The Big 1-0

One of my very first blog posts was about Kindergarten orientation for Emerson.  She was five, she could spell her name, she knew all of her letters and shapes, and and she was ready to go.  But do you know what her favorite part of that day was?  Her freshly painted nails.  I should have known...

Here we are in 2015, and Emerson is a fourth grader.  She is above grade level in reading and math, gets straight A's on her report cards, and "is a pleasure to have in class."  But do you know what the most important part of her day is?  Making sure she has enough hair spray in her hair so that little piece in the front that likes to stick up stays stuck down the entire day.

If there was a definition to describe the year 2015, I think Emerson could sum it up.

Taylor Swift...

Peace and Love..

Girl Power...

Tree Hugger...

Sports Icon...

Duck Face...

Miranda Sings...

Project Runway...

Human Emoji...

And while she's very in the know about what's popular and what's not, Emerson still finds a way to put her own unique spin on things.

If there are three hundred orange pumpkins, she'll pick the only one that's not orange.

If she's cheering at a race, she'll paint her forehead instead of a poster.

If she needs a break, a dead body pose in the street is completely acceptable.

If no one's looking she'll sneak off to play with her dollhouse.

When my babies were babies, I used to wish for them to get bigger-big enough to sit up, big enough to crawl, big enough to walk, big enough to talk.  Last year, I was a bit sad to think that Emerson was halfway to 18.  This year, I feel differently.  Yes, she's growing up.  There have been minor battles over wearing lipstick to school, and talk of cute boys in class, and days when I've had to PRY her out of bed so she has time to eat breakfast before catching the bus.  Most of the time, though, she's pretty awesome.  We actually have a lot in common: we like the same music, we both LOVE sleep, and we're both a little crazy.

I am excited for Emerson's future.  She is a smart, confident, funny, caring girl.  I am excited for her to go to middle school, and high school, and to learn to drive, and to go to the prom.  And while all of those things can be terrifying in the moment, I know she will conquer each and every one of them.  I might miss her late night feeding sessions, and her chubby little toddler cheeks, and her toothless Kindergarten grin, but she has turned into a beautiful girl and I know that she will always be my baby.

Today is Emerson's tenth birthday, and we will celebrate everything that she is.

A Day in the Life

Have you ever wondered what life with five kids would be like?  Imagine booking a babysitter a week in advance, to go out for a quiet anniversary dinner with your spouse, only to discover that the night before your date, as you're getting everyone ready for bed, one of your kids not only tells you that they have a school performance tomorrow, but also that they need a white shirt and black pants. This child of course has neither because he is the oldest child and there are no hand-me-downs. So, you cancel the sitter, put off the date, throw some clothes on (as you were already in your pajamas), ask your husband to review the Social Studies information with your fifth grader for his test tomorrow that will account for the majority of his entire marking period grade, drive to the store at 8pm, discover the only available black pants are a size too big and have been sewn incorrectly and have a hole in the seam. You have no choice but to buy these pants anyway and are lucky enough to find an appropriate white shirt. You rush home, change back into your pajamas and dig out your little sewing kit, only to find that you don't have black thread, just gray, but it'll have to do because now it's 9pm and who's really going to be looking halfway down the leg of your eleven year old as he's crammed on stage with 150 other eleven year olds? As you're sewing, your nine year old appears and says her loose tooth is STILL hurting and she needs some medicine. Then, as you sneak into the bathroom to wash your face, you hear your five year old, who was supposed to be asleep an hour ago, coming down the stairs to announce that "tomorrow is Reading with Reptiles Day", whatever THAT means.   She is sent back up the stairs and you collapse on the couch, vowing to find time to iron those new clothes before your kid hits the stage tomorrow. Twenty minutes later you can hardly keep your eyes open, so you stagger down the hall, chug some NyQuil because you've had a never-ending cold for three weeks, and then pass out in bed. The alarm clock jolts you from sleep at 5:45am and you quickly go over your day: a few hours at grandma's, a quick trip to the gym, a shower, run one child to swimming class, run home to get the others off of the bus, throw SOMETHING in the oven for dinner, run back and get the child from swimming, go back home and finish the dinner, gather the family for meal time, throw everyone in the tub for baths because it's bath night and soon we'll be leaving for the school performance and there won't be time afterwards, and then we'll be off to the auditorium. Everyone will sit quietly for about six minutes and then they'll all start to FEED off of each other: little pokes, laughs, the baby won't sit still. And if the baby won't sit still, then the other kids won't want to either. Pretty soon either you or your spouse will be standing in the hallway with up to four kids because they were disrupting other people and of COURSE you chose to sit right next to the guy who's filming the show for families to buy! Forty-five minutes later it'll all be over and we'll sprint for the car, and head for home. But don't forget: tomorrow is your Kindergartener's day to bring in a special book to read and WHERE IS HER FAVORITE BOOK?! And your first grader has his performance tomorrow and when did his pants get so short?! So you drag out four bins of used clothes before you find a pair that he'll actually wear and pull out a collared shirt that he will hate and promise him that he'll only have to wear it for THIRTY minutes on stage, but you're pretty sure he knows it'll be longer than that, and he's twitchy just thinking about it. Oh, and as you're having the kids pick out their school clothes for the morning, you notice your older daughter has laid out her clothes, including your size Adult Large sweatshirt from high school that she's been told NOT to wear every. single. day. but she does anyway, and frankly, you're just too tired to argue with her tonight. And then you read everyone their books and tuck them into their beds and give each child five kisses, because they've insisted that anything less than five is uncaring and you've insisted that anything more than five would just be ridiculous. You turn on the hall light and close their doors to just cracks and descend the stairs and finally, this day is at its end. As you're washing your face and brushing your teeth, maybe you think, "If I only had three kids things would be so much simpler," but in your mind you know that three is just as hard as five and in your heart you know that you'd never want it any other way. 

Saying Goodbye

  On the last day of school, as a high school senior, I delivered three hand-written letters to three teachers who made me proud to be their student: A genetics teacher, an English teacher, and a music teacher. 

 My earliest memories of music are from church.  I remember sitting in the wooden pew, listening to the organist play and the congregation sing, and holding a heavy hymnal in my hands.  I could read the words on the page, but what were those little black dots?  Surely, if I could figure out what they meant, I could sing along. 

Music has always been a part of my life.  I started playing piano at the age of seven, joined the school choir at the age of nine, and even played the flute for a year.  I was a part of musicals and honors choirs throughout high school and college. 

While I might be known more for my abilities on the basketball court and on the softball field, I wouldn't be who I am today without the strong musical influences I've had in my  life. 

Music was never an option for me; it was a given.

Music has always centered me.  Even in college, you could find me holed up in a soundproof piano room pounding out a few of my favorite melodies before I'd get on the bus and head to my basketball games.

Mr. Watterworth was my choir teacher.  I had the pleasure of being his student for six years.  He knew me in the awkward middle school choirs, he knew me as an alto in his concert choir, he knew me as a tenor in his a capella choir, he knew me as a madrigal, and he knew me as a member of the cast in several high school musicals. 

Mr. Watterworth's class was different than the others.  Upon entering his classroom, you'd find him still in his office, with a student or two, consoling them or offering advice or just listening.  Class never started when the bell rang. Often, he'd peek his head out after twenty minutes and tell us to start warming up with scales.  He'd eventually join us on the piano and lead us into the pieces he had selected for us in our folders.  The best days were when he'd stop us after warm-ups and just start talking.  He'd talk about his family and his former students and just life. Before you'd know it, class would be over and we had never sang a single song.

He wasn't just a teacher.  He treated us and loved us like his own children.  There were times I had to go straight from the softball field into the auditorium for musical practice and I'd just swap out my cleats for tap shoes and get on stage still in my uniform.  I remember he used to tell me that all of the sports I played were going to cause me to lose my femininity.  I would always laugh and tell him that I'd never let that happen.  He also used to tell me quite often that I needed to get the tiny mole under my eye removed because eventually it would grow and grow and cause me to go blind!  ( I am happy to report that that mole has not changed shape or size in almost forty years.)

Before I left for college in West Virginia, I stopped by to visit Mr. Watterworth at his home.  Although happy to see me, he was clearly preoccupied-there was a sadness in his eyes.  It was then that I learned of his wife's cancer and that she would soon be gone.  We cried together and eventually said our goodbyes.

I saw him again a few years later at the Flushing A&W.  It was Tuesday-Coney Day.  For some reason, that day I was wearing a dress.  I remember thinking, I didn't lose my femininity and he saw me wearing a dress and all is right in the world!  He was clearly pleased with this fact and we enjoyed catching up.

Over the years, we kept in touch with yearly Christmas cards.  He followed me through college, my marriage, and watched my family grow.  He kept me up to date on his life and I always looked forward to receiving his card more than any others.  I received a card from him for Christmas, 2013 in which he stated that his health was failing and said that he would probably soon be gone.

That was the last card I received from him.  He passed away on Saturday, January 31, 2015.

Tonight, I put on a fancy dress and curled my hair and did my makeup and went to pay my last respects to a friend who just happened to also have been my teacher. A teacher who taught me to find the balance in my life.

 

Rest in peace, Mr. Watterworth.  You will be missed.

The Biggest Brother

This is my Owen, eleven years ago.



I could have never predicted that my little baby boy would become the big brother to all of this:



I don't think that there could be a more perfect biggest brother for my children. Someone recently referred to Owen as "unflappable."  I think that is the perfect way to describe him.  At times, the house is filled with choas-everything from laughing to screaming to crying. There is rarely a dull moment around here, yet through it all, Owen remains at an even keel.  He is always ready to help out and is always respectful and dependable.



He was there to greet baby Nash:



He was there to welcome baby Alayna:




He was there to snuggle baby Greyson:






And while a brother has their special bond with all of their siblings, there is one bond that is stronger than all of the rest:  Owen and Emerson.



Owen and Emerson are sixteen months apart.  They have been the best of friends since the very beginning.






For two years, they each had a built-in playmate and they didn't ever want to be apart.





They got along very well, almost always.



As more children were added into the mix, their bond only became stronger.










They were, and continue to be, a united front.











I wrote last year about how strange motherhood is.  You can read about that here.

One of my most vivid memories of when Owen was a baby came the day after I was home from the hospital with him.  I had been up for almost twenty-four hours straight.  I had nursed him and changed him and burped him and rocked him and nursed him and nursed him and nursed him.  He was fine, until I would put him in his bed.  What was wrong with this kid?!  There were so many rules about pregnancy and I had read so much about labor and delivery, but no one ever tells you what to do when you're officially on your own with a newborn. I remember calling my sister and asking her to come over.  I'm pretty sure when she walked in the door, I mumbled something about me just having finished feeding him, shoved the crying baby into her arms, and collapsed into bed.  When I awoke, it was silent.  I came out of my bedroom to find that the baby was sound asleep in his bed.  Surely, my sister was a magician.  I asked her how she had accomplished this feat.  Her response?  "I just swaddled him tightly in his blanket and put him in bed," she said.  Swaddled him tightly?  WHY HAD NO ONE TOLD ME TO SWADDLE MY BABY?

As you can imagine, I learned a lot those first few months.  And then I kept learning.  I am still learning.  Does it ever stop?  I don't think so.  No one ever becomes a mother and has all of the answers.  Like they say, it really does take a village to raise a child.  And me?  I've got five children.  Five very different children who have all taught me so much.



I imagine being a big brother-the biggest brother-is kind of like becoming a mother.  Owen didn't know that when his sister was born that he became a big brother, yet he was.  Instantly her realized that it was his job to look over her.  And the same holds true for the other children, as well.  They are all growing up, and he is the leader.  They look to him for guidance and protection.  They share secrets with him that they don't even share with mom and dad.  There is an unspoken promise that he will be there for them.  I cannot think of a better role model for my children than their biggest brother, Owen.



Happy eleventh birthday to the boy who made me a mother.  I love you, O!