old through the rear-view mirror.
“Yeah, and you packed me a peanut butter sandwich for lunch today,” her twin sister, Jessica, added. “And you know I HATE them. Hayley likes peanut butter; I don’t. Why do I have to take my lunch anyway?”
At home, our little 3-month-old terrier was so overjoyed that we’d finally arrived, she peed on the kitchen floor before she could make it outside. Starved for some attention, she jumped up and her little puppy claws ripped a hole down the new stockings I hadn’t had time to take off.
“Out!” I ordered, putting puppy and kids out the backdoor. “You can eat dinner outside tonight.”
“But Mom,” Jessica whined, “we’ve been outside all day. We want to watch TV.” “I’m hungry!”
Olivia yelled. “When are you going to make dinner?”
“Right now!” I yelled back, stomping toward the refrigerator--and into the puppy pee. I scrambled eggs and served them up on paper plates. One less chore for later, I thought. I carried them out to the girls and turned back into the house to pour milk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hayley, plate of eggs in one hand trying to pick up her puppy with the other.
Before I could move, the plate flipped--and so did I.
“What’s wrong with you?” I shrieked “You hadn’t even had a bite! You know you’re going to have to eat that, all of it--every damn bite!”
Only, it wasn’t my voice that came out, that ugly frightening snarl--it was my mother’s, and I knew it.
Suddenly, I was on the ground, scraping the eggs out of the grass and back onto the plate. From far away, it seemed, a voice--my voice--was screaming at me to stop, to forget it, but I couldn’t...in the silence, I could hear a baby’s cries two doors down, as his mother snatched him from his blanket and hurried into her house.
As soon as her door slammed, the trance broke.
“Hayley, I’m sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath. Too late I say the words I should have said first, “It was an accident, and I shouldn’t have yelled. I’ll make you some more eggs.”
“No, Mommy,” she whispered, her head slumped down and tears dripping on her
pink t-shirt. “I’ll eat these. I don’t deserve clean food.”
And I dropped the paper plate, sat down in the dirt with my child and sobbed.
I used to think I would be a perfect mother. I wasn’t going to make any of the mistakes my parents’ made. I wasn’t going to harm or humiliate my children, ever. After all, I loved them. I’ve always been a perfectionist. And it’s a mark of how narrow my life has been, or how stubborn I am, that until a few years ago, I had never seriously failed at anything. Sure, there had been setbacks and moments of self-doubt. But what I often lacked in skill or ability, I firmly believed I could make up for in sheer determination and effort--and almost without exception, I did.
Then I became a mother. My failures began before my first-born twins could talk. I caressed one lovingly, as she nursed, marveling at the perfect fingers and toes, in love with the silky soft body pressed against my belly. “Jessica, “ I whispered, shutting out the world, enchanted by the precious life in my arms.
But this love-in was pierced by the ugly shrieking cry of my other infant, full of fury and need and accusation. How dare I waste time leisurely feeding one baby, when she, Hayley was hungry? That cry bounced off the walls as I rushed through the rest of Jessica’s feeding, pounded a burp out with an efficient thump, and settled her back in her crib. I picked up Hayley, gazed down at her with love as she began to root for my breast, and helped her attach.
But just as I began to relax, another scream split the air. Jessica had not been burped properly. She was jerking her little legs up toward her belly, screaming with a red-purple face. I put Hayley down to tend to Jessica, and in a moment, I had two screaming babies, crying with that horrible insistence only your own newborn can have.
And instead of comforting either one of them, I reached for the nearest baby and shook her hard. Bounced her body against the crib, screaming at them both “Stop it, stop it, stop!”
And they did. Silence, so complete I hear squirrels skittering among the branches of the maple tree outside their room.
Then, another wail comes, but it is mine. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” And as Mommy breaks down completely, both babies start to cry again.
I wanted to put a bullet in my head. It was a shining moment of self-hatred, something like a black pearl. I would soon find myself with enough such moments to string a necklace.
For the first time, books and willpower did me no good at all. I’d read my parenting manuals, resolve to do better, to control my temper, but weeks of sleepless nights and days spent captive to my children pushed me time and again to rage. Sometimes, I’d grab a child and want to hit and hit and hit.
Somehow, I never did. Oh, there were a few swats on the behind when they were toddlers, but compared to what I wanted to do, those were miracles. I’d give myself a timeout, shuddering with rage and fear. Each episode rattled me more than my daughters. I didn’t know how to deal with myself. In the past, if something I did were going badly, I’d start over. A report, a poem, a story--all could be thrown away and reinvented anew.
Well, five years later and here I was, in my best red dress, ripped stockings, sitting on a carpet of dirty eggs, with my first born in my lap. I knew I couldn’t throw her out and start over.
“Why do you yell so much, Mommy?” she asked through her sobs.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe because when I was little, my parents yelled, too, and I could never yell back. Maybe because if I yell, I won’t do something worse. When I was little, my father hit me with a belt when he was angry.”
“Mommy!” she gasped, giving me a hug. “Did your parents hate you?”
“No,” I answered. “They loved me very much. They just did their best, and sometimes, it wasn’t very good.” I hugged her sadly. “When you were born I promised I would never yell at you. I wanted so much to be a good mommy...”
“You ARE a good mommy!” Hayley said fiercely. She places her small hands on
my shoulders and shakes me, and for a split second, I can see her all grown up. “You are you are you are.”
Yeah, I thought, that’s why that mother down the street flees into her house as soon as she sees me...like I have some horrible disease she’s afraid to catch: the bad mommy virus.
“Well...” I said. “I can tell you this: I’m a better mommy than my parents were. And you’ll be a better mommy than I am because you get to learn from all my mistakes. I know it. And you do deserve clean eggs!”
Just one day later, in the shadows of the cave, I’m ashamed of wanting to look good at this other woman’s expense. I hung my head again and sighed. “I don’t know why she treated her children that way, girls. I know they didn’t deserve it. No child does. But maybe she’s never done it before. We don’t know that she’s a bad mommy.
Maybe she’s just a mommy, having a bad
*************************
Copyright 2003 Lisa Libowitz
Terror
I'm upset that I seemed to lack any depth of feeling in the first days after the terrorist attack. I always thought terrorists would attack our country one day in some horrible way, but never something like this. I still see Bush's image on TV -- the poor man - God please help him. I turned off the TV when they listed the dead along with their photos. Why was I unwilling or unable to share the pain these families felt? I hated the detachment and denial which seemed to be my strongest coping skills at that point. That wasn't me. Or was it?
A few days after the disaster my daughter, 26, who lives with me and has tried to forge a life for herself on Cape Cod for the last three years, told her boss she would be moving back to New Jersey when he was able to find someone to replace her. "I just sat there, mom, looking at that TV screen and asked myself: Why are you sitting here wasting your life when you have so much to offer, so much you want to do, and you know you can't have the life you want here."
Terror and the realization of how fragile life is gave her the courage to take a step forward to a new beginning. One of my first reactions was God had done this for a reason none of us can know or understand but that in some way good will come from it. I felt in my heart that our society has been drifting away from the true meaning of life slowly for many years. The need to be first, have the most, and "be connected" all the time has only fractured and fragmented families and it doesn't seem to make folks happier in any way I can see.
With the desperate need we seem to have to be first, I've always wondered who would be willing to get in line in second place. In my blue-collar hometown in New Jersey there's constant competition between adults to own the most expensive car, wear more gold, or buy a larger home. In the resort town in Massachusetts where our retirement home is located, this summer many obviously quite wealthy families, both summer residents and those on vacation, seemed more hostile, impatient, and rarely smiled. I wonder -- what will make us happy?
A week after the attacks I returned to my home in New Jersey for a week's visit and the tragedy became more real. A friend's son had taken a job at the World Trade Center three weeks before the attack, but had missed the train that day. I felt more comfortable among the crowded, diverse population in my town of 52,000 than I had while sitting peacefully at Harding's Beach. I looked through the newspaper list for the name of someone I knew among the thirty-two who were missing from my town, but fortunately found none. My dentist told me that twenty fathers and mothers of young children who lived in his town didn't make it. How do I understand this? I watched my team, the New York Mets, honor all those in pain in unforgettable ceremonies before the first baseball game played in New York since the tragedy.
My home in New Jersey is located fifteen minutes from Newark International Airport and thirty minutes from Manhattan. At times, according to wind direction, the take-off flight plan directs many planes at extremely low altitudes directly over my home. It was cloudy all week so I was unable to see any of them until this morning. Only then, when I saw a jumbo-jet soaring low overhead could I start to feel the terror of September llth. Later, after lunch my husband and I decided to go shopping. The highway entrance we use to get to the mall affords a marvelous view of the Twin Towers less than twenty miles away.
Today there was nothing to see.
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Copyright 2003 Gerry Di Gesu
Back-to-School Night
Mothers occasionally seen with coats thrown over bathrobes are glamorous in bright dresses. Fathers have traded work clothes for collar and tie. Eager teachers happily welcome this new group of parents. Moms are smiling, dads enduring -- It's Back-to-School Night.Smooth and shiny, the hallway floors smell of newly applied wax. The fresh yellow paint on the foyer walls covers the mustard green color which depressed everyone for years. Hall showcases are lit to show off pumpkins, witches and ghosts peeping over fences.
"Citizen of the Month" and "Most Improved Citizen" -- Two large posters hang on either side of the school's front door, the focal point in the main hallway. A child is nominated from each class and the proud winners receive certificates at a monthly assembly program. The list does not include the names of the scholars or athletes. These are the names of kids who don't usually achieve recognition or win awards. The principal and his staff have stated their main goal is to improve the self-image of each child and this is one way of achieving their objective.
Hats too large rest on the eyebrows of Cub Scouts struggling as they enter the auditorium trying to reach the stage with heavy flags for opening exercises. The principal speaks first, encouraging parents to call him with problems or suggestions. He stresses that the only way to maintain good home-school dialogue is to keep in touch. The PTA president rushes through her portion of the meeting as she knows parents are anxious to hear the Superintendent of Schools. He reviews past accomplishments and outlines goals for the new school year. The hearty applause reflects the impression he has made on parents.
The audience stirs restlessly as the smell of brewing coffee wafts up from the cafeteria below. They are anxious to get to the classrooms. Parents who waited in the hallway for the business meeting to conclude grow louder.
Too disinterested to participate, they will be the first to complain that "nobody told us" when a new school policy is initiated. I'm delighted to find my daughter's fifth grade classroom bright and airy. Books are everywhere. Brain teaser games are stacked on a table, puzzles and resource materials piled high next to them. Challenges are in every corner. Bright maps and charts re-acquaint us with the rest of the world. A model of the solar system is strung on wire with a bright yellow sun in one corner and vividly colored planets positioned in order along the wire to the opposite side of the room.
Fifth grade is more challenging than the confusing fractions and dull history texts I remember. Flipping to the table of contents in my daughter's reading book, I am greeted by a list that includes Greek and Indian myths, Yeats, Longfellow and Tolstoy. A slight change from Dick and Jane.
"I expect the best from your children and won't settle for less," the teacher says. "I haven't looked at their previous records and will judge them by the work they do for me." A bright, interesting woman, the classroom reflects her personality. "The children have been asked to write a composition -- Why I Like Me - to tie in with our self-image goal. Some of them may not bring this assignment home to you. I've told them it's up to them if they want to share it with you." She smiles gently, for she knows some parents do not readily accept this idea.
Bright orange cards are passed out and the room buzzes - the new fifth grade report cards with numbered grades eliminated. Marks now range from "little progress" to "outstanding progress."
"All academic and social areas are checked where improvement is needed," explains the teacher.
"You know exactly where your child stands measured against himself. Please try to resist measuring him against others." Some parents are quite vocal in commending the teacher for her endorsement of the card, while the polite frowns of others as they exit the room leave little doubt about their feelings.
Resisting the aroma of coffee, I dash home to finish some chores. After the stuffy classroom, the damp night air feels refreshing. I am happy. My daughter is being taught by a teacher who cares.
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Copyright 2003 Gerry Di Gesu
What I Did Over Summer Vacation
DAY ONE:I cleaned out the kids backpacks. I threw away three crinkled and ripped workbooks, 57 granola bar wrappers, 102 juice box straws, one torn mitten, seven stained, and mate-less socks, 972,000 crayon and pencil pieces, and one quarter. (When I was through, I realized the packs smelled like a school lavatory, so I threw those away too.)
DAY TWO:
I took my kids to the local swim hole. I packed the beach bag with two kinds of sunscreen-15 SPF for my son, and 6 SPF for my daughter and I, one magazine, three pairs of sunglasses, a box of bandages, a box of cheese crackers, one bag of potato chips, four turkey and cheese sandwiches and a gallon-size pitcher of lemonade. Then I loaded into the car with four beach towels, two beach chairs, a gazillion buckets and shovels and one gargantuan blow-up dolphin.
We got to the beach, set up camp and four minutes later, my daughter told me that she was bored and that she hated her little brother because "He is such a moron". I forgot the cups for the lemonade.
DAY THREE:
Same as Day Two, except Jackson threw sand in Torey's eyes after she called him "A gross little moron". I remembered the cups, but forgot the sandwiches.
DAY FOUR:
Same as Days Two and Three, except this time when Torey called Jackson a "smelly, disgusting moron", Jackson called her a big fat "effer" and then I had to jump in and tell him he may never use that word, even if he is only saying the first letter. Torey then laughed at Jackson for getting in trouble and I yelled at Torey for teasing Jackson, and Torey screamed at me for always taking "That little morons' side" and I said "That's it, we're going home." Which was really sad because I remembered to bring everything we needed.
DAY FIVE:
It rained. We were stuck in the house all day. I thought about flushing myself down the toilet.
DAY SIX:
Same as Days Two, Three, and Four, except this time, both kids brought a friend to the swim hole. Jackson's friend told me he could swim. Thank goodness for the man sitting next to me who worked as a lifeguard when he was in college. Torey and her friend played nicely with each other, taking turns using the blow-up dolphin. They also enjoyed taunting the boys with the dolphin by saying how much fun they were having with it and how they planned to use it ALL DAY. I promptly shoved the dolphin into the mini van and beached Torey and her friend until they learned how to treat others a bit more nicely.
DAY SEVEN:
Same as Days Two, Three, Four, and Six, except this time when Jackson clocked Torey in the head with a rock and she "hadn't" called him anything mean, I beached him until he could learn to behave more appropriately. He said, "You love Torey more than me" and then she said, "Shut up you Monkey-turd-moron" and then I said "I've had it and if the both of you don't stop it this instant we are packing up and going home where the both of you will spend the rest of the day in your rooms!"
Once again, I remembered to pack all the beach essentials, but really wished I had packed the six-pack of Corona that was sitting in my fridge.
DAYS EIGHT - SIXTEEN:
My husband and I took our kids to Cape Cod for a family vacation. I'm still not well enough to talk about it.
DAYS SEVENTEEN - SIXTY-FIVE:
Same as Days Two, Three, Four, Six and Seven, except, that for the remainder of the vacation, I left the dolphin behind, but always brought the Corona. I spent weeks listening to my cherubs yelling to each other, saying things like: "Get away from me butt-head, you're gross," and "If you say that again, I'm gonna throw this dead fish at you, " and "MOOOOOOOOOOM!"
I sipped my beer and fantasized about how good it would feel, if only I had the courage to bring along my Circulon frying pan so I could smack myself in the head with it three or four times a day.
DAY SIXTY-SIX:
I took the kids to the mall for some Back-to-School shopping. It was the happiest day of my life.
DAY SIXTY-SEVEN:
I planted huge smooches on each child's cheek and sent them on the school bus.
And that concludes what I did over my summer vacation. I can hardly wait until next year.
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Copyright September 2003 Susan Krushenick
Mama of a Gifted Child
Because we didn't like the public schools in our district, and we are too poor for private school, my husband and I begrudgingly had Zachary tested for a gifted and talented program. We always thought Zach was unique and incredibly verbal. Still, we didn't feel completely comfortable with the whole testing a 5-year-old thing.We did it anyway and found that Zachary tested in the 98th percentile on the Stanford-Binet. This was good, we were told, very, very good.
We filled out the applications for all those "special" programs. Zachary went to interviews during which I sat in too small desk chairs and winced wondering "What am I doing?"
Most often he would emerge from the interview smiling and I would breathe a sigh of relief thinking "no damage done yet". I prepared for the Big Interview at the gifted program in Manhattan that everyone wanted their child to go to. What would I wear? Should I carry a book? That we were even granted an interview was in itself a coup. I couldn't sleep well the night before. Was I feeling guilty? Was I putting too much pressure on a 5-year-old? Was it me who really wanted to get in?
We arrived half an hour early on the day of the interview and I sat with Zach in the auditorium reading a Captain Underpants book. I hoped none of the school administrators would notice. The children were divided into groups and taken off to distant classrooms for the group interviews. The parents were told to return in two hours. No further information was given.
We would be contacted if a slot was available. There probably wouldn't be. So many applicants, so few spaces.
I circled the block of the school twice then slipped into a nearby Starbucks. I was appalled by my own growing obsession for Zachary to get in to this school. I had even bribed him. "Be good today sweetie and mommy will get you a present."
I started to feel quite disgusted by my desire, but I remained attached to the thought that my son would get into this elite program. It would mean that I was smart, and special, and a good mama.
I got back to the school twenty minutes early. About 70 other parents were also standing and waiting for their Spongebob or Power Puff Girls or Scooby-Doo clad genius to return, hopefully having impressed their evaluator.
I knew something was wrong when Zachary shuffled out with his head bowed and face blank. He moved slowly toward me. I met him and asked the teacher if everything was all right. "He had a little trouble with another child" was her brusque reply.
My bubble burst. It was over. I'm not seeing the inside of this school again, I thought.
"What happened?" I asked Zachary gingerly, trying to mask my own disappointment.
"This kid Calvin kept knocking my castle over. I spent a lot of time building it. It was annoying."
I reluctantly pushed a bit further. "So, what did you do, sweetheart?"
Zach dropped his head and mumbled with remorse, "I punched him."
Zachary has big ears and huge wide eyes that at once make him look like a benevolent alien and a magical child. Zachary doesn't compose symphonies or solve complex mathematical questions. In fact, he told me his friend Lawrence is smarter than him because Lawrence "knows all about the weather." But Zach is incredibly verbal and learned to read quite early and will tell you exactly what he is thinking, whether you want to hear it or not.
Needless to say, Zachary did not get into The School. He did end up going to a gifted program within a public school in another district. After a year though, we transferred him to a new public school in our district. We like the new school and there is a sense of community amongst the families that feels right.
I sometimes look at my younger son who is not quite two and wonder. He is not as verbal as Zach was at his age, but he babbles and smiles like crazy. I slap my own hand when I indulge in this type of comparison and remind myself that I have no idea what Sam knows about the weather.
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Copyright 2003 Regina Walker
A Day Like Any Other
It starts out just like any other day.An early alarm clock jolts us awake. My husband, Mike, disappears, leaving a cold bed behind for a warm shower. Mike is dressed and long gone, before the kids start to stir. I can't remember if I said goodbye. I think I probably just rolled over and went back to sleep before Mike even closed the front door.
Soon enough, it's my turn to leave the colder bed. My reward is a hot steaming shower. Then I nudge the the kids awake and before you know it -- we're already late.
Someone starts whining, while the television yells its obscenities in the background, Breakfast is served, and lunches are prepared. Hair is combed, while an all-out search is started for as pair of matching SHOES! Finally, jackets are on, and the TV is turned off. I take one last look in the mirror, before we pour out the front door.
"Get in the car. Get in the car. Get in the damn car!" I hear myself screaming. There is always a debate or delaying tactic, something to put mom in a bad mood. At long last, I get both wiggling worms belted (bolted?) into their car seats. The first stop, is Olivia's school.
Suddenly, I'm all mush. "I'll miss you," I tell my baby girl. We cling tightly for a second more. I'm still getting used to Olivia being away at full-day Kindergarten. It is only a slight separation, but it sometimes feels like an amputation.
Our second stop is Jared's preschool. And there is another mushy goodbye. He's adjusting well to school, better than I. He'll only be gone for a mere three hours, but I feel a sudden emptiness as I take one last look before leaving him behind.
As soon as I step outside into the sun, I feel lighter, freer. I practically skip to the car. Is the sky really that blue?
This is just another day, except it's different for me. It's only the second week of school, which means that for me, it's like the third time in five years (or what seems like an eternity), both of my dependents are in school, under the care and supervision of somebody else. And I am completely free!
Well, I'm free for the next three hours. And boy do I have huge unencumbered plans. I'm off to the mall (alone!). Olivia turns five tomorrow and I want to pick up some last minute surprise gifts. I'm looking forward to some leisurely shopping, tired of my usual mommy speed-shopping.
But first, without the kids in the car, I can be a big person again. I can turn on the radio and listen to Howard Stern, a guilty pleasure from my younger, childless days. I'm tired of PG and am ready for rude. I'm in for a rude awakening.
"There is a fire in the Twin Towers," somebody says on the radio. They think some kind of small plane hit the roof. Howard makes the usual off-color jokes about the incident. But a moment later, as Howard's team watches a news report of the fire, they see what appears to be a second plane hitting the Towers.
Somebody says, "What the hell was that?" I change the station, thinking that this must be some sort of twisted joke.
But it isn't a joke. All of the other radio stations are talking about the fire at the Twin Towers. I don't know why, but I immediately pick up my cell phone and call my husband (even though I usually don't believe in talking on cell phones and driving at the same time). I'm not really worried, not yet. My husband works in midtown, far from Wall Street. I'm not certain how this affects him.
And frustratingly enough, I can't reach him, all the lines are busy. I figure that everyone else must be like me, just checking in to make sure everything is all right. I have no idea, at the time, that some people are placing their final calls.
At long last, I get my husband's voicemail. "It's me," I say. "What's going on in that crazy city? I heard there was a fire or something. Anyway, I'm on my way to the mall, so call me on my cell."
Minutes later, my phone rings and I hear my husband's familiar voice. Of course, he's fine, far and safe from the fire raging downtown. He actually just got out of his morning meetings and he knows very little about what's going on. We laugh and try to make light of the situation.
Still, I urge him to come home early. "You know how insane things get in that city when something like this happens," I say.
My gut reaction, after hanging up the phone, is to turn around and go home to sit by the TV. Yet, I prod myself on to the mall. "Keep busy," I think to myself, "And don't blow this out of proportion just because you are anxious about leaving the kids." Mike is fine. Olivia is fine. Jared is fine.
All is fine, on this sunny September morning.
But once I get to the mall, it becomes increasingly obvious that things are not fine. I'm trying to relax, browsing in Barnes & Noble, but cellphones are literally ringing in my ears. There are whispers and gasps. Worker are pacing and radios are on. "Stay focused," I remind myself as if I am on a secret shopping mission. "How can a fire in NYC possibly concern me?"
"A plane just crashed into the Pentagon," someone announces loudly for all to hear. My stomach tightens and my stride quickens. Suddenly, I know, "It's time to go home."
I jump back into the car and turn back to the radio for answers. I hear that another plane, a fourth plane, has crashed somewhere in rural Pennsylvania. Now, my heart is beating fast. I keep thinking, "How can this be happening? How can this be a coincidence?"
"A total of eight planes have been hijacked," one radio personality says. Only four have been accounted for. Where are the other four headed? "We're under attack," another radio guy says. "We're at war."
"No!" I want to scream. "We cannot be at war, not when my babies seem a million miles away from me. Not on such a typical day. Not without any kind of warning."
I feel trapped in my car; trapped by the radio that is blurting out horrid tales. It is confirmed that the Pentagon is on fire. It is confirmed that four airplanes have crashed. It is believed that New York City is under a lockdown. Nobody gets in or out. "What do they mean nobody gets out?" "What about my husband?" "Why is it taking me so fucking long to get home?"
I'm sweating, and cursing, and praying as I drive straight to Jared's school to retrieve (save?) him. I don't bother calling ahead, I'm not asking permission to take my son home. We're at war, and I dare anyone to stop me.
I'm not alone. Other parents are flocking to the school to find their children. I see the terror in their eyes. Some of the teachers are crying as they desperately try to locate parents to come get their babies. The school is closing and sending everyone home. Jared is delighted to see me, unaware that I am quivering inside. One safe. Now it's time to rescue Olivia.
At Olivia's school, there is much the same scene. Anxious parents are already arriving to get their kids. We look at each other silently, without the courage to speak. We all know so many people who work in New York City. And we don't know what to tell our children -- about their fathers, about their mothers, about the people who are trapped inside a city under siege -- about people who went to work this morning and somehow found themselves in the middle of a warzone.
"Why am I going home early?" my inquisitive daughter wants to know. She can tell something is going on. Other kids, but not all of them, have also gone home. I want to tell her the truth, but I don't want to scare her, and so I say, "There is a big fire in New York City, so Daddy is coming home early. But don't worry it's nowhere near Daddy's office, actually it's in the Twin Towers."
Olivia understands. She knows the Twin Towers. We visited the city in August and stopped by her Dad's office. Then we all climbed to the top of the Empire State Building and took touristy photos and bought overpriced trinkets. Olivia bought a snowglobe with the famous NYC landmarks. Inside there were the Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, and the Twin Towers.
As soon as we get home I turn on the TV, just in time to see the second tower collapsing. I had no idea this would happen. I had no idea Olivia would see it. I had just wanted to see for myself what was going on.
The phone rings and I race to it hoping to hear Mike's voice. It is my brother from California. He is the first of many calling to inquire about Mike, trying to make sense of it all. Olivia comes down stairs while I am on the phone. She is wailing inconsolably, "Why did they burn down the Twin Towers?" She cradles her precious snowglobe in her hands and continues to cry.
Then my cellphone rings. It is Mike, and he is still safe. He tells me that he is coming home, but he doesn't know how since the trains and tunnels are closed. A lot of people are walking out of the city. But Mike's going to try the ferry. Rumors have it that the ferries are still running. He's leaving the office now, and since he doesn't have a cellphone, I won't have any way of contacting him.
The phone calls continue, while Olivia, and now Jared cry. He seems scared, although he doesn't know what is going on. I need to comfort them.
I turn off the TV, light some incense, and breathe deeply. I put on soothing music. "Let's make your cupcakes!" I say to Olivia. "Do you want to help me make cupcakes so you can bring them into your school tomorrow?"
I need to stay busy, so that I don't worry about it all. It's too much to think about. My husband is still trapped in New York. How do I hide this from my kids. How do I hide my fear? How do I pretend that this is a day like any other.
It's not even noon, on this Tuesday afternoon, and yet I feel as if I have just lived through three full days of terror. I take a moment to ponder it all. I wonder about how many people were killed today. I wonder about the kind of psychopath responsible for this madness. I wonder why I didn't get up this morning with my husband and kiss him goodbye instead of stealing a couple more minutes of sleep.
Mike calls again. There is a six hour wait for the ferries, so he will not be making his escape by water. A friend has offered a place for Mike to sleep in the city. But I want him to come home. I want my family around me. Mike says he'll try the trains again. And just like that, we lose contact again.
I decide to take the kids for a ride. We need to get out of the house, away from the TV, and away from the ringing phone. I am drawn to the bay, where I park the car and am able to see the billowing clouds of smoke from the site of the Twin Towers. It all seems too close to home. And yet, Mike seems thousands of miles away. It all seems unreal, and yet the smoke tells me otherwise. And I can see for myself that the Twin Towers are gone. These towering structures which can be seen so clearly here in New Jersey on a day like today -- are gone. They have been reduced to rubble; ashes, bones, and debris. I say a silent prayer, get back in my car, and drive until the kids fall asleep. And then I go home to wait.
The cupcakes are done. The phone calls are returned. And then Mike miraculously walks through the front door. He is shaken, but unscathed. And he luckily made it to the train station just as the trains began running again. He is lucky to be home so soon. We are lucky.
Before the day is over, it will all start to sink in. We know that there are many fathers not coming home tonight. There are thousands of missing women, men, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, parents. By the end of one ordinary day, so many ordinary people will be transformed into heroes. So many heroes will perish. So many Americans will come face to face with war.
And we will learn some harsh lessons: our country is not impenetrable. This is what it feels like to be assaulted on your homefront. This is what it feels like to live in fear. This is what it feels like to be despised.
But we also discover how lucky we have been. We have taken our freedom for granted. Yet now we find that we are willing to fight. We are a strong and proud nation, and we rally behind our leaders. We realize how truly amazing this country is, and how resilient and caring Americans can be. We learn that even while under attack, we can reach out to each other and offer some hope.
We discover what it means to be alive, and free -- on a day that has been unlike any other day we have ever known.
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Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
The thing about 9/11 that was so traumatic for those of us who had loved ones in the city, is at the time, we didn't know what the hell was going on. We didn't know if more airplanes were out there and we didn't know when the madness was going to end. In a way, even those of us who didn't lose a love one, felt extremely victimized that day.
Launching Olivia
Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . As the summer rumbled along I could hear the countdown begin. I sensed that things were changing for us. But the countdown was muffled by the soothing sounds of the waves crashing at the beach.Seven . . . six . . . five . . . The countdown was becoming somewhat louder and more persistent. But still I clung to the long summer days.
Four . . . three . . . I knew we were close to the end. Soon another dreamy summer would just be a sweet memory.
Two . . . One . . . LIFTOFF!
Labor Day abruptly arrived and for the first time we became part of the Back-to-School race. My darling baby, my firstborn, Olivia was on her way to full-time kindergarten. And I suspected that things would never be the same.
During the last couple of weeks of summer, I had become very introspective and indeed even a little sad. I thought about the quiet morning rituals we had created during the previous five years and how suddenly that slow-paced world had come screeching to a halt. We were thrown into the Back-to-School hubbub where there's no time for a gentle wake-up.
Suddenly, "We're late! We're late!" We're always late. And no matter how early we awaken, our mornings are likely to be chock full of chaos. We literally jump into clothes, throw together lunches (while simultaneously eating breakfast), comb tangled hair on squirming bodies, heave kicking kids into the car, and race into the maddening traffic jam with the SUVs, minivans, and buses. Things have sped up way to fast. And I wonder if I will lose control.
And yet, in one respect, I feel as if I'm gaining control. With the start of school, our days have become more regimented and orderly. And I'm also ready for Olivia to be launched out into the world. At five, she surely is her own rocket, blasting off into so many directions. She demands constant stimulation, and her youthful mind and body yearn for new and exciting challenges. I, on the other hand, have a sluggish mind and body, overburdened from meeting the demands two young children, on too little sleep and negligible mental and physical exercise. But mostly Olivia craves interaction with her peers.
And the all-consuming love and companionship of her mother are simply not enough anymore.
But this event, this launching of my little rocket into Kindergarten, is the first major transition I make in my new world which I call the Mommy Zone. Only five years ago, I was catapulted onto this strange and unusual planet of motherhood. And now, just when I feel comfortable here, the rules are changing. Yes, I realize that my baby must mature and that her movement away from me is perfectly normal, and in fact necessary. But I can't help it if I feel as if she is deserting dear old mom on this very planet she created for me.
Still, while a part of me mourns the loss of Olivia's babyhood, another part of me is celebrating. I actually prefer having an independent child, as opposed to a needy, helpless infant. Having two children under the age of four at home sometimes felt like a prison sentence. Besides being shackled to my little ones 24/7, they sometimes dictated when I could eat, sleep, play, exercise, work, or visit the bathroom facilities. So it's no surprise that my first reaction after dropping both kids off at their respective schools is to come home to an empty house and yell, "I'm free!"
After years of constant noise and fulfilling other's needs, I welcome such a change. It's just that suddenly I feel myself so uncomfortably alone. And the silence, while wonderful, is also somewhat bizarre and unsettling. Granted, Jared (my two-year-old son) is only in preschool two mornings a week, but to a stay-at-home mom those measly hours of freedom seem like an absurd abundance. I've had to relearn how to appreciate solitude and "me" time. And I've had to remind myself that I continue to exist even when my children are not clinging to my side.
Similarly, Olivia's launching has helped me see that my children are separate entities from me, as well. They can, and they will survive, even when dear old mom is nowhere in sight. Sure most days they are still my crazy, little rockets crashing back to the mothership for safety and comfort. But other days I see my rockets off exploring the universe on their own. And I realize that I am merely their guide -- not their partner -- on life's journey.
And that is the bittersweet truth about motherhood: I will always be my children's mother, but my children will not be my babies forever.
This fall, moms and dads across the globe will wipe a tear or two from their eyes as they relinquish their precious babies to the hallowed halls of kindergarten. Ironically, their tears will be more for themselves than for their little ones. After all, kindergarten is just one more developmental baby step for our children. And yet, it is one enormous leap for us, their moms and dads.
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Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
I actually wrote this essay in September 2001, a couple of days before 9/11. I dropped my kiddies off at their respective schools and returned home to a silent, empty house for the first time in what seemed like decades. I sat down to reflect and this is the essay I wrote. Little did I know that within a week's time our country and my own sense of security would be attacked by terrorists. I still like this essay because of its timelessness. Regardless of what else is going on in the world, every fall there will be a fresh batch of mothers and fathers resolutely launching their babies into the universe.
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