How Lucky

On Friday afternoon, around 1:30 p.m., I texted a few friends the same text:

"This stay-at-home-mom thing is harder than teaching. I need a nap. When is happy hour?"

Today, at 1:30 p.m., I collapsed into my big green chair in the family room just as both boys had gone down for a nap and I thought, "Good grief, 1:30? Where did today go?"

Even teaching has more downtime than this.

I chase, wipe, change, feed, dress, scrub, wash, soothe, pick up, rock, sing, pour, stir, fold, watch, yell (yeah, I yell), scold, help, bake, rush, clean...and repeat...non-stop.

And now here I sit.


I crossed that out because it became a non-truth. Reid woke up as I typed that sentence, and an hour later Will was up, and we were off to the library and here I sit again at 4:00, although I'm surrounded by The Wiggles and iPad games and I think Reid may have a dirty diaper.

But I'm persevering.

And this post suddenly needs to be about something else, because downtime is certainly not it.

At gymnastics class this morning, and again at the library, I had some thoughts, and they can basically be summarized by this:

How lucky are my kids? How lucky are the kids of the moms who are reading this blog? Think about it: they get to run around on play equipment, and play games on cool technology, and have moms who take them to the library and help them pick out new movies and books.

Not only that, our kids have parents who just this past weekend alone took them swimming, rented bounce houses for their birthdays, picked strawberries at a farm, spent time on the beach, and taught them how to ride a bike (thank you Facebook for allowing me to collect data so quickly).

When they wear out a pair of shoes, we go and we buy them a new pair.

When one day care provider doesn't work, we spend hours researching and interviewing new ones.

When they beg to have pizza for dinner every single night, we keep their health in mind and only give in one out of, oh, ten times.

A wise Hindu teacher told me when Will was born that when a soul chooses to be born to parents in America, it's like picking Heaven on Earth.

I'll smile at this as Will continues to watch Mickey Mouse Club House...on YouTube...on the iPad...in Russian.

I'll continue to smile as I pick up Reid and chase, wipe, change, feed, dress, scrub, wash, soothe, pick up, rock, sing, pour, stir, fold, watch, yell, scold, help, bake, rush, clean, and start dinner...

...lucky kids.

Luckier moms.

Surrender

"Good things fall apart so better things can come together."

That's my motto these days...

My last day of school is today. In about 30 minutes, I'll be joining my colleagues in a kick line down the front hall. It's one of my most favorite traditions, as the "Hallelujah" chorus plays over the intercom, followed by the "na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, hey hey hey, good bye."

Teachers do it up right, yo.

And I'm clinging to that exhilarating feeling today--that knowledge that a few months of freedom await me starting at 2:30, and that I get to spend my days working my favorite job as mom--because a little bit of sadness sits in my heart.

Maybe it's more than a little...

We took our house off the market yesterday.

We broke our contract with the builder.

This

is no longer our future home.

Maybe it wasn't mean to be our dream home.

Maybe it fell apart because something else completely amazing and wonderful is waiting for our little family.

"Someone is trying to teach you a lesson in disappointment, huh?" a friend said.

But I don't think so.

If this were a lesson in disappointment, I'd walk around being gloomy and glum like the Pout Pout Fish in this book.

If this were a lesson in disappointment, I wouldn't want to talk about it. I would roll my eyes, cry, sigh, and otherwise stomp around like, well, my toddler.

And that's not me. It's not this blog.

But it's okay to be sad. It's okay to mourn it for just a bit.

Then it's time to move on.

We have lots of exciting things planned: trips to the pool, vacations at the beach, gymnastics class, library hour, and cuddling! I'll be redecorating the dining room, purchasing a new couch, and making my space feel refreshed.

Sort of like me.

With all of the stress that has been selling the house behind us, it's time to rejuvenate.

Surrender to happiness.

Smile on my face. Deep breath. It's time to dance.

Mr. Show Off

The last few pick-ups at school, Will's teacher says, "Will had such a good day today!"

It's almost as if his little ears perk at that moment, he hears it from way out on the playground, and he thinks, "Oh really? Well I'll show them!"

Today, he took his squirt gun and threw it at poor little Evie's head.

Last week, he pushed Jonas over in the red car--car and all.

The week before, he just ran around and hit all of his friends in the face.

And it was with a sad realization today that I accepted the teacher's explanation that he is showing off. Greg and I were (and still are!) such people pleasers. We would put on our best manners to show off: clear tables, help pick up toys, give hugs.

But Will hits his friends.

With tears I fear: Is my kid a bully?

Now yes, he's two-almost-three. And I think he knows better, as hitting doesn't fly in our house. Greg and I aren't exactly violent people, and we explain that Mr. Incredible only hits the bad guy because the bad guy hurts people.

So what gives?

I was retelling my bully boy fears to a friend who said, "At least you don't have the kid who sits there and lets other kids steal his toys."

In my mind, wouldn't that be better?

I worry about my kid not having friends because he's weird, not because he's mean.

Ten years from now, will my son be the one the teachers look at when talking about what a bully is?

After a time out from the teacher, and helping Evie get an ice pack for her forehead, I put Will in the car, informed him there would be no playing outside, and no iPhone games--the two things he lives for--because of his actions. "If you hit your friends, then you don't get to do the things you like."

"Do you understand?" I asked.

He looked at me, reached for my face, and planted a kiss.

No, he doesn't understand--not completely anyway. Eventually he will get his emotions in check. Eventually he will use his words and not his actions. Eventually this mom will stop worrying about what will happen in the future and start rectifying the present.

And until then, we will work on our show off techniques.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Lately, I feel like a robot.

I feel like I've been programmed to do the exact same actions every single day.

Wake up. Get ready. Chug coffee en route to work. Report for morning duty five minutes late (I like to be fashionable). Take attendance. Teach crappy kids, rowdy kids, super sweet kids, just okay kids. Lunch. Gossip. Catch up. Breathe. Sit in main office air conditioning to dry sweaty work clothes. Teach smart kids, how-did-you-make-it-into-this-class kids. Herd cats. (That's what afternoon homeroom is like.) Sit at desk. Stare at computer. Make copies. Breathe. Drive. Pick up kids. Home. Feed screaming baby. Say "NO" repeatedly to toddler. Kiss Greg hello. Run/Walk/Spin/Play or some combo thereof. Make dinner. Eat dinner frantically. Bath. Books. Make coffee. Shower. Bed.

Maybe I deviate every once in awhile.

Like opening the fridge and reaching for a juice box to find Woody riding Bullseye into a Gladware container of corn.

I feel change coming on. I feel it in my gut--that feeling you can't shake that you know you should trust.

But I don't know in what shape or form this change is going to come.

It's a little bit scary.

And a little bit exciting for a robot.

Any other moms out there feeling a bit robotic?

Hope & Love

In the back of my mind, my next blog was going to be "How to Successfully Fail at Selling Your House," because every sign was pointing to us absolutely falling down a black hole of despair.

I was going to make it funny--those of you who know me know that doom and gloom aren't really my thing (minus the above mentioned black hole of despair...that was just a weak moment).

I even bought a Saint Joseph to bury in the yard. His shipping was more than his price. Will helped put him in the garden.

Maybe he was facing the wrong direction...maybe he wasn't placed close enough to the sign...maybe he should have been right-side-up instead of upside-down.

And we forgot to pray, mainly because we aren't the praying kind.

We were 24 hours from calling our realtor to take the house off the market for good. I was perusing websites to find my consolation prize--a new couch--and preparing myself to be happy watching all of my plants bloom this summer; those plants that I have loved back to life so many times in the past six years would make me fall back in love with this house.

Friends and family were consoling me with my own words: "It happened for a reason." I was trying to convince myself that this was, in fact, true; that we weren't supposed to move now, yet; that we were meant to stay at 1611 a little longer.

And then Hope sprung.

Isn't that just like Hope? She shows up when you thought you had zero left.

So that's what we are clinging to, one more time.

I was perusing Pinterest today. In addition to renewed Hope, I find myself ogling beautiful spaces and pinning them to my "For the Home" board once again.

I came across someone I follow, who I worked with oh so long ago at the Gap.

In the last few months, I know from that other social media site worth 100 billion dollars that she has found herself in a seriously amazing relationship. There have been weddings they've attended, and vacations, and awesome dinner dates that have left her swooning.

I always read her status updates and smile.

Today on Pinterest, she pinned a wedding invitation on her board she named "Future!"

I smiled.

There was Hope again, planting herself in a happy heart.

Something tells me she is spot on with this one, that this girl I met while folding and refolding denim and sweaters has more than Hope.

She also has Love.

So should my dear Hope decide to desert us again, I know that I'll still be left with Love.

It doesn't matter where my home is; Love is always in it.

Let's meet in your dreams

May has been busy, and it has shown me no signs of slowing down.

Breathe, Kristin. Breathe.

So I do. In little moments.

This is one of my favorite:

When it's my night to read books with Will and tuck him in, and he clings tight, arms flung around my neck and stalling pleas of "Mommy! Mommy! Don't go yet!" I say to him, "Let's meet in your dreams."

"Mommy will go to her bed and close her eyes, and you'll stay here and close your eyes, and we will meet in our dreams. What would you like to do tonight?"

We have played trucks, blown bubbles, built towers, and I'll have you know that tonight I'll be playing drums.

But not in the house, because "Mommy says no drums in the house."

If you'll excuse me now, I have a date.

A Tribute

Teachers come across many students.

There are kids who make you cringe; kids who drag you down; kids who make you laugh; kids who break your heart; kids who you wish would find their way to a boat that sails for a deserted island; kids who you wish you could scoop up and protect forever; kids you never want to go on to the next grade so they can stay with you; kids you want to move to the next grade tomorrow.

They throw every single one of these kids into a classroom and their little eyes stare at you and plead:

Teach me.

Help me.

Let me grow.

Love me.

Some you remember.

Some you don't.

Faces are often ingrained but names forgotten.

Neither escaped me today.

She had a purse--it was really more of a shoulder bag. It was blue and pink striped. The Yo Gabba Gabba characters were printed all over it. "There's a party in my tummy" was written next to the little green one.

"What in the world is that?" I asked.

"You don't know who Yo Gabba Gabba is!?!" she replied.

Clearly, I was out of touch with the youth of the world.

I was pregnant with Will. It wasn't long before I did know who they were; but she introduced me to them.

She would come back and visit. Her mom married her friend's dad. It was the same situation as my sister and I, Mindy, who I don't ever refer to as my step-sister anymore. She is my sister, as much as anything I've known.

I wished for her to have that.

In my class, she got As, she got to go Europe, she stayed after class and talked about all of the things teenaged girls want to talk about, with an underlying message for me.

Teach me.

Help me.

Let me grow.

Love me. 


I saw her in the fall, as our 8th graders visited the high school. She looked so cool, so put together, so sure of herself--confident and just...lovely.

"Mrs. Kauffman! Hi!"

We exchanged how are yous and the like.

And today she is gone.

According to the article, she didn't see the semi when she pulled out.

According to the article, she'll be buried in her prom dress. It's blue and pink--like the purse she carried when she was in my class.

So for the rest of this morning and afternoon I've been preoccupied. I've been thinking all the usual stuff you think: so young, not fair, too short.

And I think about the role I played in this beautiful girl's life. Small. Insignificant maybe.

Of all the eyes that stare at us, it's haunting to think that something like this would happen. So we don't.

But it did happen.

I apologize for the debbie downer post. I'm just...sad.

Stay present. Give the moment to the people in front of you. Let them be your "now."